A monastery in the snow on the Golden Ring near Vladimir. Photo / Jill Worrall
When it's minus 25C it is necessary to go for the layered look, which in my case meant five layers on my top half and no less than two everywhere else.
Consequently I had to fight to get my arms close to my body - I avoided mirrors on the way outside.
Misha, however, was wearing his knee-high fur boots and Rashid his ex-Russian army camouflage jacket, so both of them had achieved a certain panache that I undoubtedly lacked.
We were trudging along the frozen Kamenka River at Suzdal, about 225km north-east of Moscow, looking for a deep bend in the river.
The pool was easy to find as there was a diving platform on the nearby bank.
It seemed almost impossible to imagine a time when the trees, now sparkling with hoar frost, would be green and the ice-bound river flowing between grassy banks.
Misha took the one-metre-long ice drill and began to create a 30cm diameter hole in the ice. A small mound of ice shavings built up.
He let me have a try but I could make little impression on the 40cm-thick ice.
"It is not a job for a woman," he said in his best mock serious Russian, taking back the drill.
He made five holes at various distances from the bank, while Rashid rolled together balls of small worms, maggots and bread crumbs - bound together with icy water that he scooped out of the holes with his bare hands.
The balls were then placed in a small cone-shaped receptacle that was lowered into the holes, and the bait released.
I imagined schools of fish rushing to our spot; greedy for fresh food and there for the taking.
To help them on their way we then prepared five small rods, each about 50cm long.
They had hooks so tiny I could hardly see them - clearly we were not planning to land giant pike. Larger worms were impaled on each hook.
"You can spit on it for luck" said Misha "and if you have drunk vodka just before the worm will die happy."
Vodka is, of course, as essential on an ice fishing expedition as the rods and drill. It is, as Misha explained, not really a drink at all, but medicine to combat the cold.
The five poles were now hanging motionless over the holes. At regular intervals we would stir the water to stop it freezing over.
The sun disappeared behind the trees about 4pm and Rashid's moustache bristled with ice crystals. Misha poured out more vodka.
Two snow mobiles roared past, their headlights illuminating the dark.
Misha shouted and began to wind in one of the poles. I thought it was because of the gloom that I couldn't see the fish, but when I got closer I realised it was because our trophy was only about 15cm long.
But a fish is a fish. Celebratory vodkas were poured and we drank to the catch, following the vodka with frozen chocolates.
By the time we had finished the ceremony the fish had been quick-frozen on the ice.
"Even for Russian fishermen, this is really too cold." Misha said.
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