Christmas Break

My fishing partner, Rege Duffy has been my closest friend for over 25 years. We met in 1974 when I began work for a small steel company, and within a few days we discovered that we share many common interests.   Our respective anniversaries are within three weeks of each other, and each of us is godfather to one of the other’s daughters. Our children have grown up together, and we all consider each other family; and we live next door to each other.
When Rege discovered that I’d like to hunt whitetails, but wouldn’t pick up a gun after Vietnam, he surprised me by putting a bow in my hands. When I discovered that he liked to fish, I taught him about using spoons, spinnerbaits, crankbaits, and worms for catching largemouth and smallmouth bass.   Together we uncovered the finer points of ice fishing.
Lake Arthur in Butler County, Pennsylvania offers ice fishermen the chance to catch muskies, stripers, largemouth, bluegills, crappies, walleyes, perch, and northern pike. This was our destination. Our inaugural trip each year is New Years day, but this year we didn’t make it out until January 2.   Between us we have almost fifty years of ice fishing experience, and we’ve fished on the ice through subzero weather, blizzards, and torrential downpours. No weather is too bad for us not to fish. All we need is the ice.
The ice had reached about five inches thick before New Years, and I was chomping at the bit to get out, but couldn’t find anyone to go with me. Rather than attempt going out myself, a vain, unsafe practice at best, I waited until Rege could go along. Three days of weather in the 50-60 degree range hadn’t really affected the ice. I’d been calling various bait shops surrounding the lake for several days to monitor ice conditions, and what was being caught where.
The first indication that something might go awry came when I asked John O’Donnell from whom I’ve purchased bait for several years, where fishermen were catching the largemouths, and he responded, "I’m not telling you to fish on the lake anywhere." This was a completely uncharacteristic response from John who is usually very cordial, quite vocal, and works hard to give precise directions to his customers, keeping them on fish; no matter what hour they beat on his door. I missed it. Strike one!
With a bait bucket full of shiners and fatheads, pockets loaded with wax worms, maggots, and meal worms, and tackle boxes replenished with a couple of dozen new ice ants each, we debated which end of the lake to fish, ultimately deciding to fish where we’d caught citation crappies, bass, and northern pike, early last season. Parking down the unimproved boat ramp at the edge of the ice, we quickly unloaded the truck and pulled our shanties out onto the ice. With the exception of a few puddles, the ice still looked very solid despite three days of unseasonably warm weather. Looking up the lake I could see about a dozen fishermen and their tip-ups spread across the ice in about the same area we fish.
Arriving at our spot, a strange voice yelled out, "Hey Mike." I looked up to see Jay DeBucci, a young man I’d known since he was barely a teenager. Inclining my head toward Rege, I asked, "Hey, do you know this guy." Jay eyed him up and down, flashed a big grin, and said, "Hi, Rege." We hadn’t seen Jay for about five years. "Doing any good?" I asked. "Should have been here last Wednesday, Jay responded, "Mike, we just killed the panfish, and the bass kept the tip-ups busy all day." Jay introduced us to his fishing partner Ron Czarnecki, and while Rege and Jay caught up on old times, I began drilling holes for my tip-ups.
When the tip-ups were set, I dragged out two jigging rods, baiting one with maggots and the other with a wax worm, I’d no sooner dropped the ice ant to the bottom and pulled it up, when a bluegill decided it was time for breakfast.   I don’t like to sit in one spot too long if the fishing is slow, instead, I began to move around fishing holes from previous days, and catching a fish here, a fish there, trying to stay busy. I had my heart set on the first fish fry of the new year, and I was determined to catch enough for the whole family. The fishing wasn’t great, but with one eye on the tip-ups, and the other focused on the panfish, my catch soon began to mount up. I knew that toward early evening the fishing would get better, and the sun was beginning to disappear as the clouds moved in, reinforcing the weatherman’s prediction for rain the next day.
Shortly after noon while walking over to check what turned out to be a false flag on a tip-up, I began noticing the ice spidering with each step I took. Upon closer examination I saw that there was a thin layer of ice atop the main ice, and only the thin layer was spidering. Rationalization; strike two!
Late in the afternoon I moved out over the channel into about 11 feet of water to see if the panfish were more cooperative in the deeper water. I’d no sooner dropped the maggot to the bottom and began lifting the rod tip, when a fat perch dressed in her bright orange and green winter colors, attempted to steal my maggot. As I re-baited, the other spring bobber slammed against the rod. Pulling the fish toward the surface I knew that it was a nice fish, and just when it started to come through the hole, I saw the hook pull loose, and a slab crappie rolled over diving back toward the darkness down below.   When I’m on fish they have my undivided attention. Looking toward Jay and his buddy Ron, I noticed that the area they were sitting in was beginning to pool with water. Looking around the area I was fishing, I noticed that the holes surrounding my area were also sinking below the surface. There was only about an hour left in which to fish, and I figured that we’d get off all right, but I wouldn’t want to try getting on the ice again tomorrow. Justification; strike three!
As darkness began to fall, Ron and Jay began packing up to leave. With suddenness, everything I had ignored throughout the day began to come together, creating a real sense of fear in my gut. I yelled over to Jay, "Hey Jay, wait a few minutes, it’s getting dark and I think we should all leave together." I quickly reeled up my jigging rods and hurried over to bring in the tip-ups. When I started to bring up the third tip-up I felt pressure on the line and once again right at the hole, a three-pound largemouth spit the hook. The flag had never gone up, and the fish had taken out about 40 yards of line. After stowing the gear on the shanty, Rege and I began trailing Jay and Ron. With each step toward shore, the sound of the spidering ice chilled my blood. Although I couldn’t see the ice, I had a feeling that if we got off the ice without incident, we would be extremely fortunate.
We were spaced about 50 yards apart as we headed in. I could barely make out Jay reaching shore and starting up the slope. When I saw Jay step ashore I paused for a split second just to change hands on the pull rope. As soon as I took the next step, my boot broke through the ice, my leg in up to the knee. I froze in place feeling the shanty bump the back of my calves. My mind raced. I thought about throwing myself forward spread-eagled, or trying to quickly sit down on the shanty right behind me and push away from where I’d broken through. At this time I don’t recall what I decided, all I remember is that as soon as I began to pivot my left foot and shift weight, I heard the horrendous sound of splintering ice, and found myself suddenly immersed in cold water.

