Ever since the weather turned ice-fishing season from a theoretically possible event to the object of weekly anticipation, I’ve been one busy beaver.

Busier than an ice auger with a dull blade … Busier than a slush-bound 4-wheeler with one tire chain … Busier than a Ricky Craven fan’s poison pen. … not that I know anything about that last one, mind you.

If you’re one of those people who figure it’s a Saturday well-spent if you’re lucky enough to sit in a fishy-smelling outhouse on skis on the middle of 1,500 acres of frozen lake, you know what I’m saying.

Ever since I headed to my parents’ house on Christmas Eve and unwrapped my brand-new ice-fishing hat – the one with the deer-hide upper and the genuine toasty-warm Chinese rabbit-fur earflaps – I’ve had the fever.

Not even a negative fashion critique by my 5-year-old niece Alyssa (she’s the one who’s cute as a button, but blunt as a ball peen hammer) could dim my fishing disposition.

“You look like a monkey in that hat, Uncle John,” she said. I smiled … thought of the fishing to come … and asked for another banana.

The state tells you that fishing season begins on Jan. 1, but for me, this weekend is the big one. It’s time to polish off that tacky-nifty Big Mouth Billy Bass that Santa left me, grab some vittles, and head for the ice shack … again.

Before you point out that I’ve been fishing too much already, and before I assure you that’s not possible, it’s important for you to realize something.

For the past couple weeks, I haven’t really been fishing. I’ve been doing the things that you have to do before you fish. In baseball, they’d call it “earning your ups.” In fishing, we call it “conducting vital scientific research,” because it sounds a lot more attractive than “wasting time” or “getting skunked.”

But, man, have I been busy.

I’ve been pushing the shack through eight inches of snow and slush to the one perfect spot on Green Lake – which seems to move a few hundred yards from year to year. According to my last census, that effort has produced one aching back, six scabs, two splinters, and an as-yet undiagnosed hernia.

I’ve been getting the 4-wheeler stuck … three times. And spinning the tire chains off … six times.

I’ve been running the ice auger on my own perfectly formulated high-test fuel mixture, which apparently consists of equal parts gas and water with a healthy dollop of maple syrup thrown in for good measure. Actually, that’s not true. If that were the formula, the bladed beast would run smoother than it has. (Do me a favor, though: Don’t tell my auger I said that. You know how finicky they are).

I’ve figured out (after hours of rummaging around in a 4-by-6 shack) what I’m missing, and what I have too many of.

Of course, there’s a direct causal relationship between the items on those two lists and the fact that so far, the biggest fish I’ve seen are swimming around at the bottom of my bait bucket.

I’ve found out how to feed three hungry adults despite charring the bottom five pounds of a 13-pound batch of chili. (Just tell the guests that the billowing smoke was planned, and that the Hormel in the bucket is really your famous hickory-smoked secret recipe).

See? Busy, busy, busy.

Sure, you may have seen a few ice-fishing traps nearby, and they may have looked like they were set up over holes in the ice. And you may have thought I was fishing.

Rest assured, I wasn’t. I was testing each trap, just to make sure that it worked properly. Judging by the number of fish that have been ignoring my otherwise perfectly rigged bait, I’d say that the traps have some serious flaws.

Of course, I’ll work on that tomorrow … when I throw on my monkey hat and finally get to go fishing.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter.