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Today, I feel a deep sense of shame. I am a bad Canadian, for I have never been ice fishing.

Yes, I've caught fish before, from Arctic greyling on the banks of the Yukon's Ruby Range to a sweet little eastern brook trout while fly-fishing on Newfoundland's Gander River. But I do not own a rod or a tackle box or any of the necessary accoutrements. And I have never experienced the classic winter pursuit of ice fishing.

A wooden shanty, an icy hole, a jig, some minnows and a 2-4 of Blue. Woman versus the elements. It's a simple tradition for whiling away the long, dark winter hours, and it once meant sustenance during the frontier winters of long ago.

It's something every Canadian should try once, and today just happens to be the perfect day for it: minus 30, clear and bright. So off we go, 45 minutes north of Toronto, to a frozen Lake Simcoe.

Ontario is a virtual lake-and-river paradise, a freshwater reservoir cupped in ancient hands of pre-Cambrian shield. Beneath the ice, the water is alive with cold-water fish.

This winter has been a doozy, and the tiny town of Lefroy (Pop: 1,000), near Barrie, is blanketed with both snow and angling possibilities.

We drive up to Lucky's Son's bait shop and fish-hut rentals. This building has been a cornerstone of the Lefroy community for 100 years, the shop has been in the Paiero family for the past 20, and Trevor, who now owns it along with his brother Chad, is taking us out on the lake today.

After Claire grabs us a scoop of live minnows (the best ice-fishing bait) from the back, we pile our gear into Trevor's truck and head across the wind-swept ice. About a kilometre from shore, dozens of colourful huts are set against the stark whiteness of winter. It's like a seasonal shantytown.

I was told to come prepared, dress warmly and in layers, and I have done so: lumberjack and poofy down jackets, ski mitts, woollen tuque, hockey socks, thermal long johns, a thermos of "anti-freeze" (coffee) and a flask of "blood thinner" (brandy).

As soon as I step inside the small, wooden hut, I realize none of this is necessary. It's like a sweat lodge in here. There are plywood overlays and padded wooden benches, foam insulation and either a full-blast propane tank or a wooden stove, depending on the hut.

As he snares a live minnow with my rod's hook, Trevor warns that there aren't as many fish as there used to be. "Growing up, we used to drill a hole and catch a fish anywhere on the lake," he says. "It's not like that any more."

Which is part of the reason the Ministry of Natural Resources has stepped in, stocking local lakes and rivers with dwindling varieties such as whitefish, trout and walleye, and policing the area for fishing licences. Everyone needs a licence to fish in Ontario. (They're available at Canadian Tire stores.) The licences specify things such as catch limits, fish size and seasons. The fine for being caught without one is $130.

As we're setting up, a member of the ministry survey crew zips up on his snowmobile and knocks on our door. He asks us what we've caught. "Nothing," we tell him. He says it's been a slow day so far; he's seen only 10 catches among about 50 fishers.

After he leaves, Trevor hands me my rod and I release the line to 18 metres below the ice. The swimming minnow and the neon pearl disappear into darkness. My friend Kirk Prior uses a shiny lure on his rod, and Trevor opts for a live minnow on his hand-held jig. Trout and whitefish are supposedly biting now. Earlier in the season, it was perch.

No special skill is required for successful ice fishing, but the right bait and lures help. As with regular fishing, it's basically both a waiting game and a crapshoot. Going out on the ice with an accredited outfitter, however, helps the novice's chances of success, since hut-rental companies know their area and usually set up over the sweet spots.

While we wait for the adrenaline rush that comes from a tug on the line, Trevor regales us with stories about the locals. There are competitions for the nicest hut (murals of penguins and photos of Sunshine girls are involved). There's the old guy who walks out onto the ice each day, slaps down a bucket for a seat and stays out for hours. ("I don't know how he does it," Trevor says.) There are pizzas ordered to the shore, and there appears to be a lot of drunken behaviour.

"My best advice is to enjoy it and relax," Trevor says. "You're not always going to catch a fish, but a bad day fishing is better than any good day working."

We've been out on the lake for hours without so much as a nibble. The heat and darkness of the hut are wearing on me, so I step out for some cold, fresh air and survey my surroundings: hazy sun, smoke billowing out of chimneys on the horizon, the distant buzz of a snowmobile. It's beautiful and sad and such a sincerely Canadian scene, it almost brings a frozen tear to my eye.

Even so, I am bored out of my skull.

And then Trevor gets a bite. He stumbles to his knees and starts madly reeling in the fishing line. The holes act as magnifying glasses, and we see what looks to be a huge whitefish circling up to the surface as the slack of the line gets shorter.

I feel a nibble too and am overcome with a sense of dread -- I'm not sure I actually want to catch a fish. It turns out to be a false alarm: My line has gotten entwined with Trevor's.

Trevor had warned us that only five per cent of people who manage to hook a fish actually get it through the hole without losing it. Today, Trevor is one of those lucky five. He's caught a six-pounder (somehow it doesn't seem right to call it a "2.7-kilogramer"), which he will give to his neighbour to have smoked.

Daylight dwindles. Coffee's gone. The fish aren't biting any more. Still, it's been a great day.

A great Canadian day.

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