Five Minutes

My first thought was, ignore the shock of the cold water. My mind screamed, "Establish your breathing." The shock of the cold water hit me, my breath caught, and I mentally overrode the impulse to quit breathing.   I screamed out, "Rege, I broke through! I’m in the water!" Rege stopped and tried to turn back to help, but as soon as he stopped, the ice gave way under him and he too was in desperate trouble. "Jay! We’re in the water!" I screamed. I could hear Rege yelling, "Help! Get help." We were in the most trouble the two of us had ever been in together, and I could hear his voice filled with fear, almost on the verge of panic, and I imagine my voice sounded just like his. Ron was still ten yards offshore and when he heard us break through and start yelling, he too stopped and broke through, but he was shallow enough that he just rolled himself back up on the ice and ran for shore.
Atop the hill above the boat launch, about 200 yards beyond where Rege had broken through, sits Mt. Zion Baptist Church. I don’t remember the number of times I’ve listened to the pastor’s sermon while ice fishing in the channel close to shore, but that night all of the windows were aglow, and the church itself was bathed in the lights from the parking lot and the surrounding grounds, and for me, it had an immediate, calming effect, much like a ships captain in the teeth of a storm sighting a lighthouse. I felt something poking me in the shoulder, and as I looked back I saw my shanty half in and half out of the water, the bucket with the jigging rods and tip-ups half on the shanty and half on me. The last thing I needed at that moment was tangled in spider-wire or a hook imbedded in my body. I shoved the shanty back up on the ice.   As I reached out to try and pull myself up onto the ice, the ice gave way and my head plunged under water. At that instant I thought, I am going to die tonight. Aloud, I softly spoke an apology and a goodbye to my wife, saying, "Sandy, I’m sorry. I sure didn’t mean for it to end this way."   For a split second I considered yelling over to Rege that if he got out, "Tell Sandy and the kids I’m sorry, and tell them that I love them." Then I remembered my grandchildren. Then I got angry.   Angry that I’d mentally chosen to ignore all the signs that the ice had been unstable. Angry that my falling in had resulted in Rege going through the ice, infuriated that I was in no position to render assistance, then I became enraged that he would have to deal with this the rest of his life if I didn’t get out.
On shore, Jay raced for his truck and extracted a boat cushion he’d thrown into the truck as an afterthought, Ron grabbed Jay’s cell phone and began dialing 911 for assistance, while Jay raced down the unimproved boat launch and came back out onto the ice, and after getting Rege’s attention, he threw him the cushion from 30-yards away, hitting Rege right in the face and hands. When Jay returned to shore, Ron handed him the phone and told him that he’d already dialed several times, but the location, because the boat launch was in defilade, wasn’t conducive to reception. Heading toward the top of the hill, Jay continued walking and dialing, and on his ninth attempt, he finally got through.
While Jay had been frantically dialing for help, Ron had gotten in the back of Jay’s truck and begun tying together orange extension cords Jay uses when building decks. When the 911 operator finally got on the line, Jay had to spend five minutes convincing them to send a rescue team instead of divers. He had to explain that the man in the lake was still alive rather than dead, and a rescue team was needed instead of divers. Returning to the truck, he helped Ron finish tying together the extension cords. Together they ran back down to the ice, and when Ron was thirty yards offshore heading towards Rege, he once again broke through the ice. Fortunately for Ron, he rolled to the side and barely got wet. Backing toward shore, Ron threw the impromptu extension cord rope toward Rege. Together, they spent the next few minutes pulling Rege to safety.
Every early and late season trip we’ve ever been on together, we have always had life jackets, and a long length of rope with us. I hadn’t remembered the life jackets until we were halfway to the lake, and at that moment I cursed the oversight. Remembering that my shanty was made of wood, I grabbed the pull rope and eased it into the water, forgetting that I’d tied it to the aluminum sled I’d made to make traveling on snow covered ice, much easier. It floated. I stretched myself across the shanty and was half out of the water. I took comfort in the thought that it would take longer for me to succumb to hypothermia now, but before that happened, someone would get me out. Within one minute the aluminum tubing filled with water, and the shanty began sinking. Hoping I was out of the channel, I held on to the pull rope placing my feet on the upturned edge, praying that it would stand on end when it reached the bottom, that way I’d still be partially out of the water. I was almost completely underwater when I finally remembered that it was tied to the aluminum sled. Trying to pull it back toward the surface, one hand tried to untie the knot holding it to the sled, but when I began to be pulled underwater by its weight, I let it go and grabbed the edge of the ice.   The ice gave way and I got a mouth full of water. Using my elbow as a hammer, I battered the ice until I found solid purchase, rested my elbow atop the ice, got my breathing under control, and chased away the omnipresent thoughts of dying.

