Lake Erie Icewalk Jan. 31, 2009

Marty got VERY interested in a day hike out on frozen Lake Erie. It has been several years since the lake has frozen over and he was quite jazzed about it in recent weeks. We drove to Port Clinton to the small airport there to catch a flight to the islands. He could not wait to see what it was like, so he got out here to check out the ice off the shore in Port Clinton, Ohio.

We got to the airport and climbed aboard the 5/6 seater named Dairy Air piloted by the faux cow fur hatted, Bob. It was all of a 10 minute flight, even with Bob's generous extra loop around Middle Bass Island to show us the iced channels. Not long enough...



Whoa, tight turn there, Bob.

That's better. There's South Bass Island off on the horizon.


That dark smudge on the horizon is South Bass Island, our destination 6ish miles away.


Perry's monument looks like a frivolous backyard ornament from 1000 feet up!


After landing and walking the two miles into Put-In-Bay, Marty and I head out onto frozen lake for the first leg of our trek: to Rattlesnake Island, another smudge on the horizon. We had ice grippers on our boots, so walking on the bare ice was no problem. The black specks are ice fishing shanties. About this time I realized that I was not enjoying the feeling of being out ON THE ICE.

There's Middle Bass Island on the left.
There are many, many ice shanties all over Lake Erie near the islands. Ice fishing is very popular and there was much talk about what the gettin' was like. There was also much talk about how thick the ice was here (five inches) and there (twelve inches.)


The whiteness was immense broken up only by a few ice shanty "towns." They were very busy that day; there were lots of snowmobiles (they call them snow machines) and ATV's back and forth from shore to shanty. I still did not like the feeling of being out on the ice.

It was a spookily peaceful and beautiful landscape and Marty was in heaven or at least nearby; on the moon!

About this time, I realized that I was too spooked OUT ON THE ICE to continue, so I went back to the restaurant in Put-In-Bay and sat and ate curly Q fries and a grilled cheese sandwich and waited for Marty to finish his trek.


While I sat and enjoyed my curlyQ fries, lots of folk clad in bulky snow suits stomped into the restaurant. They came to South Bass Island to enjoy the festival OUT ON THE ICE in Put-In-Bay harbor. Out on the ice! Marty returned from his island to island trek and we went to check out this festival.

They had come on their snow machines and ATV's from the mainland and from surrounding islands on ice roads (ON THE FROZEN lake) marked by Christmas trees.

Someone thought ON THE FROZEN ICE ON THE BAY was a good parking spot for their $25k truck. Note the row of snowmobiles and ATV's parked nearby. Guess THEY weren't spooked by the ice.

They gathered round the bonfire made by pallets OUT ON THE ICE.

Catchin' up and enjoying the bonfire ON THE ICE.
"How old's your little one now?
"Say, hand me a tall frosty one there, will ya?"
"Red Bull Slushy, anyone?"

Little Jimmy plays crack-the-whip on the snowmobile with his little brother in tow! (OUT ON THE ICE)


After a mug of hot chocolate at the restaurant, we tromp back to the airport, reboard our friend Dairy Air to head back to Port Clinton.
The sun flirted through an opening in the dense gray cloud ceiling and tickled the wind-scoured ice surface with orange glitter.

The wind wrought texture of the snow was lacy and elegant.


This ice bound island was home base for several ice shanty outposts. (the black specks casting long shadows.)


An blue ice shanty town boasting clear ice.











Here's a copy of an article from the Plain Dealer a few days later:

CATAWBA ISLAND -- A few minutes after 6 p.m., rush hour begins on Lake Erie.

Headlights flicker on, snowmobile engines spark to life and the drive home begins atop 14 inches of ice. Fishermen who have spent hours freezing over small holes pack up their shanties, grab their walleye and head for the warmth of home.

This winter, the commute is more congested. It will never approach East Ninth Street and Euclid Avenue during a snowstorm. But it is busier than any year in recent memory, as thick ice, hungry walleye and the frozen economy have led more people to the lake, fishermen say.

"It has been phenomenal this year," said John Hageman, the owner of Primetime Ice Fishing Charters in Put-in-Bay. "The thickness of the ice gives people greater access to different parts of the lake."

In simple terms, greater access means a greater chance of catching fish. The state limit for walleye, the primary target of the season, is six per day per fisherman through February.

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Some people fish because they are obsessed with the sport, littering the ice with underwater cameras, fish finders and expensive bait. Others want to bond with their brothers, fathers and grandfathers.

Still others need to fill their stomachs.

