Publisher Note: The 2026 Lake Winnebago system sturgeon season begins February 14th and will run for a maximum of 16 days or until harvest caps are met.
4:30 a.m.: Opening morning. Heading north on Highway 45 toward Winnebago with just the stars as my companions. Mentally sharp. Ready. Enthusiastic. I haven’t seen a sturgeon in eight years of sturgeon spearing. Today’s the day.
6:30 a.m.: Met my guide, Bill Jenkins in Pipe, Wisconsin on the east side of Winnebago. Every year I give Bill $50.00. He lets me stare down into a hole. Show me a better bargain.
6:45 a.m.: Jim Sullivan of Jefferson gives me a ride out to my one-man shack far out on the ice of Winnebago. Jim’s been spearing for a decade, with hundreds of hours staring into the water. He thinks he saw one nine years ago. I’m in the presence of greatness.
7:00 a.m.: All settled in now, in my six-foot by eight-foot shack. The trap door in the floor has been lifted back and I can sit on this folding chair and stare down at a refrigerator sized hole. Above the hole hanging down from a nail is a heavy, iron, five- pronged spear, with a rope attached poised to drop when the monster appears. The gas heater has been lit by my guide. It will soon be toasty warm in here.
7:15 a.m.: Fire’s out. It’s freezing.
7:20 a.m.: It’s quiet now, and black. I can see about 12 feet down into the swirling green hues of Winnebago and if I tilt this notebook just right, I can scribble by that hue almost legibly. At about eight feet my guide has suspended my decoy, a two-foot-long white piece of plastic pipe. What a stupid fish to rise to a piece of PCV pipe I think as I stare down at a piece of PCV pipe. Unexplained, brief flashback to my beautiful wife, Lori, in a warm bed that I left on a Saturday morning so I could drive up here alone and sit in a cold shack and stare at this pipe. Yes, for sure…that’s a stupid fish all right.
8:30 a.m.: Well, at least it’s warm now. It’s been 90 minutes and Mr. Big no doubt is just a minute or two from arriving underneath the ice. I’m still mentally sharp.
8:32 a.m.: A bubble just came all the way up. I watched it.
8:33 a.m.: Nuther one.
8:35 a.m.: John Jenkins, Bill’s son and veteran spearer, just showed up. He has many sturgeons under his belt. He wants this reporter to get one too. I don’t know why but year after year after year after year after year John wears the same look of pity around me. He gives me his secret weapon decoy. It’s a…and please keep this quiet so everyone’s not utilizing it….a plastic pail. I thank John profusely as the pail is lowered to hang next to the white pipe. John tells me that Paul Wargowsky is on his first sturgeon hunt, his shack just 100 yards from mine. Old Paul (who’s actually is only about 30) flipped back the lid this morning and there was a 58-inch sturgeon. Just three minutes into his first season, and his tag is filled. I tell John to congratulate good old Paul Wargowski of Whitewater for me. Although I don’t know him.
8:36 a.m.: John just left. I don’t like Paul Wargowski of Whitewater.
8:37 a.m.: I’m humble, a little emotional as John leaves the shack. I mean, how many guys give you a pail? I make a note to give John a can, or maybe even a bottle some day.
8:46 a.m.: Well, no wonder it’s a secret weapon. I stare down and the pail is going round and round… twirlly, twirlly, twiirrllly in the green hues. The pipe just sits there like a lazy pipe. “Pull your weight, man,” I yell. No reaction.
9:45 a.m.: Twirrlly, twiiirrrllyyy, twwwwiiirrrrllly. Still mentally sharp. But I think there may be someone in here.
9:48 a.m.: He’s here all right. Somewhere in the dark. Lurking. I’ll act unalarmed.
10:30 a.m.: If I stand on my tip-toes, I can just barely squash my hair on the ceiling.
11 a.m.: Discussing things with myself for an hour now. Made unsettling self-discovery. I’m pretty boring. Not good. This shatters my whole self-image. Little wonder I never had a date in high school.
11:30 a.m.: Tried playing 100 questions about my life. Only missed seven. Self-esteem rising again.
11:37 a.m.: Just checked my notes. 27 pages of “all work and no play make Dick a dull boy.” What the heck does that mean? That guy in the shack is messing with me.
11:45 a.m.: It is indeed toasty warm in here. Should have worn Lori’s skirt. That short, black leather number.
11:55 a.m.: I’m down to my T-shirt, sweating. There’s a fly climbing up the wall. Yea, right. In February. In Wisconsin. Like that’s not a “plant.” Now I know someone is in here, watching… watching… watching me. Watching me to see if I kill the fly. To see if I’m sane. I saw “Psycho”. Norman Bates. Dressed in his mother’s clothes (you wouldn’t have caught me in that outfit). He wouldn’t kill the fly either. He knew “they” were watching, too. I’ll wait this thing out. I will not touch that fly.
NOON: Just smashed the fly with the spear. I knew they were watching. A siren just went off.
12:30 p.m.: Bill Jenkins is here. Spearing’s over for the day. Bill wants to know why I look so flushed. He pries my fingers off the spear handle. “Dick…Dick…Are you alright?” I hear his distant voice.
“Am I alright?” I hear my answer. “Am I alright? I will be just as soon as you sign me up for next year.”
