The Necessity of a Place:
“Thirty Years at the Water’s Edge”
By Bob Dentzman
DRAFT MANUSCRIPT – NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION
Copyright © 2025 by Bob Dentzman. All rights reserved
This is an unpublished work provided for review purposes only. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the
Entry 9: The Ice Fishing Legacy and Mapping the Water
Fishing was part of my DNA. We lived in a small town on the Black River. It had a dam and millpond. There were dozens of lakes in a 12-mile radius of us. They provided abundant opportunity to fish.
My earliest introduction was to ice fishing. It’s a sport that makes fishing accessible to everyone. No boat or special equipment required. Just a “spud” or auger, a small rod with light line, a bucket, and an ice strainer, and you were good to go. Of course, warm clothing is a must to comfortably survive the winter chill. Often, we fished at single degree temps.
I started out on the ice at 6 years old going with my father. Of course, if the bite was slow, I would inevitably poke around and get wet boots. I would cry “I want to go home” less than an hour after we settled on the ice. My Dad and my typical exchange were Him: “I’m never taking you again.” My response was: “I never want to go again!” Until the next time I saw him readying to go, and begged “Take me!” Ultimately, Mom would intercede and off again I would go, my dad hoping I would last a couple of hours.
The primary tool for stationary fishing on the lake was the tip-up. This simple device consists of a spool of line suspended under the ice and a flag on a spring that sits low to the surface. To set it, you first auger a hole, then bait the hook with a minnow and drop it to the desired depth. The tip-up line is positioned so that when a fish takes the bait, the tension pulls the spool, releasing the spring and snapping the flag upright—a brilliant burst of red against the white ice. It’s an exercise in patience until that flag flies, signaling a race across the ice to grab the line.
Dad and I preferred to target panfish, much easier to get a mess of gills for a meal. Over the years I continued the sport and became a good fisherman. My knowledge, technique, and tackle evolved. Sneaky spring bobbers replaced cork bobbers. Laser augers replaced spuds. Winter gear evolved to keep you warm in the harshest conditions. Gortex, Thinsulate, insulated “Micky Mouse” flight boots, and rag wool mittens combined with insulated jumpsuit coveralls were the clothing of choice. I was not one to sit at a hole and wait for fish. I was a seek-and-find fisherman. Equipped with a creel to hold fish, I would cut dozens of holes until I found “biters.”
The pan fish we caught in the area I grew up in were decent and plentiful but typically in the 7-inch range. “Good Eaters” we called them. Filleted they were good table fare. But the 10-inch Bluegill was more of a myth than a reality in our lake ecosystem. I brought my 40 years of experience to our new lake and was eager to explore and confirm it was a good fishing lake. I knew I could find fish if they were to be found.
THE Holy Bluegills
My luck changed one Sunday in Mid-January. We were planning on attending Mass at 11am. I had time to fish before Church.
I got settled in and then it happened. Around 10 am the big ones started biting—9-9 ½ in gills with an occasional 10 inches. They were on the feed.
I was filling my bucket and I was the only person on the lake. It was the best ice fishing day I had ever experienced.
Time slipped by and the fish kept biting. I could not—and would not—interrupt this.
About 10:45 I looked to the East where our Cottage was and I saw a small figure stomping across the ice. It was Barb. I was in trouble. Church and Mass would be missed. (This was before cell phones, thankfully, so she could not call me.)
When she finally got close, I blurted out “I’m having the best ice fishing day of my life” I showed her my catch, and though she was NOT happy with me, she knew my passion and reluctantly I was absolved. But it was a story that was repeated regularly at our frequent Lake social gatherings.
In the years that followed I took thousands of fish through the ice fishing alone and with my friends. But like your first girlfriend, that day was a memory that stands the test of time. I had many other great days on the lake. Some were probably better, but this day was etched in my memory. I froze 6 of the largest gills and that summer I had a taxidermist friend mount them. It is lasting proof to this day of the Holy, Immaculate Ice fishing experience. I had finally found the fishing lake of my dreams. It had an abundance of good healthy Fish. It had few fishermen and was secluded. I could find fish even if they were not biting in the usual spots. It was as personal and private a lake you could ask for. It was a fisherman’s Nirvana.
“The stories within these pages are my own. They are told to the best of my memory, though I recognize that memory is an imperfect lens. I have made every effort to ensure the integrity of the events recorded here; however, in some instances names have been changed and certain details altered to respect the privacy of others. Dialogue has been created from memory. While certain sequences have been compressed for the sake of the narrative. This is not a historical record, but a personal one.”
Growing Up All Over Again 