On Monday, more than 600 fishermen spread out on the lake between Catawba and the Lake Erie islands, some as many as five or six miles off shore. Most of them got out that far after tethering their shanties and supplies to snowmobiles or lighter four-wheelers.

On recent weekends, parking lots have been jammed, mostly because the ice is perfect, as temperatures have hovered below 20 degrees Fahrenheit for weeks.

Thursday, the wind chill made it feel like 15 degrees below zero. It showed on Roger Hansen's gnarled, leather-like face.

Hansen, a retired construction worker from Lucas County, said he caught a 10-pound walleye last week, and he has nabbed several that were 23 to 24 inches long.

"I've been ice fishing for more than 50 years, and this is the best ice in years," said Hansen, 62.

Fishermen who would go out on weekends now spend three and four days during the workweek plunging augers into ice and baiting hooks.

Nik Pugach, a laid-off roofer from Parma, arrived at Catawba at 7 a.m. Thursday and headed home at 6:20 p.m. He saw the sun rise and the sun set. He had no expensive shanty or equipment, just two poles and enough layers to make the Michelin Man jealous.

He makes the trip regularly -- partly because he loves to fish and partly to eat.

Unlike Pugach, Justin Held went high tech. He paints houses in Fremont and has been ice fishing regularly during a slow period at work.

John Kuntz/The Plain Dealer A pair of ice fishermen head back to the shoreline of Catawba Island on Thursday, taking their four-wheeler over a break in frozen Lake Erie.

He fished Thursday in an ice shanty with a propane heater, snacks and Gatorade. He estimated the temperature inside at 50 degrees, and water had begun to puddle around his boots.

Outside, on a small sled, sat a 24-inch walleye and a bait bucket with a sticker that read, "Find 'em. Fish 'em. Fry 'em."

"It's all I have in my freezer, fish," Held said. "I had to put my pierogies in a small box to keep them."

Of all the fishermen on the lake Thursday, Sam Santell of Kinsman in Trumbull County seemed to be having the most fun, and he wasn't always paying attention to fish.

Sam, 7, bolted from his classwork as a home-schooled student and went fishing with his dad, Tim, and uncle, Ben, on their annual winter adventure. Things were going well for Sam until he stepped in a fishing hole. His boot was soaked, but his spirit was undeterred.

"I like to play on the ice," he said.

Catch anything?

Nope, he said, shaking his head.

A few hundred feet from Sam stood Rollie Woods, a retiree from Bridgeport in southeast Ohio. Woods was as persistent and quiet as Sam was playful.

Over and over, Woods dipped his line into the 8-inch diameter hole until ice formed on it like wax forming on a candle stick. Fifteen feet away stood his grandson, Adam Felt, who did the same. They seldom spoke, content in each other's company.

They, like other fishermen, failed to come up with any major catches Thursday. Some blamed the recent snows, while others said too many snowmobiles scared the fish.

But there is hope. Several fishermen said the best time to drop a line is yet to come. The middle of February boasts some of the prime walleye fishing of the season.

The next five days, however, will bring sun and the warmest temperatures to Northeast Ohio of the winter, as it reaches about 45 degrees.

The heat wave, no doubt, will affect the ice, and it may keep a lot of people home.

But will serious die-hards head out? Probably. They will just look for the thickest ice.

"It'll be a little mushy, that's all," said Justin Held, the house painter from Fremont.

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Here's a new item from mere minutes after I posted the above on Feb. 7, 2009:

COLUMBUS, Ohio – More than 100 people were rescued Saturday from a miles-wide slab of ice that floated away from the Ohio shoreline of Lake Erie, authorities said.

One person died, said Ottawa County Sheriff Bob Bratton. He said 100 to 125 others were rescued by late afternoon.

Several ships and helicopters from Toledo and Marblehead, and from Detroit, were sent to rescue the people from the ice floe.

Authorities said fishermen apparently used wooden pallets to create a bridge over a crack in the ice so they could go farther out on the lake. But the planks fell into the water when the ice shifted, stranding the fishermen about 1,000 yards off shore.

Ice on western sections of Lake Erie is up to 2 feet thick, National Weather Service meteorologist Bill Randel said. He said it started to crack as temperatures rose above freezing this weekend and wind gusting to 35 mph pushed on the ice.

Ice fisherman who regularly visit the lake have said this winter's thick ice has lured more people to the lake this year.

"There was a heck of a city out there for the last week and a half, two weeks," said 71-year-old Oak Harbor resident Peter Harrison, who has lived on the shore for 40 years.

Ohio Division of Wildlife spokeswoman Jamey Graham said the state annually warns fishermen that there's no such thing as "safe ice."

