The bitter northeast wind relentlessly reshaped the landscape, shifting and sculpting dunes of snow across the expanse of the lake. I pulled hard against the heavy door separating me and my warmth from the tempest outside. This would be one of the last Sunday mornings of the spearing season, and I was settled in for the long haul.

My portable heater hummed on high over my left shoulder. Its orange glow radiated against the darkened walls of the spear shack. Stripped down to a flannel shirt, I sat contently above my window to the underworld.

The spear hole began as a perfectly cut, 3-foot b...