"Adrift on the Ice: The Ordeal of Lewis Sweet, 1929":
I woke up that morning with the usual excitement for a day on the ice. My name is Lewis Sweet, and back in January 1929, I was just a regular guy from Cross Village, Michigan, who loved fishing more than anything. My wife, Mary, had packed me some sandwiches and coffee, and we chatted over breakfast about how the lake had frozen solid this year. "Be careful out there, Lewis," she said, handing me my thermos. "That wind can change fast." I laughed it off, kissed her goodbye, and promised I'd bring home enough trout for supper.
I drove my old truck to the shore near Crane Island on Lake Michigan. The ice stretched out like a white desert, dotted with a few shanties from other fishermen. I grabbed my axe, my lines, and headed out, walking about a mile to my spot. I set up my small shanty, drilled a hole, and dropped my line. The fish were biting good that day. I caught a nice lake trout early on, laid it on the ice to freeze, and kept going. Everything felt peaceful, the kind of quiet where you can hear your own breathing.
Then, around noon, I heard a low rumble. At first, I thought it was my stomach, but it grew louder, like thunder under my feet. I stepped out of the shanty and saw a thin line cracking across the ice, far off but coming closer. The wind had shifted to the northeast, strong and sudden. Before I could think, the crack widened into a gap of dark water, cutting me off from the shore. My heart raced as I watched the ice separate. The floe I was on started to move, slow at first, then faster, drifting out into the open lake.
I grabbed my axe and the frozen trout, leaving the shanty behind. There was no time to save it. The floe was big, maybe a quarter mile across, but edges were breaking off in chunks. I paced back and forth, yelling for help, but no one was close enough to hear. The other fishermen's shanties looked tiny now, getting smaller as I floated away. "Hello! Can anyone see me?" I shouted, my voice echoing over the water. Nothing but wind answered.
As hours passed, the floe shrank. Pieces calved off with sharp cracks that made me jump each time. I built a small wall of snow to block the wind, huddling behind it with my coat pulled tight. My feet went numb first, then my hands. I rubbed them together, thinking about Mary waiting at home. "What would you say now, Mary?" I muttered to myself. "You'd tell me to keep moving, wouldn't you?" I ate one of the sandwiches, but it tasted like sawdust. The trout stared at me with glassy eyes, like it knew we were in trouble.
Night came, and the darkness made everything worse. The wind howled, rocking the floe. I lay down, trying to sleep, but every creak sounded like the ice giving way. Sometime in the dark, a big piece broke off right near me. I scrambled up, axe in hand, and saw the gap widening. I had to jump across, my legs stiff from cold. I barely made it, landing hard on the other side. My breath came in gasps. If I fell in, that water would pull me under in seconds. No one survives long in that freeze.
By morning, I spotted land—Hat Island, close enough to see trees. Hope surged in me. I waved my arms, yelling, "Over here! Help!" But the current pushed me past it, just out of reach. The same happened with Hog Island later. So near, yet the wind mocked me, carrying me farther out. The floe kept shrinking, now half its size. I talked to myself to stay sane. "Lewis, you've got to hold on. Think of the boys, think of home." My sons were young then, and I pictured their faces, how they'd run to the door when I got back.
The storm hit full force that afternoon. Waves crashed against the edges, spraying icy water. The floe tilted and groaned. I moved to the center, but even there, cracks spiderwebbed out. One big wave split it in two. I ran and leaped to the larger half, my axe slipping from my grip almost. The cold bit deeper, my toes like stones in my boots. I hadn't eaten much, and weakness set in. Visions came—Mary calling my name, but it was just the wind.
Then, in the fading light, I saw White Shoals Light ahead, a tall lighthouse on a rocky shoal. The floe grounded against it with a thud. Relief washed over me, but the tower was coated in thick ice, the door frozen shut. I chopped at it with my axe, chips flying, but my arms ached after minutes. "Come on, break!" I grunted, swinging harder. Hours passed, the sun set, and I kept at it, building a ramp of ice to reach the ladder. My hands bled from blisters, but I climbed, slipping twice, hanging by fingertips. Finally, I got inside.
The place was empty, abandoned for winter, but there were supplies: bacon, rice, a kerosene stove. I lit it, warmed my hands, cooked some food. For the first time, I felt a spark of safety. But outside, the lake was a black void, no lights on shore. Planes flew over the next days—I saw them searching—but they missed me. I tried signaling with a flare from the tower, but the wind snuffed it. Days blurred. My feet swelled, black and blue from frostbite. I bandaged them as best I could, whispering, "Hold on, just a little longer."
After nearly a week, the lake froze solid again. I couldn't wait anymore. I wrapped my feet in rags, grabbed the axe and trout, and started across the ice toward Crane Island. Every step shot pain up my legs. I crawled when walking hurt too much, detouring around thin spots where the ice looked dark. Hours dragged. Delirium hit—I saw shapes moving in the distance, heard voices that weren't there. "Is that you, Mary?" I called out once, but it was nothing.
Finally, I reached a deserted shanty on Crane Island. I collapsed inside, too weak to eat. The next day, I pushed on to Cross Village. My vision blurred, legs giving out, but I stumbled into town, axe in one hand, trout in the other. People stared, then rushed to help. "Lewis? We thought you were gone," one neighbor said, his voice shaking. They got me to a doctor, who saved most of my toes.
That ordeal changed me. The fear of that endless drift, the ice cracking under me, the alone feeling—it sticks with you. I still fish, but never far from shore. And every time I look at Lake Michigan, I remember how close I came to not coming back.
"The Rumble on Saginaw Bay":
I remember that winter trip like it was carved into my mind. My brother Tom and I had planned it for weeks. We both loved ice fishing, the quiet pull of the line, the bite of the cold air without all the summer crowds. We drove up to Saginaw Bay, found a spot on a canal where the ice looked solid, about eight inches thick. We checked it with the spud bar, drilled our holes, set up our tip-ups, and dropped lines with minnows. Tom brought his old heater, the kind that runs on propane, but we kept the shack vented just in case. No need for risks.
We sat there for hours, sipping coffee from thermoses, talking about nothing much. Work, family, how Dad used to take us out when we were kids. "Remember that time he caught that monster walleye?" Tom said, chuckling. "Pulled it up and it flopped right into his lap." I laughed too, nodding. "Yeah, and he yelled like a little girl." It was peaceful, the kind of day that makes you forget the world.
Around noon, we heard a low rumble in the distance. At first, I thought it was a truck on the road nearby, but it grew louder, like an engine revving hard. Tom looked up from his hole. "What's that?" he asked, squinting toward the shore. I stood, peering through the light snow flurries. Out on the ice, maybe a hundred yards away, something moved fast—a boat, but not a regular one. It was an airboat, the kind with a big fan on the back, skimming over the surface. I'd seen them before, used for rescue or fun in shallow water, but this guy was tearing across the ice like he owned it.
He circled wide at first, then closer. We waved, thinking he might be checking on us or just passing by. But he didn't wave back. He wore a heavy coat, hood up, face half-hidden. The boat slowed, and he yelled something we couldn't make out over the engine. "Hey!" Tom shouted, standing now. "You okay?" The man revved the engine again, pointing at us. "Get off my spot!" he bellowed. His voice was rough, angry. "This is my canal!"
We exchanged glances. "What spot?" I called back. "We're just fishing, man. Plenty of room." But he wasn't listening. He gunned the airboat straight toward us, the fan blasting snow into the air. The ice groaned under the pressure as he veered close, the hull scraping and cracking the surface. Chunks broke free, floating away. My pulse quickened. This wasn't an accident—he was doing it on purpose.
