NISSWA, MINN. — Lakes sprawl in all directions from this central Minnesota town. A view from the air reveals more water than land, or so it appears.
Now, of course, those waters are covered by ice, and on a balmy day last week fishing traffic in the area was particularly heavy. Anglers traveled by foot, ATV and snowmobile, and in cars and trucks, across the frozen waters, each with a particular fishing destination in mind
That's what Lindy Frasl of Fort Ripley and I found as we, too, ventured onto a lake not far from Nisswa.
We were headed to a spot where a year ago Lindy caught nice crappies, the kind you can't wait to throw in a bucket, fillet and fry to golden brown. At the time, just he and a few other fisherman were there.
But last Saturday, as we pulled onto the ice towing Lindy's fish house, the same bay was crowded with anglers. Some enjoyed the nice weather by simply sitting on a bucket, intently watching their bobbers. Others were in portable shelters. The bay was also home to a number of large, elaborate fish houses, obviously having spent the better part of winter in that one spot.
"The word got out," said Lindy, referring to the number of anglers we observed.
Lindy and I picked a spot 100 yards or so from a large group of anglers. We lowered his fish house to the ice, drilled four holes and soon each lowered lively minnows on plain hooks into the cold lake, and also tiny jigs tipped with wax worms.
Almost immediately, a fish showed up on my locator, a green blip about 3 feet off the bottom. When the blip turned red and aligned with an orange blip that indicated my jig, I felt a slight tug. I set the hook and soon reeled in our initial catch of the day, a small sunfish.
Minutes later a similar scenario produced an equally small crappie.
"Most crappies I caught last year were nice ones," Lindy said. "I heard people have been catching crappies here all winter."
Those words got me thinking. Seldom does a "hot bite" last long nowadays. The instant the fish start to bite, text messages go out, even while the fish are still flopping in the bucket. Cell phone calls bounce from tower to tower beginning with the words "don't tell anybody but" and end with "here are the GPS coordinates." An image of the day's catch appears on Facebook before the anglers leave the lake. Bait shop owners, anxious to make a buck -- and rightfully so -- spread the word, too.
In this age of fish houses on wheels and portable pop-up shelters, anglers appear at the site of a hot bite even before day's end. Up-to-date ice fishing technology, modern fishing equipment and the knowledge of how to use the latest gear puts proficient anglers on fish quickly. Soon, the hot bite turns cold, and again it is up to the ardent ice angler to branch out and find a new location.
As the sun reached the southwestern horizon, Lindy and I continued to catch the occasional small crappie. At dusk, Lindy spotted five or six deer crossing the ice at a narrows, headed, we assumed, to a lakeshore owner's backyard bird feeder, or perhaps even to a pile of corn placed specifically for the animals. Is this another sign of the times?
Lindy and I are not so arrogant to believe that because we caught only small crappies on that warm February day that "all of the keepers" in the lake had been reduced to fillets by other anglers. But, the view out the window of the fish house revealed dozens of other shelters containing people who, like us, had a crappie dinner on their minds. They had every right to be there.
What's the answer to "hot bite" syndrome?
The solution is complex. Perhaps it is too multifaceted to even address. Ice fishing technology has become so advanced, and today's anglers so mobile and knowledgeable, that a gathering of anglers at a local hotspot is inevitable.
Lowering the possession limit might help a bit, but ultimately anglers will fish day after day as long as the fishing is good. And a limit set too low could discourage anglers from participating, and that's not good, either.
The short answer is probably to branch out and seek out-of-the-way fishing locations. When you find that school of keeper crappies, keep your cell phone off and your Facebook page fishless. Mum's the word.
Bill Marchel, an outdoors columnist and photographer, lives near Brainerd.
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