Out on the ice in Russia

A rescue team saves fishermen stranded on the ice floe

By Moscow correspondent Andrew Harding

Somewhere in Russia - probably hidden deep in Siberia - there is a factory that makes giant corkscrews. The screw part is about 3 feet long - and a good 6 inches wide. For some reason the whole thing, including the handle, is normally painted bright orange.

I remember seeing these things when I first arrived in Russia - usually brandished by slightly drunken looking men emerging from the Metro station, or tugged furtively out of the boot of some ancient Lada.

For a while I used to enjoy imagining that the owners were all members of some strange, secretive wine club - which specialised in giant bottles with huge, stiff corks.

Wine tasters

Then, driving out of Moscow one Saturday morning, I spotted a whole crowd of wine tasters, walking towards what looked like a particularly flat, white field.

The Russian definition of ice doesn't seem to be quite as rigid as it might be

I pulled over, and watched them as each man wandered off to his own, solitary spot, pulled a camp stool out of his rucksack, and then, with the merest flourish, swung a corkscrew off his shoulder, and started drilling into the ice - the blade on the end of the corkscrew carving a neat hole.

A few weeks later, I tried it myself. That's what you do in Russia at the weekend. Everyone seems to ice fish here. At least most men do. It's the local equivalent of mowing the lawn.

Standard equipment

The equipment is pretty standard. An orange corkscrew, a tiny rod - not much bigger than a pencil, with a long line, some weights, a float, a hook, and a tin of squirming red maggots. Something to sit on, a warm coat made out of the skin of at least one sheep, a fur hat, thick felt boots, some bread, salami, a thermos of tea, and a bottle of vodka, for emergencies.

On particularly cold days - the truly experienced ice fisherman will also bring a large piece of clear plastic sheeting from a pocket, and fashion his own, miniature greenhouse to squat inside.

Next, of course, you need a frozen lake. Or a sea. This is where things start getting a bit more complicated. The Russian definition of ice doesn't seem to be quite as rigid as it might be. In late October I've seen men stroll out casually onto something which I could have sworn still had ripples on it.

The perfect spot

By December or January you're usually pretty safe - Russian winters being what they are. In fact the ice can get so thick that a 3ft corkscrew isn't enough - luckily, the factory makes even longer ones.

As for springtime, well, I've actually waded out onto the ice in April - boots sinking deep into a foot of slush - to join a group of Russian friends sunning themselves happily in the middle of the lake.

Having found your perfect fishing spot, and having drilled a hole through the ice to the water below, the next, tricky step is to attach a maggot to your hook. This, I've found, is not something you can do with gloves on. This, I've also found, is not something you can do with gloves off - not when it's -20°C, and your bare fingers are numb and slippery with water and what can only be described as maggot juice.

Catch of the day

There must be a secret though, because everyone always seems to catch something. Nothing too big - you wouldn't be able to haul it out through the hole anyway - but enough to make soup out of that evening, or to salt, then dry on the balcony, and eat later in the traditional style with a bottle of beer.

What used to be an occasional hazard seems to be turning into a weekly ritual

As with most things in Russia today, though, people complain that ice fishing isn't quite what it used to be.

Every winter, for as long as anyone can remember, there have always been a few cases of fishermen getting stranded on ice floes that break away from the shore. But what used to be an occasional hazard seems to be turning into a weekly ritual.

Last Monday, in what may well be a record, up to 1,000 fishermen found themselves stuck on a giant piece of ice on a lake near St Petersburg. Six of them died overnight.

Nouveaux riches

At a news conference afterwards, the head of the rescue services - obviously an ice fishing purist - couldn't hide his irritation.

The culprits, as he saw it, were Russia's nouveaux riches. Not content with a corkscrew and a camping stool, they were, he complained, always driving their flashy jeeps and limousines out onto the ice.

Then, he said, they have the gall to ring us for help, on their mobile phones.