"Back up!" Tom yelled at me, grabbing his gear. The boat swung around again, this time ramming the edge near our holes. A loud crack echoed, like a gunshot, and a fissure spiderwebbed out from under my feet. Water bubbled up, dark and cold. "He's breaking it!" I shouted, heart racing. The man laughed, a deep, mocking sound. "Told you to move!" he roared, circling tighter. He aimed the boat at the weak spots, the fan whipping up a storm that blinded us for a second.
I slipped on the fresh slush, falling hard on my knee. Pain shot through it, but I scrambled up. Tom was farther out, his tip-up already sinking as the ice tilted. "Run to shore!" he screamed. But the cracks spread fast, isolating us on a shrinking floe. The boat came back, slamming into the edge. More ice shattered, and I felt the ground give way beneath me. Freezing water hit my legs like needles, pulling me down. I gasped, arms flailing for the edge. "Tom! Help!"
He turned, eyes wide. "Hold on!" He dropped his pole and crawled toward me, belly down to spread his weight. The man in the boat watched, engine idling now, like he was enjoying the show. "Should've listened," he muttered, loud enough to hear. Who was this guy? Some local with a grudge? We'd heard stories about territorial fishermen, but nothing like this. My hands gripped the jagged ice, slipping. The cold sapped my strength quick—my fingers went numb, legs kicking useless in the current below.
Tom reached me, grabbing my coat. "Pull yourself up!" he grunted, yanking hard. I pushed with everything I had, heaving onto the floe. Water soaked me through, but we weren't safe. The boat revved again, heading for Tom's side. "He's coming back!" I warned. We staggered up, running for the thicker ice toward shore. Cracks chased us, the surface buckling. Tom tripped, going down on all fours. I pulled him up. "Don't stop!"
The man shouted more threats—"Stay away from here!"—but he didn't follow onto the solid part. Maybe he knew the limits, or maybe he thought he'd done enough. We made it to the bank, collapsing in the snow, breathing hard. I looked back: our gear floated in the open water, the floe broken into pieces. The airboat sped off down the canal, vanishing around a bend.
"You okay?" Tom asked, voice shaking. I nodded, though my teeth chattered. "Yeah, but that was close." We called the cops from the truck, warming up with the heater blasting. Told them everything—the boat, the yelling, how he tried to drown us. They took notes, said they'd look into it. Later, we learned his name was Tanner something, a local with a history of trouble. He'd done it before, they said, but not this bad. One of the guys fishing nearby that day fell all the way in, just like I almost did. Rescued, no major hurt, but scared for life.
We drove home silent at first. "Why us?" I finally asked. Tom shrugged. "Wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe he just snapped." I couldn't shake the image of him watching me sink, that laugh. We never went back to that spot. Now, every time I step on ice, I listen for engines. The quiet isn't peaceful anymore—it's waiting for the rumble.
"The Groan Beneath the Ice":
I went ice fishing with my three buddies every winter for the past ten years. We called it our ritual, a way to escape the daily grind and just focus on the fish. Tom was the loud one, always cracking jokes. Dave handled the gear, quiet but reliable. And then there was Chris, who caught the biggest ones every time. We picked remote spots to avoid crowds, and that year, we chose Coulter Lake up in Ontario. It sat deep in the woods, miles from any road, perfect for peace. We loaded our sleds with augers, tip-ups, and enough beer to last the weekend, then snowmobiled in under a gray sky.
We arrived mid-morning and drilled our holes right away. The ice measured thick, over a foot, so we felt safe. Tom set up the first shanty, a basic popup with a heater inside. Dave and I handled the second one nearby. Chris baited the lines with minnows, and soon we pulled in perch and walleye. We laughed about old times, like the year Tom hooked his own boot. Lunch was sandwiches and hot coffee from a thermos. Everything went smooth, no issues.
