We’re all saying it: ‘What a weird winter.’ And here, at the beginning of March, we are finally hit with some actual snow. As we were snowblowing and shoveling and digging out cars, my wife and I talked about the last time we had this kind of snow. Probably the winter of 2014-2015, and that was an anomaly.

It didn’t used to be — I don’t think I am being nostalgic in my belief that there used to be a lot more snow in Midcoast Maine. And it was a heck of lot colder.

Which brings me to my topic for today: ice fishing.

My dad loved it. Looking back, I think it was similar to his love of hunting in the fall. A chance to be alone with his thoughts, the solitude, not the hope of catching a fish or shooting a deer. He always selected the most secluded ponds to fish, where he was less likely to see others on the ice.

That said, he wasn’t always alone, and my brothers and I often accompanied him, finding ways to entertain ourselves on the open expanses of hard water. Skating, throwing snowballs at each other, entertaining ourselves with the minnows in the bait bucket.

My best friend’s dad was a frequent ice fishing companion of my father. My friend and his dad would snowmobile down from their home on High Street, and while the old men tended the traps, we would bomb around on the snowmobiles. As the child of parents who were not much for motorized recreation, those were good days indeed.

One memorable afternoon, a thaw had left an inch or two of standing water on top of the 12 inches or so of ice. Undeterred, my friend and I held minnow races across the slushy water.

I don’t recall ever eating any of the fish that were pulled from the ice. Then, as now, the bass were usually released back down the hole, while the pickerel were left out for the scavengers. Probably crows then, but today, they are much more likely to be snapped up by a bald eagle. I still find myself in awe of those majestic raptors, once such an uncommon sight. A rare environmental success story.

Bayshore Baptist Church, 9:30a.m. Sunday School, 11:00 worship, 2648 Atlantic HighwayI have no doubt ice fishing seems a strange activity to those not from far northern climes. It is cold, and the wind can be fierce in the wide open expanse of a frozen lake. My dad was never one for ice fishing shacks, but they can be amazing things. The pride and joy of a lot of guys. A warm spot to hide away the day, in solitude or with friends, just enjoying the peace of a Maine winter.

I married a woman who has a love of ice fishing, and she bonds with her own father on the hard water. We are now the proud owners of an insulated tent, heater and all, which can be easily collapsed and dragged onto the lake, and makes for an overall more pleasant experience when compared to my recollections of being fully exposed to the elements.

That said, I hold dear the memory of sitting on an ice trapped dock on the shore of Coleman Pond, paperback in hand, next to my father; staring out over the expanse of ice in complete silence, just waiting for that orange flag to snap up.

Lincolnville Central School PTO Ice Fishing Derby

Sunday morning was the annual Ice fishing derby held by Lincolnville’s Parent Teacher Organization. There could not have been a more perfect day for it, as Norton’s Pond in the Center was filled with families and ice fishing traps.

As well as prizes for the fish, raffle tickets and food were sold, with Andy Skrivanich’s monster grill fired up at the Gazebo in Breezemere Park. Organizer Chelsea Mitchell estimated as many as 40 groups and individuals had signed up.

A far cry from the trips to solitary lakes with my father, Norton’s has always been the busiest pond in town, and Sunday morning it was buzzing with kids digging in the snow, older kids on snowmobiles, and the occasional young dog searching for his lost tennis ball.

Local businesses, including Maine Sport and Maine Outdoor Guides donated prizes. Another great example of a small town and hardworking parents supporting their school and teachers.

Waving

I often think about the familiarity we all have in a small town, all the faces that we see so frequently. The people you say hi to, or even chat with about the weather, and who’s names you may not even know. The waves and nods we exchange as we pass on the road. I’ve heard it said that Mainers don’t have a reputation as the friendliest folk, and maybe there is a bit of truth to that.

There is probably some Puritan reservedness still in our blood, or maybe just old fashioned wariness of strangers. The way we refer to people “from away” can get downright mean sometimes. And of course being “from away” can be true to some locals even if you were born here: “Just because a cat has kittens in the oven, that don’t make them biscuits.”

I prefer to think that it can just take some of us a little while to warm up. And all my life, I have been amazed at all the small acts of kindness that happen here everyday. The big pickup hauling a strangers car out of the ditch in a snowstorm. The doors held open, the lawns mowed for a family going through a tough time, the benefit suppers. The personal plow truck that swipes away the ridge at the end of their neighbors driveway.

The small quiet things that are done everyday that let you know that you are acknowledged.

Condolences

Sympathy to the family of Patty Novak. I’m sure many of us remember Patty as a friendly face at Drake Corner Store, where she worked for years. 

Please reach out at ceobrien246@gmail.com if there is any news you think I should know about. Enjoy the snow, and know that it will help make this spring extra green!