Port Henry, N.Y.
"Bright light city gonna set my soul "
New York, Route 9N it's 6:10 a.m. .
"Gonna set my soul on fire ."
4 degrees outside wind blowing straight down Lake Champlain from Canada at 15 mph with gusts to 40. I blow through the 30 mph speed limit of Port Henry at just a shade over 50 the King has that effect on me.
With Viva Las Vegas on repeat and blasting on the CD, I pull into the frozen Port Henry boat launch and before me is a sea of polartec and camoflauge, snowmobiles and 4-wheelers, and Thurman Cross of Poor-Man's Ice Shanty Rentals.
Dressed all in black, from his black snowmobile suit to his black hat sitting atop his black shades, ice on his black and gray mustache, he leans in my minivan window, looks at me, looks at the speaker blasting out Elvis and starts moving his head to the beat.
A snowmobile, called a sled in these parts, zooms by pulling a green contraption on skids that has a windshield and two old bus seats bolted to the floor. Four guys bent over to escape the wind are hanging on for dear life as the sled plows through a snowdrift and heads out onto the frozen lake.
Thurman, still swaying to the beat says, "That's an Ice Shanty Taxi take you anywhere you want to go out there."
Thurm (as it's stitched on his snowmobile suit): "Never seen it as bad as it is out there today 12-14 foot snow drifts we just had a blizzard come through back last weekend ( I know he's not lying, when I dialed up weather.com last weekend they had avalanche warnings posted for the area, I printed it out for the cranky guy in Arkansas)
"I called up a bunch of my customers to cancel but they wouldn't have any of it weather's killing me last year no ice at all (not MY fault then) this year nothing until a few weeks ago (right about the exact day I sold my snowblower on Ebay) everyone's been hurting," Thurman says.
I know that through my numerous weather updates from Michele, who has lost a ton of ice fishing reservations. Ice is important in Port Henry.
"It means the world to us, it gets us through the slow time," says Barton Swan, whose family has been renting Ice Fishing Shanties on the lake for 50 years. "People come here to ice fish and spend their hard earned dollars at the restaurants, gas stations, grocery stores. Without any ice it is pretty desolate and kind of depressing actually."
"Gotta go," Thurm says banging his hand on the side of the minivan, obviously not knowing I have Elvis on Repeat, bouncing over ruts of ice and snow, and dodging the never ending screaming ice taxis, I find a parking spot between two huge Ford 350s, one with New Jersey plates, one with Pennsylvania plates, both pulling trailers hauling four sleds each.
As I'm pulling on my fourth layer of clothes, Thurm walks over and hands me a calender, "It's my advertising," the calendar says Poor-Man's Ice Shanty Rentals and has an owl in a tree on the front cover. I don't ask.
"Thurm, you see Jim Guyette today."
I take another calendar, "He's in Bryantsville."
"Bryantsville where's that."
"Out there." And I follow Thurm's black gloved hand and turn to see a white expanse with tiny dots. Lake Champlain, frozen, for as far as I can see. And scattered throughout dots.
"What's that out there."
"Ice shanties I've got 27 out there and they are all filled must be a couple hundred in all. Those are the ice shanty towns The Lord of the Lake is on the west bank of the east channel about ¾ of a mile out."
As if on cue, a long black sled zooms up pulling what looks like to be a green wooden dog house, "Donnie will take you out to him, climb in. Just watch your head on the nails."
And so I sit, perched atop wood sled rails, scrunched inside four plywood sheets cut to make up the roof and sides, held together by some 2x4's, nails sticking out, sitting on a bench of 2x4x10, snow billowing in through the open hole in the back where a door should be, barreling 35 mph through snow drifts, over clear ice, banging in and out of hundred's of wheel ruts as a snow covered Donnie delivers me to The Lord of the Lake.
Go ahead, Mapquest Bryantsville, New York. See what happens. I'll wait.
Didn't think so.
You'll get the same results if you look up East Channel, N.Y., or West Channel, N.Y., Buoy, N.Y. There's even The Hole, and a little bit further up the lake, the ice shanty town of Sowhole.
But they're there. I know, because I'm standing on Main Street of Bryantsville.
Off to my left, a bright yellow shanty, to my right a teal shanty, "It's blue blue says the owner," I worked in Miami, it's not blue. Red ones, green ones, beige, there's a shanty sided in shinny metal, even one that has a mural of a stream painted on its side. Not to mention a pick-up truck camper stuck onto a wood sled or a 12-holer that is really a 13-holer if you count the open porta-potty seat in the corner.
Main Street paved of snow and cracked ice. Below my ice griping equipped snowboots, 14 inches of ice laced with fine lines, white frost and tiny bubbles. Below that, 46 feet of the frigid waters of Lake Champlain.
I'm standing about a mile out, on top of Lake Champlain. A half a mile or so that-a-way, the shoreline of Vermont. The other way, the lake banks of New York.
And it's magical.
Somehow life is ablaze on this huge ice cube floating on Lake Champlain. The daylight is of a pure whiteness, with a hint of blue at the edges. The snow, a white sheet dotted with patches of yellow out back of most of the shanties. The air tinged with a cold that awakens your sinus, on it floats scents of bacon, sausage, pancakes, burgers, and green peppers frying alongside onion slices as people everywhere grill on the ice. Fire and Ice, Port Henry style.
Shanty doors open and close, conversation and heat billows out. Old friends telling old tales and fishing lies, all while staring at each other's brightly painted sleds and four-wheeler's.
Respectful tales of "Doc's dog" and his seemingly supernatural ability to go into the woods around the country club and find the golf balls the "rich summer folk hit into the rough and just leave there, shot many a game with Doc's dog's balls (his wording NOT mine)."
Questions fly about Smelt and sons, wives and daughters, the high school's girls basketball team, and missed fishing buds now gone forever.
And there is a sadness. Felt, not heard. Because everyone in Bryantsville, and the other towns built on the lake, know this time is to be savored, for in a very short time, all of this will be gone.
This annual Brigadoon of Ice, soon nothing but waves.
Don Barone is a feature producer for ESPN. Other stories of his are available on Amazon.com. You can reach him at Don.Barone@espn.com
For more information on all things Port Henry Ice Fishing related, go here: www.porthenry.com