It would be interesting to know how the large glacial bluff to the south earned itself a French moniker; some early fur-trapper perhaps. Further so, why it came to be known as “screaming rock”.
My middle son is certainly putting the name to the test today, as he works through another small uncomfortable meltdown, bemoaning his boredom and chilled hands. The three of us stand on 12 inches of ice, over 13 feet of water, and have had nary a bite on our baits. This body of water is named after the creek from which its damming it was created; Big Roche a Cri. So big ol screaming rock it is, and big ol screaming Sam is he.
Clouds have blown in and a steady breeze has picked up. We listen to the near constant bullfrog like croaks of the ice heaving and growing against itself and the surrounding banks. It sounds as if the ice is as uncomfortable as Sam is.
The ice is crystal clear , with a dazzling pattern of cracks and bubbles and natural sculptures built in to it as it has grown and formed. White icicle starbursts mark the frozen over holes of previous fisherman. Did they have better luck at these spots? Or are they as inexperienced as we are?
A four-wheeler roars to life across the lake, and the sound surges towards us as its owner babies it across the ice towards us. There is not any snow yet this season, so his sled continues to slide up beside him , until he comes to a stop almost immediately next to us. “How deep are you here?” The old man half shouts, pointing to my depth finder. “About 12 feet” I reply.
“Yeah, there used to be a really good crappie hole around here somewhere . The secret is getting in deep water, and looking for suspended fish. If you’re in 20 feet of water, the fish will be at 15 feet so they can see the predators.”
“We used to catch a bunch around here back after I got home from Korea. We bought the little place across the lake in about 84 or 85, and I have pretty good luck out here in the summer for crappies.”
“Yeah, I still have the same little 12 foot aluminum Jon boat; call her ol’ blue. She gets the job done.”
“What are you using for bait?” He asks.
“Oh, just a rattle spoon is all,” I reply.
“You mean to tell me you don’t have any waxies or anything? Do you want a couple?”
“Oh no”, I say, deflecting, “we are going to have to pack it up soon here as Junior is getting uncomfortable.”
“What’s wrong with you, son? If you’re cold, zip up your jacket!” He says to my boy.
“I have to pee!”
“Well don’t be shy about it, get on with it! Ain’t no one going to be able to see your little ding dong around here!”
Sam shuffles off towards a tree whose highest branches lean over and create a canopy on the frozen lake. He looks back over at us for approval, and our new old man friend shouts over “Yeah that’s perfectly fine, no one will be able to see nothing!”
A few more minutes of nostalgia about the old days on this lake, and the old man fires up his old Honda and putts off towards one of the crappie holes he has told us about.
He didn’t have any better luck than we did. The fishing was slow and the wind cold, but we still came out of the day with a story and an adventure.
Ouisconsin Raconteur 