As the light faded, we packed the catch in coolers and settled in the shanties for the night. Tom and Dave shared one, Chris and I took the other. We played cards by lantern light, betting pennies. Chris won most hands, as usual. Around midnight, we turned in, zipped into sleeping bags. The heater kept the chill off, and I drifted off listening to the wind push against the fabric walls.
Sometime after two, Chris shook me awake. "Hey, look out there," he whispered. I rubbed my eyes and peered through the small window. About two hundred yards away, a dark shape stood on the ice. It looked like another shanty, small and square, but we hadn't seen it earlier. No lights showed from it, just a black outline against the snow. "Was that there when we came in?" I asked. Chris shook his head. "No way. We scanned the whole lake." We woke Tom and Dave, who grumbled but came over. Tom squinted. "Maybe some guy set up after dark. Quiet type." Dave suggested we check in the morning. No tracks led to it that we could see from our spot, but the snow blew around, so maybe they got covered. We went back to sleep, but I lay there wondering who would come out that late without saying hello.
Next morning, the shape stayed put. We ate oatmeal and decided to investigate. The four of us walked over, our boots crunching on the hard surface. Up close, the shanty looked old, boards weathered gray, nails rusted. Strange carvings marked the door—lines and circles, like symbols, but faded. Tom knocked, called out. No answer. Chris pushed the door open. Inside, it felt warmer than outside, though no heater ran. A wooden chair sat in the corner, next to a rusted stove. Fishing rods leaned against the wall, lines tangled. Dust covered everything, but the floor showed no footprints except ours. "This place gives me the creeps," Dave said. "Like nobody's been here in years." Tom picked up an old tackle box, opened it. Inside lay hooks, sinkers, and a yellowed photo of a man standing by a hole, holding a fish. The date on the back read 1947. "Weird," Tom muttered. Chris found a journal under the chair, pages brittle. Entries talked about fishing alone, then lines about "the pull from below" and "can't leave now." We left it all, closed the door, and headed back. "Probably abandoned junk," I said, but my voice sounded forced.
That afternoon, fishing slowed. Lines stayed still. We drilled new holes, but nothing bit. Dave checked his phone—no signal, which happened out here, but it bugged me more than usual. As evening came, we noticed the ice around our shanties looked darker in spots, like bruises under the surface. Tom joked about it, but Chris stared at the old shanty. "I saw a light flicker in there last night," he admitted. "Just for a second." We all looked. It stood silent, unchanged.
Night fell hard. We ate chili from cans, heated on the stove. Conversation lagged. Tom suggested we pack up early tomorrow if the fish didn't improve. Around ten, a low groan echoed across the lake, like ice shifting under pressure. It happened again, closer. Dave stepped outside to check. "Guys, come see." We followed. The old shanty glowed faintly from inside, like a candle burned low. "Someone's there," Tom said. Chris grabbed a flashlight. "Let's go talk to him." I hesitated. "Maybe we leave it alone." But they started walking, so I went too.
Halfway there, our flashlights dimmed, batteries fresh but fading. The groan came again, vibrating through my boots. We reached the door. Tom knocked. Silence. Chris opened it. The inside looked different—cleaner, the chair moved, the stove warm to the touch. The journal lay open on the floor, a new entry in fresh ink: "They're here now." My skin prickled. "This isn't right," Dave whispered. Tom shone his light around. "Hello? Anyone?" No reply. Then, from outside, a sharp crack split the air, like wood breaking. We rushed out. Our shanties stood fine, but Chris froze. "Where's the path back?" Snow swirled, but our footprints had vanished, smoothed over. Another crack, louder.
We hurried toward our camp. Midway, Chris stopped. "I hear something." A faint scrape, like nails on ice. He turned toward the old shanty. "Wait here." Before we could argue, he walked back alone. "Chris, don't!" I called. He waved us off, entered the door. We waited, flashlights pointed. Minutes passed. Tom yelled his name. No answer. Dave and I ran over. The door hung open. Inside, empty—no chair, no stove, no journal. Just bare boards. "Chris?" Tom shouted. We searched around outside. Faint footprints led from the door, barefoot, into the snow, then stopped at a smooth patch of ice. Below it, a shallow dip, like something heavy pressed down. In the flashlight beam, a dark form showed under the surface, six feet deep, twisted like a body.
