Most of my ice fishing outings occur for lack of other options during Maine’s tedious annual cold spell. While results are more predictable early on, as soon as safe ice depths allow anglers to set traps, many of my truly enjoyable winter fishing trips take place in March. There are more hours of daylight, the sun’s rays carry a bit more intensity and comfort, and it’s possible to tend tip-ups or jig a handline all day without wearing three layers of clothes or running to a fish shanty every few minutes. There is one downside, however; March ice fishing tends to be extremely inconsistent.

After three outings to a trio of different lakes over the previous two weekends, none worth bragging about, or even whispering loudly for that matter, I was more than a little disheartened. People can pay all the lip service they want to “It’s all about the outdoor experience, communing with nature and sportsmen’s camaraderie” theory, but show me a dyed-in-the-wool angler and I’ll show you a guy that wants to catch fish. I enjoy trying to outsmart game fish and take it as a personal affront when they outsmart me, regardless of the fact that I’d planned to release most of them. But I’m gracious in defeat, try to learn from my failures, and oh, I persevere, sometimes almost to the point of obsession.

Our spate of ice-drilling trips had been made with the idea of a winter-ending, spring-welcoming fish fry in mind. We were five regulars that in one combination or another had endured cold-weather fishing expeditions for several winters, and a season finale get-together enjoying the spoils of our labors in warm surroundings for a change seemed fitting. The fish seemed to have other ideas. Trout, salmon, and splake of legal size were very uncooperative, even lowly cusk were shunning our baits, and as a group we couldn’t fill a frying pan with a breakfast batch of fresh smelt.

Pickerel perhaps

“I knew where they’re catching some fish,” the voice on the phone stated without preamble, and he had my undivided attention. “I know you’re not big on catching pickerel,” longtime fishing buddy Tom Tardiff went on to say, “but there are some pretty good size pics in Drew’s Lake and they’re bound to provide more action than we’ve had the last two weekends.” As it happened, an old friend and occasional fishing buddy used to set out a fish hut on Drew’s, so I called Doug Swallow in Houlton to confirm his shanty was set up, see if the fish were actually biting, and hopefully wheedle an invitation. It was, they were, and 7:30 Saturday morning at the bait shop near the lake was where and when.

I picked up Tom Tardiff and Sonny Cronkhite, another of our ice fishing family, at 6:30 for the hour drive. It was already 35 degrees with an afternoon forecast promising mid- to high 40s, and the sun shined brilliantly in a cloudless, cobalt sky; all evidence of why I so enjoy March ice fishing forays. During the drive we debated the pros and cons of pickerel fishing, which along with yellow perch and cusk are considered nothing more than a nuisance to devotees of Maine’s finned holy trinity of trout, togue, and salmon. If muskie are considered “water wolves” in the Pine Tree State, then pickerel must certainly qualify as coyotes in the aquatic hierarchy.

Pickerel are always on the prowl and ruthless feeders, so hookups on pic lakes are frequent. When these toothy critters strike and inhale a live bait, a hookup and dogged tug of war usually ensues. Compared to our recent results, half a dozen flags and a couple of fish fights would be a marked improvement. Doug had mentioned that pickerel seem to be running larger than normal on Drew’s Lake recently, frequently in the 2- and 3-pound class.

When we joined up with Doug and his son-in-law Darren Bailey at the bait shop, we received the encouraging news that on top of the steady pickerel and white and yellow perch action, the occasional brown trout and salmon was being iced as well. Still, we had been burned with excess bait for three straight trips so we opted to buy only a dozen smelt and two dozen shiners for our trio, jokingly promising to return if we ran out and subconsciously thinking, “Fat chance!”

Doug’s dad, Pat Swallow, had gone straight to the shanty to get a fire going and as we made our way across the ice, pulling our tote sled full of gear, a welcome column of wood smoke wafted from the cabin’s metal chimney. After a short chat during which we unloaded and separated our equipment, we broke up into three teams of two and headed off in three directions with one man drilling holes and the partner baiting and setting tip-ups. In the end we could have 30 traps in place, making the area around the fish hut look like a forest of flags. “Surely we won’t get skunked again with all these baits,” I wondered aloud as Tom took a break from dancing with the big auger. He just shrugged his shoulders and grinned. We both knew from hard experience why it’s called fishing, not catching.

Flurry of flags

A yell of “Flag” caused me to turn from scooping ice chips from a hole, and I watched as Sonny and Darren dropped their gear and raced to their first tip-up. Everyone hurried to the flag and anticipation was high until a yellow perch flopped onto the ice and then was sent back into the hole even faster than it arrived. Tom and I were trudging back to drill more ice when our No. 2 trap flipped its flag just as we got to it. Kneeling down we saw the line was heading off to one side of the hole. As Tom lifted the tip-up, the reel was spinning like a pinwheel. By the time it stopped turning, the others had arrived, so Tom took up the slack until he felt tension and then gave a strong overhead tug. A good-sized fish tugged right back, and after a spirited give-and-take for five minutes, a toothsome 18-inch pickerel was yanked from the water. The ice was broken, so to speak.

