Hunting iceberg pieces for the cold chest is a lot like hunting a mammoth; even the small ones go a long way and they are a lot less likely to kill you. On the last hunt we barely got enough to go around. Oh, there was plenty of ice but the swell and wind made coming along side a bergybit a little too uncomfortable in an eggshell of a hull like the CAP’N LEM so we only got enough to last a few days .
Leaving the cove on Double Island put us on the lookout for more. Sure enough, right at the entrance was a likely quarry, an old guy by the looks of the rounded tops and blue strata of hard cold Greenland Glaciers running throughout, head high and grounded in 40’ of water so it wasn’t rocking in the echoing swell between the islands. When hunting ice in Labrador it is best the bergy not have any overhangs that can come toppling downs on the unwary hunter. Ice ten thousand years old is heavy, hard and brittle. It can and will fight back. A jab here often fractures off a piece over there. To every action there is a reaction some smart guy said once, but then a really smart guy would stay home and get his ice from the refrigerator.
We circled once to ascertain if the giant was indeed sleeping, then approached one protruding promontory, knife ready for the surprise attack. Bergybits sing in their sleep, a bell like song consisting of melting water falling into the sea and sounds like breaking crystal as the icy keel morphs into liquid again after millenniums. Pour tea over really cold ice cubes then multiply that sound a thousand fold and you will hear the tune a melting iceberg sings.
I take a stab. Chips fly. I stab again. More chips. I stab again… a pop, a crack, a thunderous splash as he gives up a piano size chunk to the sea along with lots of perfectly useful chest size chunk.
The current spread the ice quickly. Ken maneuvers the boat as I scoop the bounty from the sea. We didn’t want to kill the icebergy; we just wanted a piece of his hide! Success! We’ve saved the milk! Along with the Caribou bologna, the hot dogs, the butter and the mayo.
Press on to Makkovik. The wind is on the rise.
Splash
The catch
