Our neighbor and elementary P.E. teacher, who is one of the more legitimate cowboys I've ever interacted with--former rodeo steer wrestler, or "wrastla," as he would say, former ranch hand, and he still breaks horses on the side--invited Luke and I to go ice fishing at a lake a little bit out of Wanblee with him. Neither of us have fishing licenses, but it's pretty clear that it wasn't a very big deal: in the two years that he has been fishing at the lake, no ones ever asked to see his papers (nor has he caught anything since the first time he fished there...). Near 60 degrees out, it was the perfect day to be sitting around outside, although perhaps not the perfect day to be out ice fishing on a lake. When we pulled up we could see a big patch where warmer water flows into the lake from a spring, and the ice had melted clear through. But we stayed on the other side of the lake, and no one had to be rescued from the water. I haven't been fishing since I was about eight years old, and for about one week I decided it would be cool to fish. Back then I realized fishing required patience, and that I wasn't patience. Maybe I've matured since then, or maybe I was resigned to fishlessness today, but I was able to enjoy a day of kicking back on the ice. Unfortunately there will be no fish fry tonight.
The pull up to the lake.
Unloading the truck.
Drilling into the ice.
Fishermen at work.
Portrait of a cowboy.
In search of the perfect spot.
Apparently we were fishing for some big ol' slimy guys. Luke got a bite at one point, but it ripped his lure right off and swam away, so he had to get set back up again.
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