North with Doc: Doc the Ice Man

“I woke up to what sounded like a halftime drum solo by the Iowa Hawkeyes marching band. In the fewer than 10 seconds it took to bail out of my sweat-soaked bed to investigate the hideous pounding, I swear the noise level doubled.

The plant manager, who was also rudely awakened, bumped into me as we entered the cabin’s kitchen, and he spewed out a poisonous stream of run-together words. If recorded, his rant would have made a best-selling rap track for which Doc was providing the annoying rhythm.

In the flickering light of a sputtering Coleman lantern, Doc had a 6 x 8 x 12-inch chunk of ice on the table, and he was attacking it with a claw hammer from the policeman’s toolbox. Shards of ice flew in every direction.

“Doc,” I said, “have you chosen this moment for a near-death experience?”

“What?” Doc said, a bit too loudly. Oops. He realized the earplugs were still in place that he had installed the night before to mask our fishing party’s epic snoring. He removed the foam rubber plugs.

“You got any idea what time it is?” the plant manager said.

“Left my watch at home,” Doc said.

“You see any light outside?” I said.

Doc looked out the front window. He couldn’t make out a tree, let alone the lake or the boats. He said, “I thought I’d do everyone a favor and ice down the day’s drinks.”

The banker and attorney entered the room.

“A rousing good morning to everyone,” the banker said, yawning and scratching at the previous day’s mosquito bites. “To whom do we owe this early wake-up?”

“To whom do you think?” the plant manager said. “None other than Mister I Can’t Sleep So Nobody Else Will.”

The policeman arrived. “This better be good,” he said. “I was in the middle of one of those dreams I only dream about.”

“Sorry,” Doc said. “I figured I would do some constructive work before breakfast.”

“I figure a cast-iron skillet would do some constructive work on your forehead,” the attorney said.

“Enough!” the banker said. “Put that ice back in the cooler, Doc, and let’s all get back to bed.”

“But I’m not sleepy,” Doc said.

“Then get your wide awake butt into the woods and see if you can find a bear to play with,” the plant manager said. “Just do it quietly.”

 Once upon a time, Knobby’s fly-in fishing outposts were, to put it kindly, primitive. We six youngsters, barely in our early 30s, were all experienced tent campers. No running water and no electricity were simply part of the experience. However, we preferred our drinks to be at least a few degrees cooler than the air temperature, and perishable food that perished after two days did not make our menus sparkle with flavor.

In the early years, Knobby included several large blocks of commercially produced ice with the initial fly-in. One we would use in a big cooler to keep milk, cheese, butter, and sandwich meat edible. Another block in another cooler was stuffed with various soft and not-so-soft canned beverages. And a third block would be gradually reduced to chunks to keep boat drinks iced down. That third block was the one being massacred by Doc.

It was the first week in June, our favorite time to make our annual Northwest Ontario trips, and on our third day in, it was hotter than Aunt Lucy’s jalapeño pancakes.

“Last year we cooled our beer in the lake,” Doc said. “This year the lake is like bath water.”

“Speaking of bath water,” I said, “I have some soap and deodorant I can loan you.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Doc said, “but your deodorant works about as well as the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

“Are you implying I stink?”

“Pepé le Pew has a better aroma,” Doc said.

“You’re comparing me to a cartoon character?”

“Because you smell so funny,” Doc said.

I was miserably hot and couldn’t come up with a good response, so I threw a head of lettuce at him that was squishy as a senator’s campaign promises.

Despite the heat, there was some good news. For reasons I couldn’t comprehend, the fish were biting like crazy. Maybe the water temp was so high it was killing off their natural forage, and our offerings were extra attractive. The pike were especially aggressive, even though most wouldn’t have made a decent appetizer for an alley cat. Walleyes, on the other hand, were averaging well over two pounds, with a bonus biggie thrown in every now and then.

We were in the boats surrounding a walleye honey hole when we heard the plane.

“Must be the mid-week check flight,” Doc said, choking down a too warm LaBatt Blue. “I hope the pilot has a load of ice for us.”

“He better,” the banker said.

It was potentially such very good news, we reeled in, and arrived at the cabin as the pilot was securing the little Cessna to a dock cleat.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” the pilot greeted us. “How is the stay so far, ay?”

“Fishing is great,” I said. “Coping with the heat is not. Tell us you have a plane full of ice.”

“Sorry about that,” the pilot said. “I just made two stops, and they each got two blocks, just like you are getting.” He reached into the plane, and pulled out two plastic bags of ice that were already partially sloshy.

The policeman snatched the bags from the pilot, and said, “I hope I can salvage enough to keep the bologna from turning greener.” He ran the ice to the cabin, and distributed it the best he could. We simply couldn’t spare any for our boat coolers.

As the plane’s magneto spooled up to start the engine, the pilot told us Knobby’s Beaver, a much bigger plane, would arrive for the fly-out in three days, so be ready by first light.

That night, over tepid Cokes the consistency of maple syrup, we discussed our predicament. Doc eyed his booze inventory that would be the envy of any frat house, and said, “No way can I enjoy a drink with no ice.”

“If we had a power source we could run a chest freezer up here,” the plant manager said.

“It would be a long extension cord from Sioux Lookout,” the policeman said.

“Wait a minute,” Doc said. “How about the Ojibway settlement below Slate Falls where we stayed the first year? What was that? Five, six years ago? We had plenty of ice then.”