Panic hit. We drilled into the dip, auger spinning fast. The ice chipped away, but the form stayed blurred. Water bubbled up, cold and black. Tom plunged his arm in, felt nothing. "He's gone," Dave said, voice shaking. We backed away. The groans grew, the ice trembling. Our GPS units spun wild, compasses useless. We grabbed essentials from our shanties—food, flares—and snowmobiled out, engines roaring. The old shanty vanished behind us in the dark.
Rescue teams arrived the next day. They found no dip, no form under the ice. No sign of Chris. Divers went down, came up empty. Later, at a local library, I dug into old papers. A 1947 article described a fisherman vanishing at Coulter Lake. His friends saw an old shanty appear one night. They explored, one went missing. Search found nothing but a photo of the man, same as the one we saw. The article ended: "Lake claims another." Chris's family still searches. I quit ice fishing. Every winter, I dream of that groan, that dark form. What pulled him under? A crack in the ice? Or something waiting, patient, in the cold? I don't know, but I won't go back.
"Through the Ice: The Lake of the Woods Tragedy":
I went ice fishing with some friends that winter on Lake of the Woods. Jim Rollie drove the van. He worked up there part-time during the cold months. His wife Wendy came along too. We picked up two couples from Wisconsin at the resort—Donald Kutcher and his wife LaVerne, plus Henry Gahlman and his wife Ellajean. All of us wanted to get out to the ice house for another day of fishing after a good time the day before.
Sunday had gone well. We drilled holes, dropped lines, and pulled up seven nice walleyes. Donald joked about how he would cook them back home with his special seasoning. "You Minnesotans don't know flavor until you try Wisconsin style," he said with a laugh. LaVerne smiled and nodded, saying she packed extra spices just in case. Henry talked about his grandkids, how he planned to tell them stories about the big lake. Ellajean added that she loved the quiet out there, away from everything. Jim kept the group moving, checking the gear, while Wendy passed around hot coffee from a thermos. I felt good about the trip. We all did.
Monday morning, we loaded up the van again. It had those tank-like treads for driving on the frozen lake. Jim said it handled fine, and we followed the same path as before, about a mile from shore. The ice looked solid, around a foot thick where we started. I sat in the back with Donald and LaVerne. Henry and Ellajean were up front with Jim and Wendy.
As we rolled along, the talk stayed light. Wendy asked about everyone's plans for the rest of the week. "We're heading home tomorrow," I said. "Got work waiting." Donald leaned forward. "Us too. But if we catch more today, I might stay an extra day." LaVerne chuckled. "Don't push your luck, dear. The fish might not bite twice." Henry turned his head. "I heard the perch are running good further out. Jim, you think we can push a bit more?" Jim nodded, keeping his eyes ahead. "Sure, but we stick to the trail. No shortcuts."
A little ways out, I noticed a faint sound, like a low groan under the van. It came and went, but no one mentioned it at first. Then Ellajean spoke up. "Did you hear that? Sounded like something shifting." Wendy shrugged. "Probably just the treads settling. This van's built for it." But Jim slowed a touch, scanning the surface. "Ice can make noises," he said. "We'll be at the house soon." I peered out the window. The frozen lake stretched flat, marked by tracks from other vehicles. Still, that sound lingered in my mind.
We kept going. Donald pulled out a map of the lake, pointing to spots. "Look here, this area's supposed to be hot for crappies." LaVerne agreed. "We should try that next time." The conversation flowed easy, but I felt a tightness in my chest. The groans came again, sharper this time, like wood cracking under weight. Henry looked back. "Jim, maybe we turn around? Doesn't feel right." Jim gripped the wheel. "We're almost there. The trail's been used all week."
