So there we were, my father and I, ice fishing in January on Lake Winnibigoshish. It was getting late in the afternoon, the sun was going down, and the beer was consumed. We had just loaded the last of the 2x4 scraps in the wood stove, when the bobber went down the hole. The reel screamed, and we grabbed for the line. The fight (with the fish, that is) was on.
We fought the fish for what seemed like hours, but eventually dragged it into the hole - a huge northern. It glared at us, then lunged out of the hole, knocked over the stove, and with an evil sneer, slipped back into the water and was gone.
Burning pine coals were everywhere, glowing through the smoke and ash. Splashing lake water on the burning canvas was futile, and we were forced to bail out of the fish house, leaving our coats, tackle, and the blackberry schnapps behind...along with two 4"-inch pre29s, a 28-gauge Winchester Model 12 and <sniff> my trusty .380 Lorcin backup.
Having retreated to the pickup, we watched in horror as the blackberry-scented smoke rose from the wreckage, and the ammo began to cook off while the hapless fish house melted its way through the ice into the cold dark waters.
It was a long drive back to the cabin.
As we got back onto dry land, we looked at each other, wondering how we were going to explain this one, and started laughing, knowing that if nothing else, we had a fish story about the big one that got away, and went out with
(Yep)
Guns blazing.
I really miss that Lorcin.