Ten Minutes

As I hung on the edge of the ice I knew that with the shanty sinking into the channel, there was absolutely no way I would be able to get myself out of the water, the ice kept breaking off as soon as it got wet, and I was about out of options. I yelled over to Rege and asked him how he was doing. What I actually had planned was to tell him how much I loved him, and all of the moments we’d shared on ball fields, in the woods, in our canoes, and even fighting with each other. Like attempting to send a last message through him to my family, it seemed like an act of capitulation, and I wasn’t ready to quit yet.
As I listened, I thought I heard him yell that he’d gotten out, but I thought I was having an audio hallucination. I strained my eyes to look across the frozen expanse of gray-white ice to see how many people were silhouetted against the lights of the church, but I could only see two people. Then I heard Rege yelling for Jay and Ron to run up to the other boat launch and grab the ice rescue gear. His voice was no longer coming from the direction where he’d gone in. He was out and safe. I was so thankful I wanted to cry.
When I heard the fire whistles going off at the volunteer fire department a mile or so up the road, I knew that the troops had been mobilized and all I had to do was hang on. That was easier said than done, because the ice was like peanut brittle, shattering into little pieces with any attempt to put some weight on it. Each time it broke I had to expend more energy using my elbow to batter the bad ice away until I got to firmer ice. If I’d had the life jacket on, I felt I could have battered the ice until I got to the shoreline, or at least shallower water. Looking around at the now gaping hole, I spotted my five-gallon plastic bucket with the Styrofoam minnow bucket shoved inside, floating a short distance away. Side stroking my way over to the bucket, I reached out and grabbed it, and made my way back over to the edge of the ice. Closing the lid over the top of the minnow bucket, I inverted the plastic bucket and shoved it under the water and put my weight over the top. It worked, I now had a makeshift life preserver, and my life expectancy became a little longer.

Fifteen Minutes

I couldn’t see anything along the shoreline except the bright lights from the church, but I could intermittently hear the red wooden cross, used for ice rescue, being dragged down the hill. Then I heard Jay and Ron arguing with Rege trying to talk him out of going back on the ice to rescue me. Now I’ve spent many years arguing a number of issues with Rege, and I know that when his mind is made up, he’s going to do whatever he thinks is right, damn the consequences. I wanted out of the water, but I didn’t want Rege to die trying to save me. I could hear the cross sliding across the ice, and Rege yelling for them to give him more line. When they told him that he’d reached the end of the rope, he told them to let it go he’d go on alone. With my arm on the ice and the other holding the five-gallon bucket to my abdomen, I could feel the ice squeaking like it does when someone pulls on the handle of an ice cube tray. The ice was giving under the weight of his soaking wet clothing, and he was moments away from ending up back in the water. I wanted him safe more than I wanted out of the water, and I began yelling for him to get back on shore, telling him that I could hear the ice giving, and that he wouldn’t make it. I yelled, "Rege! Someone has to survive, get back on shore. I can feel the ice giving under your weight. Will you please go back to shore." Rege went back to shore. I felt a sense of euphoria that he had listened to me, but feelings of desolation crept in knowing that I’d have to wait, hang on for a little longer, and continue to be creative. My life depended on me now. I thought about my wife, my family, and the number of times Rege, and the girls and I had been on the ice without incident. I reflected on football games Rege and I had played in; how he’d guided me to my first whitetail buck, canoe trips for smallmouths, hot summer days working underneath our trucks, and how our kids had played together through the years.
My calves were getting numb now, but my thoughts were still clear, as I leaned over my bucket life preserver staring at the edge of the ice, and looking at the shards of ice floating around me. The only other item floating in the water was my ball cap, with my license pinned to the back. My granddaughter, Victoria, had cut all of her teeth on the bill of that cap, and for an instant, I considered swimming over to retrieve it, but decided it wasn’t worth the energy. I could hear Rege, Jay, and Ron, yelling at me, fear in their voices, asking if I was still afloat, exhorting me to keep talking so they would know how I was doing. Looking in their direction I could see the lights from the church splintered in literally millions of tiny, pinpoints of light refracted in every direction, as I yelled back, "They better hurry up guys, my legs are getting numb. I have about five minutes left."

