When I suggested to my husband that I go along when he and my son picked their whitefish net, he said fine, I could even hold the net if necessary.
Having heard their many war stories of ice-covered fingers, freezing waves and frigid winds, I set my mind in “tough woman” mode. I could handle anything.
Sunday morning dawned: gray, overcast skies with a pale sun rising on the eastern horizon. This is great, I thought, perfect gloomy weather for a morning of suffering through the cold travails of picking fish from a net.
The day looked cold, but the thermometer checked out at thirty degrees Fahrenheit. That didn’t seem cold enough so I translated into Celsius, which was closer to 0 and felt better about my up-and-coming adventure.
I pulled on a pair of long underwear, over which I wore fleece-lined khakis. Next I put on a turtleneck and a heavy wool sweater. I wore wool socks and winter boots, a warm hat and a wool scarf around my neck.
Noticing that the guys were standing on the shore, possibly waiting for me, I put on gloves and waddled down the hill. By the time I reached the boat, sweat droplets were forming on my forehead. Maybe I was a little overdressed.
Off we went to the small blaze orange flag that marked the net; merrily skimming over small waves, Dick at the motor, me in the middle and Tom at the boat’s prow. The guys have done this many times before, so they know the drill. One operates the motor or oars. Theother pulls the net up from the water and extricates the trapped fish.
Dick motored to the lee side of the net; Tom found the edge and began pulling. A small splash as the net broke the water’s surface, a glimpse of silver and there it was in the boat—a whitefish. This was exciting.
Dick took up oars and kept the boat in place as Tom struggled to free the fish from the net. He used a small metal U shaped hook with which he pulled plastic loops away from the fish’s body.
I held up a plastic container, he threw the fish in it and went back to the net.
“Got another one!” He pulled up a second silvery fish and began disentangling it. Dick manned the oars, I held on to the plastic container so the fish could easily land in it. Not a real essential job but I felt somewhat useful.
The whole experience was quite pleasant, not the man vs. nature struggle I had imagined. I didn’t have to use the hand warmer pack in my pocket.
The morning’s haul was small but satisfactory—four nice size fish, each averaging 2 1/2 pounds.
Within half an hour, we were done. The guys cleaned the fish and Tom went home with his half of the take. Dick and I froze half and that night ate fresh pan-fried fish fillets, chock full of Omega 3 oils.
I carefully set my cold weather ensemble in the closet, saving it, thinking I might just go out again. I still haven’t quite experienced the entire whitefish netting experience, but the gales of November will soon blow and skim ice will form on the lake.
Meanwhile, I’ll be looking through local church cookbooks, trying to find the best fishcake and chowder recipes, planning on a freezer full of frozen whitefish.
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