We were sitting around my kitchen table, working two laptops and two smart phones. Four of us tasked with finding a place for the annual ice fishing trip: me, Ken, Dave and the New Guy.
It was Ken’s idea that we work together to find a place, and then to present our findings to John and Bill, the other two veteran members of our group. It seemed like a good idea. A lot goes into picking a suitable location. We need a house big enough to accommodate six aging men for a long weekend. It can’t be too expensive or too far away. It needs to have direct access to a lake that has safe ice in late February. And finally, the lake needs to provide some reasonable hope that we can catch fish. Not because we actually expect to catch fish, but, and this is critical: because we need something to over analyze and complain about when we don’t.
This was a unique opportunity for the New Guy: to participate in the selection of the location. I didn’t get such an opportunity years ago when I was the new guy. I was just told when we were leaving, what to bring, and how much I owed. Thankfully, I was smart enough to recognize what a gift it was to have no role in the planning.
Right away, I sensed trouble with the New Guy. As I knew from other settings, he is a thoughtful, respectful and optimistic guy. All fine qualities to be sure, but best kept to yourself in this group, especially when ice fishing is the subject. Oblivious to this, the New Guy actually seemed happy to be part of the planning. He looked dangerously eager to be helpful.
My instinct was right. The New Guy started with a classic rookie mistake: he offered an idea.
“How about Lake George? I did well up there last year.”
I bit my lip. This was a poor strategy; one the New Guy may never recover from. He would have been much wiser to keep quiet, and look for strategic opportunities to criticize someone else’s idea.
“Too far,” Dave, Ken and I said immediately, forcefully and in unison.
“No, the New Guy responded, “we can get there in a little over two and a half hours.”
Us three veterans recognized that two and a half hours was well within what we’ve done before, so, after some mumbling and grumbling, Dave begrudgingly asked: “Really? What kind of fishing?”
Unfortunately, the New Guy, not sensing the danger, took the bait. He typed some stuff on his smart phone and said: “Here is a deep-water cove. We can fish for lake trout.”
“No way,” I complained. “I’m not sitting over ninety feet of water, waiting hopelessly for hours for a trout to swim by. We need something with more potential action.”
Dave and Ken, who as far as I know were fine with fishing for lake trout, nevertheless nodded with admiration and appreciation.
“Well, how about here?” the New Guy suggested. “Last year, we caught a bunch of perch right in this spot. It was non-stop action.”
“What!?” Dave was indignant. “I can catch all the perch I want within a mile of here. Why would I drive over two hours for perch? We need to go somewhere where we can catch smelt.”
“I’m not fishing for smelt,” I interjected before the New Guy could respond. “Not unless there are opportunities for other fish in the same area.”
And so it went for the next forty-five minutes or so. The New Guy would make reasonable suggestions, and we would shoot them down for mostly no good reason.
Eventually, he found a spot that seemed to have a little something for everyone. This time, it was Ken who offered the bait: “Ok, now we need to find a house with direct access to that part of the lake.”
Here was a perfect opportunity for the New Guy to share the pain. But he missed it, and began typing again on his smart phone.
“Here’s one,” he said on short order.
“Nope, too expensive,” said Ken.
Type, type, type. “How about this one?”
“Too small,” from Dave.
More typing. “This one?”
“Looks haunted,” from me.
After another thirty minutes or so, the New Guy began to show the slightest bit of frustration. Good, I thought. He’s finally getting it. I silently rooted for him to just throw up his arms and recommend someone else give it a try.
But instead, he said: “Let’s play some cards. I think I know what we’re looking for. I’ll research this more on my own and get back to you guys with some alternatives.”
Two weeks later, the four of us were in Dave’s truck headed to fish on a local frozen pond. To my shock and awe, the New Guy said: “Look guys, I’ve been thinking about this and researching options. We should just go to the spot on Lake George that I fished last year. There’s a great hotel nearby, with nice rooms and great food. And we can get the guide I used. He’ll put us on the fish. We’ll have a great time.”
We were silent for a minute or two; all of the veterans, I think, carefully considering this. The New Guy waited for an answer with a look of anticipation and pride.
Finally, I said: “Look, I don’t think you’re going to be a good fit for this group.”
“What?” Why?”
I tried to explain in the plainest terms I could muster. “Why in heaven’s name would we want to go to a place where we can be both comfortable and productive? The whole point of the trip is to be miserable. We have to achieve enough misery and failure to have something to complain and argue about for the rest of the year.”
Dejected, the New Guy rode in silence the rest of the way to the pond. Luckily for him, it was a typical ice fishing outing for us: very cold, windy, with no fish.
Given this gift, the New Guy finally caught on. Throughout the day, he strategically uttered criticism and complaints like: “there are no fish here,” and “who picked this place?”
Perhaps, I thought, there was hope for the New Guy after all.