Twenty Minutes

The words were no sooner out of my mouth; than I saw the red, white, and blue lights of the rescue vehicles wend their way around the bend of the boat ramp, headed down toward the edge of the ice. The weight of my soggy, clothing was beginning to pull me down lower in the water. The water was above my lips, and I had to tilt my head back to scream toward shore, "Rege, tell them they better hurry up." The ice supporting my elbow gave way, and I slipped lower as the water washed up over my nose. Kicking hard, I tried to reestablish an elbow rest on the ice, but each time I touched it, it gave way. The bucket didn’t seem as buoyant as it had been, and I realized that it had tilted to one side when the ice had given away, allowing air to escape. I had to get more air in the bucket. Looking back toward shore, I noticed the Styrofoam lid had broken loose, and had been washed atop the ice. I struggled to get to the lid, lifted the bucket overhead, allowing my head to slip below water level, replaced the lid, and once again forced it below water level. I popped back to the surface riding high in the water once again. Kicking my feet, I angled myself toward the edge of the ice and had to use my elbow to break off about three feet of ice before I could rest my elbow on solid ice again. At least my neck was above water again.
Kicking to stay afloat, I strained my ears to hear what was being said on shore, but could only make out mumbling. I called out, "What’s going on Rege? What are they doing?" A voice responded, "Hang on fella, we’re coming. We’re getting ready right now." I was cold, soaked, fearful, and angry, when I responded, "Well you better hurry up. What’s taking so long?" The voice didn’t respond.
The lights from the rescue equipment brightened the scene, making the ice almost solid white again. As the lights played tag in the ice chips surrounding me, they reminded me of the pinpoints of light reflected around a dance floor. The fingers of my right hand were above water and were getting stiff. I began opening and closing my hand trying to warm the rigid digits. Letting go of the ice, I slipped the hand into the water and cracked my knuckles, something I’ve done for years, that has always worked to make my cold fingers warm again. I brought my hand above water to rest the elbow on the ice again, but when the elbow touched the ice, the ice broke away.

Twenty-five Minutes

Reaching out to find where the edge of the ice was, each stroke touched only broken shards of floating ice. Had a large section broken away? Had I drifted away from the edge of the ice? I didn’t know. I kicked and stroked until my shoulder bumped the edge of the ice. Reaching way up onto the shelf, I rested. Looking behind me into the darkness, I could see that what was once a small hole for one had now been widened by my struggle to at least ten yards. The voices of Rege and Jay refocused my attention toward the shoreline. "Mike! Mike!" I could hear the desperation in their voices. It mimicked the emotions I was feeling inside. How long had I been silent? I didn’t know. "I’m here," I responded. I heard weariness in my voice. My body began shivering, and I clenched my teeth trying to keep it at bay.
From the direction of the lights I heard voices mumbling, then the sound of scraping aluminum. I know the sound well. I’ve got an old 18’ canoe that I once carried on my shoulders through the woods to get to secluded lakes, and I knew that sound intimately. This was the first sign that there was actually any activity to get to me, other than Rege’s unselfish willingness to sacrifice himself. I’d seen vehicle after vehicle come down the hill, each set of lights making both the scene, and my condition somehow cheerier. I’d seen the fire trucks come down with their lights twirling, and felt guilt at having dragged their crews out of their warm homes for an act of stupidity that should, had we paid attention to the obvious, been avoided. I’d watched the ambulance back down the hill, seen the back doors open and through the light pollution, watched ghostly figures make preparations for that moment I would be dragged from the lake, no matter what condition I was in.
"Mike! Are you okay?" Inquiring voices yelled from the shore. I’d been silent again. "Hey guy, talk to us. We need to know you’re all right." All right? The question raced through my mind transforming itself into the hideous unspoken, "Hey guy talk to us. We need to know if you’re still afloat." My legs were going numb now, and it was becoming difficult to feel the clothing rubbing against my legs. "I’m still here, but I’m becoming pretty hypothermic. My legs are starting to go numb. You’d better hurry up."
I flashed back to a rainy opening day of archery season, a day spent under a cold drizzle among golden falling leaves, when late in the day after seeing nothing all morning and afternoon, eight whitetail bucks suddenly appeared out of the thin fog at the edge of a field. I’d watched them sparring for a half hour before a broad beamed eight-point walked to within 13 yards and stopped broadside. When I’d attempted to draw my bow, the muscles in my arms were incapable of drawing back the bow. I’d had to let down on the string. When I attempted a second draw, the bow rolled over smooth as butter because the muscles had been warmed by the first attempt. I began furiously kicking my legs, trying to restore circulation, keep the muscles functioning, I still needed them in order to stay afloat, later I might not have a chance fort a second draw.

