Eisfischen

My man has been hard at work all day eisfischen in front of our house. 

You may think the foreign-looking word in the previous sentence is some sort of weird typographical error.  But try this: say it out loud, and fast. Just blurt out whatever you think is phonetically correct.  Eisfischen. Now do it again, only pretend you’re a staunch German.  EISFISCHEN. Get it?  Ice fishing.  In German.

Of course it’s German for ice fishing, you say.  You recognized that as soon as you spoke it.  SO. Now that we have that settled, I can go on.

I want to tell a story - how my man went eisfischen this morning, drilled a hole with his ice auger, and sat on his inverted five-gallon bucket dangling a line until lunchtime without a single bite.

How at noon he returned to the house, downed two bowls of homemade taco soup (so-called for lack of a better name) and a coconut flour cupcake topped with chocolate mousse (not really, it’s made with cocoa, avocados, and honey).  How he took a long break to watch old classic movies on TV.  Then shortly after 3:00, the magic hour for eisfischers (German for ice fishermen, I’m sure you figured that out by yourself), how he headed back out.

The top snow had become slushy in the mid-day sun. 

At 5:00 the slush started to refreeze.  Still he fished.  Eisfischen.

He fished until the sun dropped low in the sky.  He fished some more until it fell below the horizon and set the sky on fire.  Two men on a four-wheeler, on their way home from eisfischen in the cove, stopped to chat. 

Falling darkness finally drove him back to the house.  

I met him at the door. 

“So what’s the report?” I asked. “What did you catch?”

He seemed genuinely okay with his answer. “Not one bite.  Not one!”

I'm here to testify to his good day, how it was enough to be in the midst of panoramic frozen whiteness surrounded by uninterrupted quiet in the company of the winter sun.  My conclusion?  There’s a lot more to eisfischen than catching fish.