The sun was just cresting the pines on the Gunflint Trail as we pulled out onto the lake. We had left the twin cities at midnight; unable to sleep and wild with anticipation. Ice cracked under our vehicle as we thundered out over the water, but we had little fear of going through. Local sources said the lake was covered with a comfortable sheet of ice almost three feet thick, so even a heavily laden vehicle was safe for driving onto the lake.

"Hang on, slow down," cautioned Andy as we barreled across the snowy surface "we can't get to far out - the border is just past this point."

"Why not?" asked Chris, spinning the wheel and bringing the vehicle to a stop.

"I don't have a Canadian fishing license. Do you?"

 That settled it. We picked a likely spot on the US side to drill a test hole. As the auger's small engine whined, the blades cut deeper and deeper into the ice.  We began to get nervous.  If the ice was thicker than the length our auger would cut, we wouldn't be able to fish!  Finally, with one inch to spare, the auger broke through into  the icy water below.  We all heaved a sigh of relief.  Andy quickly dropped a sonar transducer down the hole, to determine the depth.

"40 feet. Perfect. Let's try it here."  We quickly punched a series of holes in a grid pattern about a hundred feet square and ten to twenty feet apart. Depth reading showed us to be perched on a steep slope, leading from a thin underwater reef, fifteen feet below the ice, to the two-hundred foot depths to the north, in Canadian waters. We quickly deployed tip-ups, baiting them with dead ciscos.

"Show me how that sonar works." It was Chris. Andy plopped the transducer down and sent a simple jigging lure down the hole. A tiny green line on the sonar moved clockwise down the dial, toward the heavy red mark of the lake bottom. He stopped it ten feet from the reef.

"That green line is my lure," he said. "The tiny green marks that come and go near the bottom are baitfish, probably rainbow smelt. When I jig the lure, like this, you can see the green mark move. If a fish is beneath us, it will look -"

A heavy red mark appeared on the screen, five clicks up from the bottom, then raced upward toward Andy's lure.

"Like that one!" Andy's tiny ice-fishing rod bent double. "Fish on!"

It was that easy. Andy was into a good fish, on spinning tackle. The tiny spinning reel whined under the stress. Each time Andy would coax the fish to the hole, it would get a renewed burst of energy and tear out drag as it headed down the face of the reef and into deep water. Finally, it began to tire, and a large shape became visible in the crystal clear water below. Then a dark head appeared in the hole, and a gaff-hook was deftly slipped under his chin. An instant later it was flopping on the ice.

"Nice job!" I yelled, tossing down the gaff and rummaging for my camera. Andy had landed a lake trout, Salvelinus namaycush, about five pounds in weight. Namaycush is the Native American name for these fish, and it means �Dwellers in the Deep.� An apt name for this fish indeed. Found throughout the northern regions of the North American continent, the Lake Trout, or Laker, is truly a fish of the deep water. Actually a char, rather than a trout, Lakers roam the depths, feeding on whatever they can catch or scrounge in the cold, dark places they call home. It is also one of the best-tasting fish you can find. I snapped photo after photo, and was just snapping a close-up of the fish�s formidable teeth when Chris yelled "Flag!"

Ten feet behind me, my tipup was spinning madly, the red cloth flag waving in the frosty air. I raced over, gingerly picked it up, then set the hook with a wild upward pull on the black braided ice-line. 

"Fish on!" I yelled, and began pulling a thrashing fish up hand-over-hand. The three pounder rocketed out of the hole and soon joined his larger cousin on the ice.

Andy kept jigging, hopping from hole to hole, while Chris and I were content to watch our four tipups. A heavy wet snow began to fall, and Chris and I started wishing we had brought some horseshoes and stakes with to pass the time. Every half-hour or so, a flag would go off, but stolen or mangled baits were the only result. Frustration began to set in as the blizzard intensified. Something besides Namaycush was visiting our baits. Then my flag went up again.