Even in very cold weather, the ice on western Lake Erie is often unsafe because currents can easily cause the ice to shift. Firefighters in communities along the lake are trained for rescues from the ice and are often on guard when temperatures rise.

We Climb To Solola

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, March 2007

Solola is reputed to have been lost to the mists of time. Edie and I set out to find it. Taking a lancha to the nearby Mayan village, we inquired as to the directions and got explicit advice to go uphill, somewhere, vaguely waving his hand, uphill. Since we were down at Lake Atitlan, and the land rose everywhere about us, it was not hard to grasp that indeed we were going to go uphill. But which hill?






Climbing to the village above us up the steep road we finally came face to face with the old church, around which we were to walk, skirt the garbage dump and proceed on our trail. We did so, found our trail and headed up a gentle grade through a forest, with a stream trickling down below.










Soon after, our trail seemed to grow a bit less distinct. It appeared to cross a boulder-choked ravine but didn’t appear to continue across the other side. It didn’t appear to climb the ravine either. We followed a diminishing path up ever steeper, scragglier and more precipitous terrain. Clearly there was some kind of path, but for whom? Goats?



Finally, after struggling several yards further through increasingly tangled undergrowth Edie called a halt. It was well she did. I did not appreciate this at the time. My view of a good hike is to keep on going in the face of increasing evidence that we are not on the proper trail until we finally burst out onto a golden path with smiling natives profering us cold drinks and happy animals mooing contentedly. This has not yet happened.
More frequently I emerge dirty and bleeding, in a desperate state of thirst, hoping that someone will show up to lead us out of the mess before darkness falls. Edie knows this, hence our retreat.

We came down our trail far faster than we ascended and near the bottom happened upon an old Mayan woman and what was probably her young grandson. We said ‘Solola’ and she pointed. There was a very large mountain in the way. We said ‘Solola’ again and she again pointed towards the mountain. Then she wisely sent her grandson to show us.

We soon found the trail and happily wound our way up a grassy slope. ‘Now, this is more like it’. And so it was, until the fine trail through the grassy slope turned the shoulder of the mountain and apparently proceeded downhill to the next village below. This was clearly not Solola. We retraced our steps. I checked the water supply. Half gone. I checked the sun. Half gone too.




Working our way along the mountain slope I heard voices and spotted several men descending from above. ‘Solola?’ I pleaded. ‘Si, Solola’. ‘Quantos horas?’ How many hours hike? ‘Tres’. Gulp. 3 hours more. All uphill. We had to scramble to attain the grade. Rains from last year’s hurricane had washed out parts of the trail. White paint on some rocks appeared to inidicate the path. Or was it warning us away from it?







Up and up we scrambled. Somewhere up there was supposed to be a dirt road to Solola. We had taken so many wrong turns and spent so much time on the mountain we had almost given up finding it. Only the thought of having to face Mike, leisurely floating on the shoreline waters of Lake Atitlan and having to admit defeat, kept us going. Or at least kept me going. Edie was kept going because I had all the water.



Finally we found the dirt and gravel road. No more scrambling. We looked a mess. Dirt and dust everywhere. One bottle of water left. And maybe 2-1/2 hours to reach Solola and the bus to Panajachel.
The last lancha leaving Panajachel for our town of San Marcos along the lake was leaving at 6PM. After that….?

We hiked the switchbacking road up and up. Bulldozer tracks could be seen guaranteeing us that the road had to come out somewhere at the top. I told Edie we only had another 6 switchbacks. After those 6 I predicted another 6. The water was gone. And finally, hours later, we were at the top. The top of what?








Ahead was another garbage dump. And walking by that dump was a kid who most likely lived off it, toting what appeared to be a realistic pistol. We waved. ‘Buenos tardes’, and walked hurriedly on, not daring to look behind. For some reason, no shots rang out.

We came to farmed land, then a village, then what appeared to be a suburb of sorts and far below, way over on the other side of the valley was Solola. Much too far to be reached in the half hour we had left to catch our bus. Still we walked and walked and walked, found a small tienda from which to buy a Coke and walked some more until an open-backed truck came by and to our delighted, assented when we gestured for a ride. This was common in Guatemala where most people don’t have cars. Others piled in along the route. I kept watching the time and the distance and the increasing traffic.

Finally in town I gave the driver what I thought to be a good fare, asked directions and dashed to the plaza where the buses wait. Edie had a better idea; let’s flag down a taxi. A taxi, in this case, was a 3-wheeled motorized golf-cart like vehicle with seats for 2 in the back and a canopy over us. ‘Panajachel’ we cried and, I think, understanding that we were trying to catch the last lancha, he launched his vehicle into the steeply switch-backed 1500 foot descent into the town. We made it dashing down the street, with 15 minutes to space. And a story of how we conquered the route to Solola.

