If the lake’s frozen and the cows are fed, he’s right where he’s supposed to be.

Up for Cows. Out for Fish.

The Ice Castle Udderlord finishes milking before the sun even considers showing up, then heads straight for the lake like it’s his second job. His ice shack is held together by duct tape, misplaced confidence, and at least one board he “meant to fix last year.” His cheese stash, on the other hand, is insulated, organized, and treated like critical infrastructure.

He calls it “checking cows remotely.” Translation: sitting on ten inches of ice, staring into a six-inch hole, phone in one hand, cheese in the other, wondering if the wind chill is personal. The cows are fed. The lines are down. If something breaks, he’ll deal with it when the fish stop biting. Probably.

The Farm Runs on Him (even in sub-zero temps)

His morning starts in the barn and somehow ends on a frozen lake usually before most people have finished complaining about winter. He layers like a man who’s learned hard lessons, mostly the cold way. He walks steady, trusting his boots, the ice, and the same Wisconsin optimism that gets him through frozen waterers and January milkings.

He’ll talk herd health while jigging, mentally running feed rations between bites. Answer parlor texts with gloves on, bulk tank temps coming through clearer than the wind chill. And yes, he absolutely checks tip-ups before checking the forecast, because the fish are already there, and the cows are already fed, and the weather’s just gossip. If the ice pops or groans, he pauses, listens, nods once, and keeps fishing. That sound? Normal. That silence after? Also normal.