78 NEBRASKAland • JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2018
W
e went from the airport to a frozen pond – the "we" being Robbie Gaia, my
lifelong best friend, and myself. The entire time we told stories about our
outdoor exploits.
Through the years we have talked each other into many trips – from
largemouth bass fishing in the cypress tree swamps of Louisiana to fly-fishing
for smallies in Otter Tail County, Minnesota.
But this trip would be different. I was asking him to do something that, for his entire
life, he had been told not to do – stand on a block of ice.
In Tennessee, where we grew up, ice was always to be avoided. There was never ice
thick enough to warrant any reason to stand on it. When we shot ducks across a frozen
pond as kids, we retrieved them by casting crankbaits across the ice, hooking into the
ducks we had shot and reeling them back in.
Now I was asking him to spend a 40-degree day walking across this body of hardwater
because I bragged about how much he would enjoy it.
Within minutes, he understood why with his first pole bend of the day. It wasn't his last.
We caught fish all day on the ice – bluegills, bass, and crappie –
continuing our stories about deer, duck and fishing seasons past the
entire time.
Nearly a year later, as winter returns, we continue these talks
about our past trips in the field. Except now we talk about the day he
first stood on ice, and how it was different than anything else he had
ever done.
Jeff Kurrus
Dec. 4, 2017
Standing on Ice
