'Ice Fishing on Mirror Lake' by Karen Waldron

Dad and me walk out over the ice. The truck is a long way behind us now.  Dad says we must listen hard to what the ice is telling us.

‘Crackling? Popping? Too thin,’ he says.

 This man of few words talks with the brevity and clarity of an Alaskan summer.

We keep walking in silence, trepidatious in our tread, noting every squeak and snap of the frozen water beneath our feet. Then Dad stops, instinct telling him where the grayling are. He pulls the ice saw from his pack and starts to cut a hole and removes a near 360-degree disc of white-blue ice, thick and round as a barbell weight. We unhinge the fold-ups, sit down, and drop our 8-lb lines into the ring of black water.

‘Remember the bite’ll be light, Dad says, ‘Fish don’t wriggle much in the cold. Trust your feel.’

We wait, breath pluming in the bright air. Unmoving as the solid lake.