Hooked on Ice: A Texan's First Frosty Fishing Adventure

A personal article today, inspired by an unforgettable first- time ice fishing experience.

As a Texas native, ice fishing was about as foreign to me as snow boots in the desert. But there I was, bundled up and standing on a frozen lake, embarking on my first icy angling adventure. The day was a postcard-perfect winter wonderland—crystal-clear skies, golden rays from a sun that didn’t seem to mind the chill, and barely a whisper of wind. For a guy used to casting lines under a blazing Texas sun, this was a whole new world.

We set up shop on a peninsula that jutted into the frozen expanse, drilling hole after hole with the precision of seasoned ice veterans. By “we,” I mean my buddy Tom and me, along with a group of fellow enthusiasts who swore this was the way to fish. Between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m., we drilled nearly 80 holes—not by hand, thank goodness, or I’d probably still be out there. Each time, we checked the depth, aiming for the sweet spot 11 feet off the bottom, hoping to entice walleye and perch that might be cruising for a meal of freshwater shrimp or mayfly larvae.
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But if we were the bait, the fish were having none of it. Not a nibble, not a tug, just a whole lot of nothing. Meanwhile, back at the tents, the rest of our crew had snagged a couple of fish. Clearly, they’d staked out the prime real estate. After a quick sandwich and some jerky, I huddled up with them, jigging and praying my rod would spring to life.

It didn’t—at least not right away. Every so often, I’d feel a subtle twitch on the line, barely perceptible, like a whisper in the wind. My southern instincts screamed, "Hook it, now!" but my timing was off. “Hook sets are free,” I reminded myself, but after missing five in a row, I was starting to think I’d traded in my fishing mojo for frostbite. My friends weren’t helping either, their laughter echoing in the tent as they reeled in fish after fish while I sat there, a lone cowboy with an empty lasso.

Then, inspiration struck. I swapped out my lure for a gold shrimp jig tipped with a minnow, and the underwater world came alive. The Garmin lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, fish swarming as if they’d just heard about a flash sale. Finally, I set my hook on a walleye. I fought it like it was a trophy fish—pole bent double, my heart pounding. When I finally pulled it up, it was... eight inches long. I couldn’t help but laugh along with everyone else. It wasn’t Moby Dick, but it was mine, and I was thrilled.

From then on, it was game on. The bites came faster than I could sip my drink—literally. I tried to take a swig nine different times, but the fish wouldn’t let up. We became picky, tossing back anything too small and keeping the ones worth bragging about. By the end of the night, we’d hit our limit, each of us grinning like fools. Exhausted but elated, we packed up and headed home, knowing this trip would live in our memories for years to come.

Of course, the adventure wasn’t over yet. A thick fog rolled in, and we missed our turn, adding another 40 minutes to the drive. Instead of frustration, it just felt like the perfect ending to a day filled with laughter, camaraderie, and the kind of joy you can only find in a frozen wonderland. As a Texan, I never thought I’d say this—but ice fishing? I might just be hooked.

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