Thirty Minutes

I thought about the fish that had been in the bottom of one of the other five-gallon buckets, and wondered how many of them had recovered, and how many had gone to waste. Then the irony of the situation hit me, I’d taken tens of thousands of fish from this lake over the past quarter century I’d been fishing it, and before the evening was over they might have the opportunity to have me on their dinner table. It seemed fair, the thought was comforting, it seemed as if justice was about to be served.
Everything I had brought out onto the ice was now on the bottom of the lake, except for the clothing I was wearing. I was glad that I had put on my insulated jacket, and if the ice hadn’t proven so brittle, I’d considered taking my jacket off and laying it on the edge of the ice and hoisting myself back to safety, but each time a new section of ice became exposed to the open lake water, it became weak, and within a few minutes gave way.
I couldn’t clearly hear what Rege was saying to the members of the rescue party, but from my position in the water, just hearing his voice and knowing he was safe was a comforting factor. I was becoming agitated at the length of time it was taking them to get their resources mobilized and in the water. In my anger I called toward shore, "Rege, what the heck are they doing? What’s taking so long? I’ve only got about five minutes left." A voice hollered back, "Hang on fella, we’re moving right now." Again I could hear aluminum scraping on the ice, and could hear a group of voices discussing some issue, but the distance distorted their words, like the light being dispersed by the ice chunks. Loud enough to hear, but too far away to make any sense of what was being said.
The shivering had increased in intensity, and I could now hear my teeth chattering audibly. Hypothermia was beginning to make new inroads into my safety and well being. In the beginning I was scared that the amount of clothing I was wearing might fill with water and pull me below the surface, and that I might drown before being able to have a chance to try and save myself, but that hadn’t happened.
The bucket had filled with water again, and I was once again up to the bottom of my nose with cold water. Again I lifted the bucket overhead, dumped out the water, and brought it down into the water. Once again the bucket allowed me to pop back up above the water level. I spotted the lid of the minnow bucket where it had been splashed up onto the ice itself. Thinking that they might not know exactly where I was I reached out for the lid and with my right hand attempted to scrape ice chips into a pile, and insert the lid into the chips as sort of a reference point for my rescuers. The lid wouldn’t stay upright. I grabbed the lid and slipped it below the lake’s surface and positioned it against the opening in the bucket, figuring that a little more buoyancy wouldn’t hurt.
As I stared at the lights on shore, I gazed up at the little church on the hill and wondered if I had disturbed the evening services. Again I pondered how many sermons I had listened too as I sat on a round plastic pew catching perch and crappies while the parishioners were warm and snug inside. I made a mental note to one day go inside and listen to a sermon with the rest of the congregation, wondering how many other ice-fishermen had considered doing the same thing. Then I remembered that two other ice-fishermen had gone through the ice right in front of the church last year, or the year before that, but they hadn’t made it. I chased the thought away by remembering that I had planned to take the chipmunks, a pet name for my grandchildren, A.J., and Samantha, ice fishing later in the season. I still wanted to fulfill that promise, even though I would have to buy new gear for all of us.

Thirty-five Minutes

A chorus of voices called my name, imploring me to answer them. I’d been lost in my own reflections for a while and lost track of time. I didn’t feel sleepy or tired; in fact, I was to the point that my body didn’t really feel anything. That thought disturbed me. "I’m still here." I taunted them. "My body is going numb." I moved the hand holding the bucket, but couldn’t really feel the bucket, as much as sense it. I moved the bucket against my abdomen, and could feel the pressure, but not the sharp edge of the bucket, or my clothing, and the pressure itself felt blunted against my ribs. My legs felt completely nonexistent. I had to mentally go deep inside my mind and down into my legs from within, in order to know whether or not they were still kicking, or if they had ceased functioning. Again I yelled, "I’ve got only about five minutes left." And wondered if they were as tired of hearing it as I was of saying it.
As I stared at the lights and wondered if there was really anybody on the shoreline, off in the darkness to my left I heard a familiar sound that brought with it the feelings of exhilaration, and a renewed sense of hope. The sound of chopper blades spanking the cold air caused me to begin searching the air for their source. I flashed back thirty years to Vietnam and being in similar difficult circumstances, when the sound of chopper blades represented security, re-supply, mail, hot food, new troops, and a host of other things to look forward too. When that chopper finally popped over the hilltop, with it’s shimmering spotlight glaring into my eyes, I knew that a whole new group of resources was at hand.
I watched as the chopper passed between the assembled rescue-vehicles and the church on the hill, banked over the lake, and began worrying about the crew inside. Old habits die hard. I’d seen chopper pilots attempt the impossible before, and most of them made it, but I’d also seen hope end up as a pile of flaming wreckage. I remembered a chopper pilot losing power as he flared over the landing zone as he approached Firebase Airborne. When the Huey had hit the ground the rotors had flexed and then snapped, sending shards of the rotor blades whirring in every direction, and flipping the aircraft over on its side. I’d seen what was about to happen and had dived into a foxhole as a six-foot piece of rotor blade had whistled overhead, and buried itself a foot deep into the pile of dirt directly overhead. I recalled leaping from my foxhole and sprinting toward the aircraft because somehow one of the crew had been pinned under the skids when it had flipped, and the aircraft was on fire. We’d rocked the flaming aircraft until the crewmember could be pulled to safety. All of these memories flashed through my mind as the aircraft banked and turned toward me.
I watched the pilot drop his craft toward the ice-covered surface of the frozen lake and begin slide slipping toward me, the spotlight now a circle of bright-white sprinting directly at me. Plumes of spray from the melt off that had occurred during the day were turned into writhing rainbows as they were exposed to the light from shore, and whipped into the air. I watched the gusts of the rotor wash approaching me, and saw the ice undulating from the overpressure created by the whirling rotors. Then the blast of wind hit me, as did thousands of shards of broken ice as they were propelled along the icy surface of the lake to sting my face and hands with their impact. I’d tilted my head down and away to avoid the onslaught, and as the turbulence subdued, I looked up to see a skid inching sideways toward me.
For some reason I’d expected to see a jungle penetrator hanging outside the door, that or some device with which I might tether myself to a cable for extraction. As the skid neared the edge of the ice, I instinctively let go of the bucket and wrapped my left hand over the skid, and brought my right hand up intending to clutch my left so that the chopper could either lift me or drag me toward shore. I hadn’t quite closed my right hand over my left when the chopper attempted to climb. I hadn’t been set, and the weight of my wet clothing, and the numbed, weakened condition of my hands prevented me from hanging on. I flopped back into the water.