“I never even considered where it came from,” I said. “They must have some way to keep game and other food from spoiling, other than salting or drying it.”

“Didn’t Knobby tell us they built a sawmill there?” I said. “They’d need a source of power for that.”

Doc pulled out a lake map. “Anyone remember where that village is?”

“It’s on the north shore,” the policeman said. “About here.” He jabbed the map with his briar pipe stem.

“Must be a good five or six miles,” Doc said, estimating the distance from our cabin. “How long do you think it would take to get there?”

“An hour? Hour and a quarter?” the attorney said.

“It may be six miles as the crow flies,” the banker said, “but you have to skirt the islands and avoid the rocks. An hour run could turn into twice that.”

“Especially with our small outboards,” the plant manager said.

“If the weather looks good in the morning, I’ll leave at the crack,” Doc said. “Probably be back before you dough heads are done with breakfast.”

“You can’t remember where you parked your car in the Hooters lot,” the banker said, “but in this Northwest Ontario wilderness you are confident you can get to the village and back?

“Absolutely,” Doc said.

“What do you expect to find there?” I said.

“Ice,” Doc said. “There’s gotta be ice.”

Six or seven hours of heavy perspiration later, around the edge of one loose-fitting ear plug, I heard Doc’s boat engine fire up. I could see the glow of morning through the bedroom window. A few minutes later the engine noise faded and died, and I fell back into a muggy sleep.

We had only been to the sprawling Bamaji Lake once before, followed by a number of years of fly-ins to Knobby’s other lakes on the Cat River chain. Doc was better than the rest when it came to navigating by map. He took along our biggest Coleman cooler. Our other coolers were down to a few sad mini icebergs that would definitely not last the day.

 Just about 9 o’clock in the A.M. we were in the boats praying for a breeze, and catching walleyes one after another.

“Well, lookee there,” the attorney said, pointing to the west, and here came Doc. A few minutes passed. He pulled alongside, and killed his engine. A broad smile indicated a successful trip.

“You got ice?” I said.

“Do I ever,” Doc said, and he rolled back a heavy canvas tarp to reveal rough chunks of ice covering the bottom of the boat almost to the top of the seats.

“Fill us in,” the banker said.

“One second,” Doc said. He opened his drink cooler and grabbed a can that was so frosty cold it fogged the air when he popped the top. He took a sip. “Ahhh,” he said. Then, “I had no trouble at all finding the Ojibway village. They must be accustomed to Knobby’s fisherman visitors, as several people showed up to welcome me when they heard my boat coming. One man seemed to be in charge. I explained the situation, and he said, ‘Sure, there’s plenty of ice. But you have to mine it.’ Mine it? I said. And the guy said, ‘Okay, you need to dig for it. The ice is buried in sawdust to preserve it.’ But where? I said. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said.”

Doc continued, “We pushed a wheelbarrow in front of us, and followed a path 50 yards down the shore, then another 100 feet through the woods. There was a structure, maybe 20 feet square, with sides five feet high made of rough logs, and a crude roof to protect it from the elements. I climbed in, brushed aside some sawdust, and there was the ice. Huge slabs and smaller chunks cut out of the lake in the dead of winter. Tons of the stuff. I mean, literally, tons. Some pieces a foot thick were so clear I swear you could read a newspaper through them. The guy said, ‘Take all you need.’ I said, can I pay you something? He said, ‘Thanks for the offer, but no. Ice is Nature. There is no price.’”

“And here I am,” Doc said, taking another pull on his teeth-numbing beverage. He was not widely known for his generosity, so several threats of bodily harm were necessary before he passed around the gloriously chilled drinks from his cooler. Ahhh, indeed.

We cranked in our lines, and zoomed back to the cabin. A group effort had all the coolers iced down in minutes. We wrapped the remaining ice in our rubber rainsuits, as that was the only insulating material we had, and it worked surprisingly well.

The next day our whole crew visited the village, fishing at several spots along the way, and returned the tarp. Doc introduced us to the very nice man who had helped him, and we were encouraged to take more ice if we needed some. It was so hot that our supply was thawing fast, so we did “mine” a few more chunks to last our remaining time in the Bush.

Our last night, after a walleye feast and before we began to pack for the morning’s fly-out, Doc mixed an ice-filled cocktail in an elephant’s foot umbrella stand. Then he lit a cigar the size of a cypress stump, took a satisfied puff and sip, and said, “Are you

guys going to thank me, or what?”

“We really appreciate your efforts, Doc,” I said, “but I don’t know why it took you so long to remember the Ojibway village.”

“Yeah,” the plant manager said. “That was mighty inconsiderate of you.”

The policeman said, “Don’t listen to them, Doc. You added another great chapter to our collection of fishing tales.”

“I agree,” the banker said. “Because of Doc we had an excellent finish to our week in Paradise.”

“How about a toast to the ice man of the hour?” the attorney said with a mischievous chuckle. Moments before, while Doc was retrieving his rods and tackle from his boat, the attorney had put half a dozen gallon-size Ziploc bags of ice in Doc’s sleeping bag. He called it redneck air conditioning. Bed time would bring a cold and damp greeting for our friend, and another spike of entertainment for us.

In sneaky anticipation, we raised our frosty glasses, clinked, and dutifully cheered, “Thanks, Doc!”

North with Doc columnist Greg Knowles lives in Green Valley, Arizona. A 5-­volume set of the first 20 years of North with Doc is available in e-reader form at amazon.com.

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