Suddenly, the van hit something hard—a ridge, Jim called it later. The front dipped sharp, and a loud snap echoed through the cab. Water sprayed up from a crack. "Hold on!" Jim yelled. The van tilted forward, and cold liquid rushed in around our feet. Everyone shouted at once. Wendy screamed, "Jim, get us out!" Donald grabbed LaVerne's hand. "What's happening?" Henry pounded the dashboard. "Reverse, reverse!"
The van slid further, breaking through completely. It happened fast. The nose went down, and the whole thing started sinking into the dark water below. I saw the ice splinter like glass, pieces floating up. "Jump!" Jim ordered, kicking his door open. Wendy followed him quick, scrambling onto the broken edge. I pushed toward the side door, but it jammed partway. Water poured in, soaking my legs, numbing them instant.
LaVerne cried out, "Donald, I can't swim good!" He tried to pull her toward me. "Stay with me, we'll get out." But the van lurched, and they slipped back. Henry reached for Ellajean, who clutched her seat. "Come on, honey, we have to move!" She whimpered, "It's too cold." I finally forced the door wider and yelled, "This way! Hurry!"
I leaped out, aiming for the solid ice. But I misjudged. My body hit the edge and slid under, into the gap between the van and the frozen sheet. Everything went black and freezing. The cold stabbed like knives all over. I flailed my arms, kicking hard, praying to find the opening. My lungs burned for air. I thought of my family back home, how I promised to bring fish. Bubbles escaped my mouth. Then my hand broke surface—I felt the air—and I pushed up with all my strength.
Jim's face appeared above. "Don! Grab my hand!" He lay flat on the ice, reaching down. I caught his grip, and he hauled me out, both of us gasping. Wendy knelt nearby, shivering, her coat drenched. "Where are the others?" she asked, voice breaking.
The van was almost gone, just the roof showing as it sank into 27 feet of murk. I heard muffled cries from inside—LaVerne calling Donald's name, Henry shouting for help. Ellajean banged on a window, her face pale against the glass. "We have to get them!" I yelled, crawling closer. But the ice around the hole cracked more, spiderwebbing out. Jim pulled me back. "It's breaking! We can't go near."
We watched helpless as the van vanished completely. The screams faded into gurgles, then nothing. Just bubbles rising, popping on the surface. The lake swallowed them whole. Donald, LaVerne, Henry, Ellajean—all gone in minutes. I pounded the ice with my fist, but it did no good. Wendy sobbed, "Why didn't they jump?" Jim stared at the hole, face white. "They couldn't. It happened too quick."
We huddled together, wet and shaking, yelling for help. No one else was close. The resort was a mile away, but someone must have seen or heard. After what seemed forever, a snowmobile buzzed toward us—a guy from another group. "What happened?" he asked, eyes wide. Jim explained in short words. "Van went through. Four inside." The man radioed for rescue.
They came fast—ambulance, divers, the works. But the water was too deep, too cold. Divers went down, but the temperatures stopped them short. They called off the search that afternoon. We got checked at the health center. Doctors said we were lucky—no broken bones, just shock and chill. A pastoral care lady talked to me. I told her everything, how I fell under, how Jim saved me. "I flapped like a bird," I said. "Thought that was it."
That night, back at the resort, sleep wouldn't come. I kept hearing those cries, seeing Ellajean's face at the window. We had laughed together just hours before. Now they were down there, in the dark depths. The lake took them without mercy. Jim blamed himself for driving. "I should have stopped," he muttered over coffee. Wendy hugged him. "No one knew. The ice looked fine."
The next day, searches continued, but we knew. Four friends lost forever. I drove home alone, the empty seats in my mind heavier than any catch. Every time I close my eyes, I see that hole, feel the pull of the water. The lake hides its dangers well, and once it grabs you, it doesn't let go easy. I haven't gone ice fishing since. The fear sticks too deep.