Forty Minutes

The chopper hadn’t lifted me more than eight or ten inches out of the water before my arms had slipped from the skid, but the rotor wash had pushed my bucket all the way to the opposite side of the hole that had now been enlarged to 20-yards. Eyes on the bucket, I sidestroked my way across the ever widening opening, fearful that my clothing would begin pulling me lower in the water. I grabbed the bucket, inverted it, wrapped myself around it, and took a breather.
I’d thought that the arrival of the chopper would mean instant extraction, but it hadn’t come to pass. I watched the chopper circling, wondering if he’d make another pass, but instead it disappeared over the hill behind the church. My elation and hopes for an end to this ordeal began to ebb. I slowly, kicked my way back across the sea of ice chips, and for the first time felt the stings on my face, where the spray of fractured shards had pummeled me. At least my face wasn’t numb.
When my shoulder nudged the jagged edge of the ice sheet, I attempted to rest my arm on the ledge, but it just kept breaking away. I was angry again. Everywhere my hand tried to find purchase, it found nothing but more broken pieces of ice. The hand was numb now. I’d lost all feeling in my fingers, and only by watching where my hand was placed, could I tell if it was in the water, or out.
I came close to panic. Frantic, my arm began swiping at the ice. One second I’d think I’d found a place to support some of my weight, the next second the ledge would break away again. My hand was beginning to ache from the cold, when I noticed that I’d slipped lower in the water. I looked down at the bucket and saw that I was holding it almost parallel to the water and as a result, the trapped air had escaped. I’d lost count of how many times I’d had to go underwater to pour out the water and refill it with air, but I did it once again. I was functioning on instinct, both hands were completely numb, and my legs--- did I have any?
When I repositioned the bucket against my abdomen I did it visually; I had no feeling in my lower body. Someone began calling my name again. When I responded, my words were slurred, passing over chattering teeth. "It’s g-getting b-bad. I’m really hypothermic n-now." My speech patterns were coming out in staccato bursts; "I don’t have any f-feeling in my h-hands or f-feet. I only have about f-five m-minutes left."
From the shadows on shore I heard someone say, "He’s really getting bad now. Did you hear him slurring his words?" I listened to their words, and for the first time since I’d fashioned my own PFD out of the minnow bucket, I wondered if they would make it in time. I began thinking about how long I could be submerged under water before attempts to revive me would prove useless. Tremors wracked my body, and I began wondering if I would have time to shout out a final message for Rege to pass on to my family members before I went into cardiac arrest.

Forty-five Minutes

I heard people talking indistinctly on shore, but I couldn’t make out the words. I was in bad shape, and began wondering if I’d even make it the five minutes I’d just told them I had. As I gazed at the shoreline, I thought I heard the faint sound of a small motor, but figured it was just trucks passing across the Route 528 bridge. To my right front, an aluminum boat materialized out of the darkness like a wraith, and I counted four people on board. The sound of motor became more distinct as it passed close by, circled around and stopped less than five yards away. I think the only time in my life I’d ever been happier was watching my daughters be born.
I don’t know if I had reached the point of exhaustion, or I was just happy to see the boat. I didn’t move. A voice from the boat said, "Can you give me your hand?" I responded "Yeah," but made no attempt to move. Then the voice said, "Well how about doing it?" I was becoming incapable of moving without being directed to do so. The voice had given instructions, so I sidestroked my way over to the boat still dragging my bucket behind me, and threw my right arm over the gunwale. Hands grabbed at my arm and the voice said, "We’re going to pull you into the boat now, but before we do that you’re going to have to let go of the bucket." I hesitated; I didn’t want to let go of the bucket. I wanted to take it with me. It was all I had left of my ice-fishing equipment, and I thought it had earned the right to go with me. Reluctantly I let it go.
I don’t remember reaching up to the gunwale with my left hand, but all of a sudden I found my back against the side of the boat, with people holding each arm over my head. The voice said, "This may hurt some." And I think I responded, "At this point, I don’t really care." I remember being pulled into the boat backwards and somehow finding myself sitting on a seat, but I was all in, and the images were becoming unclear.
Someone whipped a blanket around my shoulders, and I said, "If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to let you guys do the rest, I’m just going to take it easy," and I think I remember just falling over backwards to rest.
I don’t remember the ride back to shore at all. My first recollection of still being alive came when I heard voices saying, "Ready? On three! One! Two! Three!" I couldn’t identify the voices, or tell how many people were around me, but I felt myself being lifted out of the boat and being set on a gurney. I blacked out for a few seconds and only remember feeling the overpressure of the helicopter blades beating, and the cold air on my body. When the gurney bumped the side of the helicopter I looked up and could see the ceiling panels of the chopper bathed in white, and I thought to myself, "God, it’s thirty years since I’ve been med-evaced, here we go again. I felt scissors beginning to cut along the inside of my shin, and thought of the expensive clothing they were destroying with each snip, and thought to myself, "I don’t even care," and I once again succumbed to the darkness.

