My dear, sweet husband of several decades is Danish. Bless his heart.
He has the metabolism of a polar bear. His favorite sport is ice fishing.
When the weather cools he exchanges his long fishing pole for a short one and tunes up the ice auger.
Many years ago he invited me and our daughters to share in the fun of catching fish on a frozen lake when the temperature is so cold that spit freezes before it hits the snow.
I am convinced ice fishing is a kind of penance some guys inflict upon themselves for past wicked deeds. To ensure the pain is most exquisite, the torture seems to require rising in the darkest part of the coldest night in hell, driving over an hour through a ground blizzard so the fishing can begin
as the sun blinks a cold eye across the lake now covered in three feet of ice.
Here is a picture of DH and his fishing buddy getting ready to share the joy of feet so cold they can pass for frozen hamburger.
A successful ice fisherman needs to feel the tug of the fish as it takes the line, which means gloves are not an option.
A lot of trout.
DH usually catches his limit and fills up the limit of anyone else who can’t bring in their own.
Fish living in icy lake water have a wonderful, buttery fresh flavor. This is why I have no problem when these lunkers come home for dinner. The fishermen do the cleaning and then fillet them out in preparation for cooking and/or freezing for later.
These are old photos because this is the second and absolutely last time I went ice fishing. The daughter who inherited the Danish blood stayed on the ice and fished with the guys. After about an hour of affliction the other daughter and I skulked off to the car to huddle around the heater and sleep.
Two pages later in this photo album is a picture of me enjoying some January weather the way it should be done.