When icicles hang by the wall and blood is nipped and ways be foul, when the Great Lakes freeze into ice packs the size of Rhode Island and shipping is stilled, then folks in the Midwest are moved to fish through the ice, a curious, seasonal madness for which there is no known cure except spring.
Soon after the first serious freeze of the winter, the afflicted head for the floes to sit beside holes cut in the ice, lines descending into the depths, where walleye, bass and muskie and perch glide around in the gelid dark, mostly oblivious to the bedlamites...
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