The Hospital

I awoke to the world of bright white light, and the feeling of being enveloped in a cocoon of warmth.   The first recollection of still being alive was when a pair of hands rolled me over on my side and something was being inserted inside my body. Agitated, I asked, "What are you doing?" A voice from somewhere outside the halo of white answered, "Just inserting a probe to measure your core temperature." A few seconds later the probe was extracted and the voice said, "His core temperature is up to
95-degrees, he’s going to make it." A face blotted out the brightness, and a feminine voice asked, "What’s your name?" I had to clench my teeth in order to answer. I must have mumbled because the voice repeated the question, and I had to repeat my answer.
Trying to move, tubes impeding my movement. "What’s this?" I asked, eyes closed, fingering a piece of tubing. "A catheter," a voice answered, "and there are tubes in your arms where we had to give you warm Ringer’s in order to bring your body temperature back up. Lie still, you’ll be fine." As much as I wanted to lie back and be still, tremors raced up and down my entire body, and I had to clench my teeth together so my teeth would quit sending out Morse code. I passed out again.
Once again I awoke to that intrusive hand with the probe. I picked up my head for the first time, and saw figures standing around me in surgical scrubs, watching my every move. "Where am I?"   I asked. "Presbyterian Hospital. Do you remember coming in?" "No," I replied, "the last thing I remember were the blades of the helicopter when they were putting me on board. And I remember them cutting off my clothes." I was again shivering violently. Hands were rolling me over, packing warm blankets under my back, along my sides, and around my head. It felt heavenly.
As the warmth began penetrating my whole body, another voice inquired, "Do you know what happened to you?" I responded, "Yeah, I fell through the ice at Lake Arthur and had to be life-flighted." "He’s back with us, he remembers what happened, and how he got here, he’ll be ok." Another voice broke in saying, "I’m getting some heart arrhythmia, but that’s to be expected after what he’s been through." Then the shivering began again, and I laid back and tried to control it, but couldn’t stop it.
When I woke up again, I felt like I was breaking into a sweat and the shivering was gone. "Sir," a young man said, "we’re going to admit you for tonight because your heartbeat is erratic, but that’s normal for patients that are suffering from hypothermia. We’re going to give you some drugs that will hopefully stabilize your heartbeat soon, and once that happens, we will probably release you. As far as the trauma department is concerned we’re releasing you, but we’re turning you over to the cardiac department until they say you’re ok, then they will be the one’s that send you home." I was upset that I wasn’t going home. I knew my wife would be worried sick, and I wanted to walk through the front door just to let her know I was fine.
All of a sudden I was thirsty and famished. I hadn’t eaten all day. I looked at the clock on the wall and realized that it had been five minutes since the last time I’d had the chills. Sweat was running in my eyes, and I was getting hotter by the second. I tried kicking off the blankets and with the sudden exertion, I screamed. My calves, hamstrings, quads, and groin muscles were all cramping simultaneously. I was in extreme agony.   I tried rolling to my left, and then back to the right, but my legs wouldn’t move independently. I tried lying back on the bed to allow them to relax, but the ache increased until I knew I had to move. I attempted to use my hands to move one leg, but the fingers had no feeling in them. I tried to bend one knee, and screamed. The doctor who told me about the heart arrhythmia came in, asking what the problem was. When I told him about the pain, he said, "That’s to be expected. The muscles have had a lot of exercise, and they’re stiff from being so cold.   Here, I’ll help you move them." He rolled me over onto my side, and left the room. The relief didn’t last but a few seconds, and I knew I would have to make myself comfortable through my own actions.
Just as I was about to grab the bed railings and try lifting myself up again, Rege walked through the door of the hospital room with Bob Miller, my future-son-in law. I was so glad to see Rege standing there, tears filled my eyes. When he had fallen through and begun yelling, it sounded like he was in greater danger of drowning than I was, but fortunately for him, the quick actions of Jay and Ron had him out of the water in less than five minutes. We’ve been through some pretty hairy stuff over the past twenty-five years, but this was by far the worst.
Although I was glad to see him, the pain in my legs was now completely unbearable. I asked Rege to give me a hand sitting up. When he grabbed my hands so I could use him for leverage, I tried to move but the muscles refused to cooperate, both legs felt like fence posts, and although the muscles were screaming in protest, I couldn’t feel Rege’s hands on my legs. The nerves were deadened from prolonged exertion and immersion in the lake’s icy waters.   It took both Bob and Rege to lift my legs and manually bend them before the pain began to abate. As I leaned back to take a deep breath, Rege first asked what my prognosis was, and then told me of the frustration Jay, Ron, and he had experienced while watching and waiting for the rescue personnel to get me out of the lake.
As Rege tells it, none of them knew that I had been hanging on to the bucket, they thought I was alternately swimming and hanging on to the edges of the ice to rest. Wet and cold after his own extraction, he had run up to the other boat launch to grab the wooden cross used for ice rescue, and starting out on to the ice to get to me. He said he could feel the ice bowing, but was determined not to leave me in the water. They had tied the extensions cords to the rope on the wooden cross hoping that they’d be able to toss the life ring to me once they got close enough, but when the ice began to give way while he was still 100-yards out, he was forced to go back to shore.
He chronicled that four divers had attempted to use a canoe to get to me, but "the ice wouldn’t allow them to stand on the ice without breaking through." When he saw the searchlight from the helicopter swing across me, he said that that was the first time they had an "exact fix on my position since darkness had fallen." Because he couldn’t see the bucket I was hanging on to, when I ducked under the water to avoid the flying shards of ice from the prop wash of the chopper blades, he thought I had finally succumbed, and that the chopper had arrived seconds too late, but then he saw my hands wrap themselves around the skids of the life flight, and thought it wouldn’t be long before I’d be out of the water. While Rege continued telling me about what had been happening ashore, the hospital personnel began moving the gurney to take me upstairs to my room. As I wheeled out of the ER, Rege said he was heading home to finally take a hot shower. He had just run in the door, changed clothes, and dashed to the hospital to see me.
Arriving in the room, and after helping to lift me onto the bed, the cardiac doctor told me they were going to give me some medication that would hopefully cause the arrhythmia to abate by morning, and then stated, "If there is anything else we can get for you, all you have to do is ask us, and we’ll provide it." I told the doctor, "I’ve been on the lake since daybreak, and haven’t eaten all day, I could really go for some food, and either a big cup of tea, or a mug of coffee." The doctor informed me that because of the arrhythmia, he didn’t really want me to eat or drink anything heavy until morning, but that they would get me something. Minutes after the nurses and doctors left the room, an aide returned and handed me a Styrofoam cup filled to the top with ice chips.