Before anyone could return to work, Sonny and Darren’s No. 1 trap went off again, and before we could reach it, Doug and Pat had a flag as well. Sonny picked up another yellow perch, much to his chagrin, and in fact that particular spot was nicknamed the perch hole as it gave up nine yellows and a white throughout the day. Pat had a bit more luck with his hookup, landing and releasing about an 11-inch brook trout. Before our teams could each auger and set out another trap, there were two more strikes. Darren felt the fish on his line and tried to set the hook but ended up with no fish and no bait. I got into a good-sized fish that made a couple of nice runs but after a severe bout of head shaking was suddenly gone, and took my bait to boot.

By this time we finally had a total of 20 tip-ups rigged and in place. Since 10 perch, three pickerel and a small trout had been caught and released, and two good size pickerel were kept, we decided that was enough traps to keep us busy. Tom and I each drilled one more hole near the shanty, he pulled out a chair and I used a five-gallon bucket, and we basked in the sun’s warming rays and jigged with handiness. I truly enjoy jigging as it lets me actually feel like I’m fishing rather than just sitting and waiting for flags to fly, and I have the option of changing from lures, jig-head or cut bait as the whim strikes me. Tom caught a 12-inch feisty salmon within the first 10 minutes on a silver Swedish Pimple, but my only attention came from a hand-sized white perch with a yen for my white jig and attached chunk of shrimp.

Yellow perch and 12- to 16-inch pickerel must have been having a convention in our cove because by 11 o’clock our group had less than half a dozen live bait left. Darren offered to make a bait run, so we voted to pass on any more expensive smelt and settle for three-dozen more shiners, a mix of gold and silver and as large as were available. I saw him talking on his cell phone and the next minute he was buzzing across the lake to the boat launch area where our trucks were parked. About 30 minutes later here he comes zipping back across the ice, and when he pulls up to the shanty there’s a bait bucket in front of him on the seat clenched between his legs and two huge pizza boxes balanced across the handle bars behind the wind screen. Fresh, hot pizza for lunch with oven-to-ice-hut delivery. Now that’s service!

Our impromptu Italian dinner was interrupted twice by flags flipping, with the end result being another bait lost when the hook only snagged a lip and, on the second trap, a dandy 18-inch pickerel for Doug. Pat, the old veteran of our group, mentioned how tasty and sweet pickerel meat was when properly prepared. Several of us groaned, having suffered through the painstaking job of filleting and deboning pickerel, which I swear have enough bones for any two fish. No matter how much care and finesse goes into the chore, every other bite seems to have one of those thin, wispy strands of bone often referred to as Y bones.

Pat had just started an eye-opening dissertation on how to properly locate and remove those pesky Y bones when another flag began waving, so this time Tom and Sonny dropped their pizza slices and ran. Our curiosity was soon salved when Sonny came back for the bait bucket mumbling desultory remarks regarding perch and their questionable heritage. A few minutes later Pat demonstrated how to turn an entire pickerel into either filets or bite size chunks of clear, boneless meat. He recommended the chunks for breading and frying or as the main ingredient in a thick, savory fish chowder.

We had no more than packed the meat in a zippered plastic bag and laid it on the snow when Doug hollered “FLAG,” and I turned to see my most distant trap signaling a strike. Upon arriving we noted the line spinning off the reel at a furious pace, and since my day’s results were rather meager, I was a bit excited. Soon I was to be a lot more thrilled for when I tugged to set the hook, after a moment’s hesitation a strong fish snapped the line out of my fingers and made a long, fast run. We played the give-and-take game for several minutes before I could lead what everyone figured was a big pickerel past the bottom of the ice hole.

All the guys began talking at once because what we saw finning past the opening was a bragging-size brown trout. Suddenly, whether the fish got away wasn’t such a cavalier notion. Our quickly cobbled game plan was that I would start the fish up the ice hole and Doug and Tom would kneel on either side to quickly block the hole with their hands should the small hook come out when the heavy fish cleared the water. Not to worry, the trout stayed firmly attached and after a couple of quick photos I decided to release the big brown to fight again. We never did get a weight, but that beauty measured 211/2 inches.

By midafternoon our second batch of bait was gone, so we called it quits. Besides a bushel of perch caught and released, we had iced 14 pickerel and kept four big ones. Thanks to Pat’s directions I enjoyed a tasty fish chowder that night and found only two bones – I’ll get better with practice. Perhaps some of you should take advantage of March’s favorable ice fishing weather, and remember, when other game fish get fussy, pick on pickerel. They won’t disappoint, on the line or on the table.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com