Creek Crossings and Cross Dressing

This is a story about a trip I took this past weekend when I got to try out creek crossings using another idea, Crocs. Not the big Crocs, but a slimmer, better fitting pair made for women called Mary Jane's. They are bright green. Garish green. They have a more secure strap system too. Perfect for water pursuits.

This is it below.

January 2009

The best and most rugged of the local Metroparks are bisected by large creeks that can't quite be stone hopped across except in dry summer weather. With the recent rains, and warm weather run off, they are swollen. A fine time to test some more ideas. Armed with the Mary Jane's and a small day pack and my hiking poles I set out to hike the length of my favorite park, cross the creek and hike back the other side.

The park is cleverly designed so that the trail ends about 1/2 mile from the start at a little falls and then leaves you...on your own. I like those kind of trails. The steep terrain requires hands and feet (and sometimes teeth) to ascend the steep ravine walls and some downhill ski techniques to descend them without losing those valuable uphill teeth. No skis, you understand, just the technique. The miles covered have little relation to the time involved, much of it spent scrambling for roots and branches. My goal was the far northern end of the park where a steep cliff cuts off further access and requires a descent into the flood plain. Here the river is braided and more fordable, less likely to sweep you away.

Off came my trail sneakers, socks and pants, on came the Mary Jane's and, down to a pair of shorts (full top clothes, though), I waded into the first channel. The turbid water was opaque and my hiking poles showed me the depth to be about mid-thigh. Oddly I began to feel my upper legs banging against what had to be some submerged branches, that broke away as I surged forward. It took a few seconds for me to realize that what I was encountering was not branches at all but the surface ice breaking as my legs moved forward. The surface was obscured by some rain that lay on the ice and fooled me into thinking it was open water. Up on a gravel bar and down into the main channel at a shallow point, and out the other side in about 30 seconds. The hiking poles were very useful in maintaining balance. No sense stumbling over a rolling rock and getting completely soaked.

My feet were numb and aching and cramping by the time I got out, but warmed in a minute and I could casually sit on a log and change back into my original clothes. A success!

The rest of the day was spent exploring the other side of the park I had never seen before, intending to re-cross the creek at the shallow part of the falls I had passed hours ago. But from the tops of the ravines, 300 feet up I missed the view of the falls and passed them by, realizing this only later. No big deal. A small, dilapidated, crumbling road crossed the south end of the park where I was headed. To the east on that road, where it was still a road, was my car. I would just hike to what was left of the road, follow it to the little metal bridge, cross, head uphill and be back.

In the gathering dusk I found what was left of the road and heading to the crossing. It was some time before I got there, the road being a real obstacle course, unsuited for any vehicle, and barely good enough as a hiking trail. It had been closed many years ago. Arriving at the bridge I discovered there wasn't any. It had long ago been removed.

Hmmm...I stuck my hiking pole into the water. The river at this point was not braided and the full current ran in a single channel. I was on the outside of a bend, the deepest part and my hand went right into the water without the hiking pole reaching bottom. I pondered the Mary Jane's. Pondered a walk across the river, pondered a swim. Hmmmm..

Then I did a silly thing and scrambled up the 200' cliff above, hoping to see from that vantage point, a shallower crossing. But up on top the view was obstructed and darkness was falling fast. I couldn't see the bottom. I walked along for about 15 minutes and then came to my senses. I stopped, put down my hiking poles, got out the map, compass and headlamp, and proceeded back. Five minutes later I realized I had left the hiking poles behind. I dashed back, but the rain had ruined the snow for tracks and after searching fruitlessly for another 5 minutes I realized I had lost the hiking poles. I'd have to come back some other day in daylight and find them.

Now I had to get back far enough to descend the cliff where the road ended but not too soon. Too soon and I'd descend right down to the creek. If it were really steep I'd be swimming the creek after plunging in. I took extra care to go extra far back, descended with the light of the headlamp but without my hiking poles. The scrap branches lying around were mostly rotten and of little use as hiking poles. They snapped when I poked them into the ground and were more hazard than they were worth.

Finally I reached the road, hiked a 1/2 mile to where houses began, flagged down a kind lady in her car and got driven back to mine. In my mind I was concerned that the park rangers might have closed the gates on my car after dark and worse, called out a rescue, but they're understaffed and the gates were open. Understaffing is a good thing sometimes.

I was home an hour later. A wonderful trip. I like those Mary Jane's.

Marty