First Ice: A Grandfather's Gift
The alarm clock's shrill cry pierced the pre-dawn darkness at 4:30 AM, but eight-year-old Tommy was already awake, staring at the ceiling with eyes wide as saucers.
Today was the day. His first ice fishing trip with Grandpa Joe.
"You ready, sport?" Grandpa's weathered voice carried down the hallway, followed by the familiar sound of his work boots on the wooden floor.
Tommy shot out of bed like a rocket.
He'd been ready since Christmas morning three weeks ago, when Grandpa had surprised him with a small ice fishing rod and a promise that they'd use it together when the lake froze solid.
In the kitchen, Grandpa was already filling a thermos with hot chocolate, the steam curling up toward the ceiling.
His old tackle box sat on the counter, scarred from decades of fishing trips, with new additions.
Tommy had watched him organize the night before: tiny jigs, colorful ice flies, and a small container of waxworms that made
Tommy was both fascinated and slightly queasy.
"Eat up," Grandpa said, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs across the table.
"Fish bite best when the sun's coming up, but they won't wait for us."
Tommy wolfed down his breakfast while Grandpa double-checked their gear.
Ice picks hanging from a bright orange cord.
A metal spud for testing the ice.
The small hand auger that Tommy had practiced turning in the garage. Two folding chairs and a portable wind shelter that Grandpa called "the difference between a good day and a cold day."
The drive to Miller's Lake took twenty minutes through the gray morning light. Snow crunched under the truck tires as they pulled into the empty parking lot.
Tommy's breath fogged the passenger window as he peered out at the frozen expanse, dotted with a few ice shanties in the distance.
"Remember what I taught you about ice safety?" Grandpa asked as they unloaded the sled.
"Test every step with the spud," Tommy recited. "Stay away from dark spots. And never go out alone."
"That's my boy."
They made their way onto the lake, Grandpa leading the way, the metal spud ringing against the ice with each probe. Chink.
Chink. Chink.
The sound echoed across the frozen surface, a percussion that Tommy would forever associate with anticipation.
"This looks good," Grandpa announced about fifty yards from shore, near a drop-off he knew from years of summer fishing. "Ice is solid here – about six inches. Plenty safe."
Tommy watched in amazement as Grandpa positioned the auger and began turning. Ice chips flew with each rotation, creating a perfect spiral that disappeared into the growing hole. The auger broke through with a satisfying crunch, and dark water appeared at the bottom.
"Your turn on the next one," Grandpa said with a grin.
The second hole was harder work than Tommy had expected. His small hands struggled with the auger's weight, and the ice seemed determined to fight back. But Grandpa's patient hands guided him, and together they broke through.
"I did it!" Tommy shouted, his voice carrying across the lake.
"You sure did. Now comes the fun part."
They set up their chairs and rigged their rods. Tommy's was a bright red ice fishing combo, perfectly sized for his small hands. Grandpa showed him how to tie on a small gold jig and thread a waxworm onto the hook – a process that made Tommy scrunch up his nose but filled him with pride.
"The trick," Grandpa explained, lowering his line into the dark water, "is to jig it just a little. Like this." He demonstrated with subtle wrist movements. "Too much, and you scare the fish. Too little, and they don't notice."
Tommy tried to mimic the motion, his tongue sticking out in concentration. The minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Tommy's initial excitement began to wane as his line remained motionless.
"How long does it usually take?" he asked.
"Sometimes minutes. Sometimes hours. Sometimes never," Grandpa chuckled. "But that's not really the point."
"What do you mean?"
Grandpa gestured toward the lake around them.
The sun had risen now, painting the snow-covered ice in shades of gold and pink. In the distance, a red-winged blackbird called from the cattails. The only sounds were their quiet breathing and the occasional crack of ice as it settled in the cold.
"This," Grandpa said simply. "Just being out here. Together."
Tommy was about to ask another question when his rod tip suddenly bent toward the water.
"Grandpa! Something's happening!"
"Easy now," Grandpa said, his voice calm but excited. "Keep tension on the line, but don't horse it. Let the rod do the work."
Tommy's heart hammered as he felt the fish pulling against his line. It wasn't huge – probably a bluegill or small perch – but to Tommy, it might as well have been a marlin.
The fish fought in short bursts, bending his little rod and making the reel drag sing.
"That's it! Keep your rod tip up. He's coming up now."
The fish appeared in the hole, a beautiful bluegill with orange and blue fins that seemed to glow in the morning light.
Grandpa quickly netted it and held it up for Tommy to see.
"My first fish!" Tommy shouted, dancing around on the ice.
"Your first ice fish," Grandpa corrected with a smile. "But I have a feeling it won't be your last."
They took pictures, measured the fish (which was seven inches long), and carefully released it back through the hole. Tommy watched it disappear into the dark water below, already eager for the next bite.
They caught three more fish that morning – two more bluegills and a small crappie that Grandpa kept for lunch.
But as they packed up their gear around noon, Tommy realized the fish weren't what he'd remember most about the day.
He'd remember the way Grandpa's eyes crinkled when he smiled. The patient way he'd retied Tommy's line when it tangled.
The shared thermos of hot chocolate tasted better than any hot chocolate he'd ever had.
The quiet conversations about school, fishing, and life that felt more grown-up than any he'd had before.
Most of all, he'd remember the feeling of being trusted. Trusted with sharp hooks and essential gear.
Trusted to help make decisions about where to fish and when to move. Trusted to be Grandpa's fishing partner.
On the drive home, Tommy's eyelids grew heavy despite his excitement.
As he drifted off to sleep in the warm truck, he heard Grandpa murmuring to someone on his phone.
"Yeah, we had a great morning. Little guy caught his first ice fish... No, we've got ourselves a new fishing buddy.
He's already asking when we can go again."
Tommy smiled in his half-sleep. He was already asking that question himself.
Because he'd learned something important on Miller's Lake that morning: the best part about fishing wasn't really about the fish at all.
It was about the people you shared the ice with, and the memories you pulled up from the deep water of time.
Three days later, Tommy was still telling anyone who would listen about his fishing adventure.
And in his bedroom, carefully mounted on the wall next to his bed, hung a photo of him and Grandpa holding that first bluegill – both of them grinning ear to ear, the frozen lake stretching out behind them like a promise of adventures yet to come.
Every time he looked at that picture, Tommy could almost hear the sound of the auger biting through ice, feel the tug of a fish on his line, and taste that perfect thermos of hot chocolate.
But most of all, he could feel the warm presence of his grandfather beside him, teaching him that the best gifts in life aren't things you can wrap in paper – they're moments you wrap in memory, to keep forever.
