Eventually mumsy would TELL daddy that she needed her sanity again and PLEASE get these kids out of the house.
Piling into the old truck, Dad would take us "up nort" to a lake far enough away that we wouldn't be tempted to come home for lunch. Preferably a big frozen lake about a half hour away, and by way of the old truck, it probably took us and hour to get up to Clam Lake. Once we got to our destination, we found plans had been made that we could occupy a friends ice house--which is the common description of a building that resembles an outhouse but where the holes are used for the object of catching fish.
We rode through the icy ruts to a little settlement WAY across the vast expanse of icy tundra and found our spot where we spent, in my mind, about four days waiting for something to bite.
It did BITE. But I digress.
Dad would dump alcohol fuel in the hole to keep the water from freezing over the holes and the fumes from the heater were nauseating. We were bored and cold but we kept at it all day long until finally we headed for home. I have never been so cold in my life as during those endless ice fishing trips.
This photo is deceiving because it looks like we were happy with our catch; however, if you look closely you will see frozen feet, lifeless hands and a couple of very frozen smiles.
What wouldn't we trade to do that again?