Rushing over, I could see the spindle turning, slowly, as the fish moved off. I waited, hoping, this time, to get a solid hookup on whatever was down there. Then it started spinning madly, a high-pitched squeaking noise accentuating the urgency � my spool only had about sixty feet of line!

I grabbed the line and yanked. I felt dead weight on the end, and began hauling against heavy resistance. I had gained ten feet when a hard series of jerks on the line stopped me.

Far below me, in the darkness, the fish was shaking its head. Annoyed. "It's a good one."

It ran, and I fed out line by hand until no line was left on the spool. Wrapping both hands around the line, I braced myself and applied the breaks. The braided line drew as tight as a bowstring, and my arms were subjected to more vicious headshakes. But the tackle held firm. The fish grudgingly came upward, shaking it's head all the while. Then it ripped out another long run and soon I was out of line again. Five serious runs later, the shaking slowed. Chris kept the line from tangling as the runs became shorter and slower. Carefully pulling in the line, an arm's length at a time, I called for the gaff. A huge head appeared, thrashing in the hole, and Andy was lightning-quick with the gaff. It was another Laker, this one eight pounds. Photos were snapped.

Then, far down the reef, Andy's tipup signaled a bite! As he tore off across the ice toward his flag, Chris and I respooled the tipup and sent the a new bait down the hole. Grabbing the gaff, I ran in Andy's direction, but he was already walking back, tipup in hand. "What happened?" I asked.

"Bit me off," he replied, holding up the severed end of his tackle, "Big fish. All I felt was dead weight, then he shook his head and sliced right through it. Plastic-coated fifty-pound braid. Must've been a huge pike. It's only fifteen feet deep over there."

Evening was approaching fast. While Andy re-tied his broken tackle, Chris and I broke out a large canvas tent and bolted it to the ice. Holes were sliced in the flooring in case we felt like fishing through the night. Suddenly, Chris noticed a waving tipup of his own. Approaching it, nothing moved. He waited. Five minutes went by, and still no movement. Then, just as we were about to pull it up to check the bait, the spool twitched. Chris struck and started pulling, and before long, another fish came up the hole.

It was a burbot, Lota lota, a freshwater codfish. A tiny one, though, only 14 inches long. The mystery of the stolen baits was explained! We released the little burbot and fired up the tent-heater and the cooking stove.

Just as the chili was starting to bubble, Andy gave a yell from the fifteen-foot hole. He was fighting another good fish, and was urgently requesting help. It was a long run with the gaff, but I arrived just in time to yank up a six-pound laker.

Night fell, and we holed up in the tent to eat. Chris fished while he ate, through a hole in the floor, but I was too exhausted and soon flopped down onto a cot to rest. The next thing I remember is Chris yelling, and a big, slimy creature writhing around under my cot. Andy woke up as well, and fumbled for a light. There, in the beam of Andy's flashlight, was a large, mean-looking burbot, leering back at us with beady, white-rimmed eyes from under my cot. Nearly five pounds heavy, it was a keeper, and joined the lakers in the fish bucket. With plans for some delicious Poor Man's Lobster floating around in my head, I finally fell asleep.

During the night, the temperature plummeted, and the holes inside the tent froze solid. Andy had lost another fish in the night, as a dead smelt had been stripped from his clicker rig while the hole was frozen over. I made coffee while Chris and Andy headed outside. The morning kept getting colder, and the only action was a few more small burbot. Then, at lunchtime, we ran out of bait and started packing up. It was hard to go. Packs of sled-dogs from a resort across the lake were howling up a storm. A few skiers could be seen on the US shore of the lake. It was hard to tell just where they had come from, but every so often they would brush up against a low-hanging Norway pine and get covered by an avalanche of snow. We traded stories and tips, well satisfied with the trip, as we made our way back to the cities from the northern borderlands. Plans were made for a return that has not yet happened. Maybe this winter we'll go back, if the ice is good and the temperature above zero. One can never get enough of the wilderness.