Lure of Ice Fishing Captures the Wild at Heart

Noah Mayrand grew up on the Vineyard and during the depths of winter, he misses the fins that keep him company during the warmer months.

“I think that’s mainly why I ice fish, just to get that tug this time of year,” Mr. Mayrand said.

On a recent Saturday, Mr. Mayrand headed out to the south side of the Island to his favorite winter fishing hole on one of the great ponds. He walked onto the ice pulling a sled filled with fishing rods and a bucket, carrying a three-foot long iron rod coated in rust. The iron rod, called a spud, doubles as a walking stick and tool to pierce holes through the ice.

As he pounded away at the thick ice to create a hole, chunks flew off and skidded across the slippery surface. He circled the diameter, slowly chipping away until he reached water.

“The main thing,” he said catching his breath between jabs, “is not losing the spud.”

He used a ladle-like appliance to remove the ice chunks and sludge, then measured the depth of the ice. At over four inches it was deemed safe to explore farther from shore. He found a spot about an eighth of a mile from the first hole, where later in the day his friend Sean Gilpin met up with him.

Mr. Gilpin was coming from work, attending to an electrical emergency caused by the past weekend’s blizzard. To Mr. Mayrand’s relief, Mr. Gilpin carried an ice auger over his shoulder. The hand-held, steel drill can quickly shave the ice into a snow-cone consistency until it breaks through, leaving a clean-cut hole.

The two men dropped their lines into the hole, using buck-shot fishing lures. Mr. Mayrand positioned the line six inches from bottom, keeping it mostly still and jigging once in a while with small movements. Water droplets began to crystallize along the lines, creating a marker for where the line reached the air.

The two talked about videos they had recently watched of ice fishing in Michigan, where people set-up tents around their holes and prop flat-screen TVs against the canvas walls. Both men agreed that kind of set-up wasn’t likely to happen here because the ponds don’t freeze for a prolonged amount time like they may have decades ago. This winter was a treat.

Every now and then Mr. Mayrand and Mr. Gilpin would press their boots into their fishing holes, clearing newly formed frost. Then they went back to waiting and watching their lines for nibbles.

“I was getting dinked, twice actually, but then the dinks stopped,” Mr. Mayrand said, referring to something, hopefully a fish, tapping his line.

“We’re the only dinks out here,” Mr. Gilpin joked.

Four deer approached the edge of the pond, a flock of birds flew overhead and occasionally a loud pop could be heard from within the ice. But otherwise all was quiet out on the ice and in the surrounding woods. There wasn’t much action below the ice either.

The men decided to walk farther out on the pond. Along the way, they passed deer tracks on the snow-covered ice. Some trails stretched from one side of the pond to the other but most were clustered close to shore.

Some patches of ice were crunchy where the cold air had stopped water ripples in their tracks. In other areas the ice was smooth as if cleared by a Zamboni. The men shuffled onward, pausing every now and then to drill a new hole. They would sit for a half-hour or so at each spot before moving on again.

At one hole, Mr. Mayrand suggested that Mr. Gilpin try a yellow lure when he stopped in mid-sentence.

“That was definitely a bite,” he said.

In only took a few seconds for Mr. Mayrand to reel in a perch. It was bright yellow with green stripes, soft pink gills and a vibrant orange pelvic fin. The colors shimmered against the white snow.

“Look at that orange,” Mr. Mayrand said with admiration.

Still wearing gloves, he used a pair of pliers to remove the hook from the fish’s mouth. He then released it back into the water, watching it slide back down the fishing hole. The fish paused for a second, stunned, then dipped underneath the ice and disappeared into the eel grass.

The perch was one of the larger ones the men had caught all winter but they were fishing for fun, not food, though Mr. Mayrand said yellow perch can be tasty pan-fried.

The men caught another perch during their time out on the ice. Then the temperature began to drop and their frigid toes announced it was time to go home.

Walking back to shore, they passed holes they had drilled earlier in the day. Most were already frozen over.

Back at their trucks, the wind blowing cold and the sky ribboned withstreaks of yellow, orange and pink, the men were already making plans to come back.

“We gotta stay occupied until it’s tuna time,” Mr. Gilpin said.

This article appears in February 13, 2026.