Two Months Later

It’s been two months since I belatedly joined the Polar Bear Club, having gone through the ice on Lake Arthur, at Moraine State Park in Southwestern Pennsylvania, and I’ve taken a lot of teasing from friends, acquaintances, and business associates as a result. Each has told me exactly what he/she was doing when they received the news; some were eating, others reading the newspaper, while yet others just happened to be walking from one room to another. All of them expressed shock at having been in the comfort of their homes, listening to the newscaster talking about a near drowning in a lake close by, only to hear my name mentioned, and then looking up to see my face talking to a camera from a hospital bed.
It is strange to listen to people you’ve known for years actually telling you about their feelings toward you, how much they really do care, and the impact you have had on their lives, or the lives of their family members over the years. I say this phenomenon is unusual, because all too often it is only your family members that hear these words, and learn about how much others care about you, and this usually only occurs at funeral services. I am a lucky man.
The aftereffects of this incident continue. I have not much feeling in my legs from the calves down and across my ankles, but luckily my toes suffered no problems because the boots kept warm water trapped inside. Although the first ten pages of this were typed immediately after arriving home from the hospital, and by fingers that were afire from frostbite that were difficult to manipulate, today, all feeling has returned to the digits, and I expect no lingering problems.
One month after going through the ice, I returned to the lake for my first ice-fishing experience post accident. I no longer have an auger, a shanty, rods, lanterns, or tip-ups, everything is at the bottom of the lake, and my cold weather clothing was cut off of me by medical personnel, but I did return. I do not lament the loss of the gear, even though the shanty was an 20th anniversary gift from my wife, and my camo-mittens were a Christmas gift from a long departed friend, and my hat, well my granddaughter had cut all of her teeth on the brim of that hat---- Over time, all of these things will be replaced. The most precious thing is that I still have my life.
That first trip back was extremely important. From the time of the accident until I stepped back on that same lake, there was not one night’s sleep that was not interrupted by a nightmare that found me struggling against the ice and cold to stay alive. I would awaken sweating, my hair and the sheets soaked, and my heart trying to claw it’s way out of my chest. After six weeks of nightmares, I knew that the only way to get rid of them was to return to Lake Arthur, make friends with the experience, and go back out on the lake.
When that morning finally arrived and I climbed into the truck to head to the lake with my friend Bo Freeman, I was both apprehensive and overjoyed to be going back out. Arriving at the hill above the frozen lake, and as I admired the beauty before me, and I gave thanks for my life. Looking across the lake I immediately knew just where I’d drill my first hole, and I knew why I loved ice fishing so much.
The incident described above was caused by my failure to heed what the ice itself was telling me. I placed my desire to fish above common sense, and allowed selfishness to override logic. Yes, first and last ice can be the best times to catch numbers of fish, but they are also the most dangerous ice fishing times of the season. Warm water is pouring into the lake, and wherever the channel twists and turns across the bottom of a lake, warm water is carried along that hydrologic highway. Where you are standing can be coated with 14" of ice, while one step away the ice can be honeycombed, and less than two inches thick. Rainwater, no matter how cold, will run along the fractures caused by the expansion of the ice, and within a few minutes, what was once a safe expansion joint, has now become a death trap, a trap door if you will. The unwary, and the experienced walking along this edge can cause the ice to tilt, the fisherman to fall sliding into the water, and then ice quickly closes, trapping the fisherman below the icy surface.
If you are reading this you have choices still. Statistics from the Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission indicate that there are infinitely more recoveries than rescues, and this fact is backed up by statistics from many other Northern tier states. In talking with diver/ rescuer’s since my own adventure in stupidity, they suggest everyone wear a PFD during these periods of the season, don’t go out or come in alone, each individual should carry, and have on their immediate person, ice picks to help them get quickly back atop the ice, and also carry a 50-100’ length of rope. Exponentially, the longer you are immersed in the cold water, the more rapidly hypothermia progresses, give yourself every advantage you can. Above all, if upon arrival at the lake your first thought says, "It doesn’t look good." By God pay attention. It simply isn’t safe. I was lucky.
---Fish safely

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At first, fishing and hunting were just hobbies, then they became addictions taking all my time and money. If they ever find a cure for these sicknesses ---I’m refusing treatment.
Mike Stewart

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