On the night after Christmas, I was ice fishing on Carlin Lake near Presque Isle, what they call “Wisconsin’s Last Wilderness.” Part bored, and part cold, I gazed across the dark lake at the warm lights of the Carlin Lake Lodge. Ernest Hemingway and John Wayne had both lodged here back in the day, evidently. Imagine those two in the same room. I noticed that I had a flag up on my tip-up. Finally. I knelt to set the hook. As I drew up the line, hand over hand, I felt something heavy, and I peered