The first freeze sends a man to his death every year out here. You would think that the stories of so many deaths would keep them away until it was safe, but no one believes it will be him that is chosen. They all know that the northern lake has the best winter game, both under and above the ice. Everyone wants to cash in, but so does the lake. Just once a year, but without fail every year. They are never found in the spring. Bodies, clothing, gear -- all of it taken by the lake.

Those of us that live here know better than to trust the lake until after the sacrifice. That's what we call it, what else could it be? The rest of the year there are no problems; no one has ever drowned here in the summer and only one ever falls through in the winter. The lake takes its sacrifice and serves us well the rest of the year.

We do our best to make sure it's an outsider, and one the world would be better off without, that goes on the ice first each winter. It isn't hard. There is always someone who comes around at the beginning of the season, scoffing at the legend. He'll laugh and mock and drink too much while we warn the other visitors. Then he strides out bravely onto the ice to die and keep the lake satisfied for another year.

I saw it happen one year. Everyone does once; usually as a teen because children aren't allowed near the lake before it happens and no one that sees it ever wants to watch again. I was fifteen and mad at my father for wanting to keep me away from the lake. He had seen it, my friends had all seen it, I was the only one that hadn't. It was only fair that I be allowed, or at least that's the way my adolescent mind ran that day. I wasn't buying any of that for-your-own-good crap either. I haven't forgotten a single detail of that afternoon, I don't think I ever will.

I sneaked out my bedroom window wearing only a sweater, jeans and my hiking boots. My coat and gloves were downstairs, and my father would not let me near them. He figured the cold would keep me inside. The snow on the roof soaked right through the knees of my jeans as I struggled down to the garage as quietly as I could. Once on the garage roof, I walked to the edge and jumped the five feet to the ground. I landed, however, in snow up to my knees and felt it seeping quickly into my shoes and cuffs. I pushed out of the snow bank and headed to the backyard.

The lake was about a mile away through the forest on the back of our land, but it was early yet and everyone would still be at the pub. I wanted to see the whole show, so I headed through all the back yards along our street, angling for the Lonely Wolf -- local hangout for all outdoorsmen. My jeans were freezing to my legs and my hands were turning red, but I didn't care, this was an adventure.

The townsfolk were all indoors today, we all knew what was going to happen. The lodge was hosting its first group of winter arrivals and it was a crisp, clear day. Only the game warden and the sheriff were abroad, and they were at the Wolf, trying to warn the newcomers about the lake. They were also carefully goading the chosen one, which is why I was in such a hurry. I got there too late for that though. Just as the Wolf came into sight, a big burly man came barging out the door, hollering over his shoulder.

"I'll show you. Ain't no superstitious lawmen gonna keep me from the fish." He stumbled over his words as much as the sidewalk.

I shook my head, this guy was worse than the ones I'd heard about in the past few years. He grabbed some gear from the back of a Chevy and headed down to the lake, still muttering and stumbling, though the cold was sobering him up quickly. I glanced back at the building, but no one followed him out. The job was done, the sacrifice sent, they would not come out until it was over.

I followed him, my eyes darting about for signs of capture, but saw nothing. He started out onto the ice boldly and I hid next to the boathouse. After a few steps, he noticed that he was alone. His head swung about, looking for laughing spectators and when he found none, he yelled at the pub one last time.

"Chickens! It's just a lake!"

I covered my mouth with a numb hand to stop a laugh from breaking free. It may be just a lake, friend, but it's hungry today. He turned back to the center and trudged on, looking for a place to set up. Snow began seeping into the seat of my pants, but I didn't dare move. He went out about two hundred yards and then put his stuff down. He grabbed his drill and brought it to bear on the thin layer of ice. I watched, expecting it to crack open at any moment. Finished, he set his drill aside and set about arranging two rods, one on either side of the small hole. Then he crouched between them, watching and waiting. I blew on my hands, wondering why he wasn't dead yet, but determined to wait it out.

Both his poles had hits at the same time and as he grabbed for one, the other was pulled through the ice. The man struggled with the other, fighting to stay on his feet. The pole was pulling harder than he could handle, though, and he pitched forward as water began surging up through the hole. He flailed about, grabbing his drill for extra weight, as the water poured over his body. Slowly he was drawn to the fishing hole, dragging the drill by his side.

I could hear his screams, but knew there was nothing I could do to help. I watched, fascinated and shaking with more than cold. The water kept pouring out as he was pulled in to the ever-widening hole. His drill slipped in beside him and then he was gone. The water flowed for a few more minutes, erasing evidence of his presence and then all was still.

There was complete silence for a minute and then I heard running. Men hurried down to the edge of the lake, muttering and shouting in disbelief and a few in prayer. Then they found me, frozen to the side of the boathouse and unable to move. I was bundled in coats and carried to a truck to be driven home. I would be grounded, I knew, but it was something I'd had to do. I had to watch the lake take its sacrifice; everyone did when they were young.