Suzanne Taggett, right, and Chana Stevens ice-fish — successfully — the old-fashioned way, in Meredith, N.H.

The New York Times / MARK WILSON

MEREDITH, N.H. — Peter Muse and his friends sit in front of a gas log fireplace, warming their hands. For breakfast, they made bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches. Now it’s time to think about a late lunch. Muse pulls out a pack of marinated venison and fries it up on the stove.

Taking an occasional pull from a Bud Lite, he glances at the Anchorman DVD playing on the TV screen. He recently put a satellite dish on the side of his house and is waiting for the folks from DirectTV to come and install the box. Then he’ll get tons of stations.

Oops. Is that antler chandelier causing too much glare? No problem; he dims the switch.

Muse is unabashedly proud of his home, constructed by his friends Steve O’Brien and Bob Myshrall, who are with him this day, as they often are. “You won’t see another one like this,” he says.

The Lodge — there’s a birch-and-twig sign on the front door — has everything you could possibly want, except, maybe, a yard. The 9-by-12-foot bobhouse is set in the middle of Meredith Bay, right on the ice, which at this time of year is about a foot thick. Every January Muse hauls The Lodge onto the ice with a four-wheeler, and every March he hauls it back to land, where it waits out the off-season in a friend’s yard.

Lakes throughout New England are dotted now with bobhouses, colorful patches on an icy white canvas. Though some hardy folk still take to the ice with just their pole and chair, many others prefer the warmth and shelter of a bobhouse. They can range from flimsy shacks that resemble outhouses to elaborate “homes,” with cooking facilities and entertainment centers, juiced by propane and generators.

Take The Lodge. In Meredith, The Lodge is known as party central. In the winter, Muse and his friends head there after work and on weekends to ice-fish.

“This is fun fishing,” says Muse, 53, facilities coordinator for the J. Jill Group. “Some call it ice drinking.”

Later that evening, his friend Steve Hodecker, also known as “The Beer Fairy,” will bring out some more Buds to fill the emptying cooler, which sits outside The Lodge. It’s the only house out there with a porch, framed with birch railings. Both an American and a POW/MIA flag fly next to it, and a dinner bell signals either a catch or a meal.

“We’ve had 21 people in here,” boasts Muse. For last year’s Great Rotary Fishing Derby, he pulled a pool table onto the ice and deep-fried a turkey for his guests.

In keeping with the lodge theme, Muse’s wife, Lori, made curtains out of fabric with birch trees all over it. The walls are covered with an Alaskan mural of mountains and a lake reminiscent of Meredith itself, with a stencil moose-and-pine border. A corner “bathroom” — a 5-gallon bucket with a toilet seat — is hidden behind a drapery depicting various wildlife. The antler chandelier and a pheasant feather wreath add to the ambience.

“Once we came up with the idea, we just went to town with the lodge-y look,” says O’Brien. But the men have even bigger plans: They’re going to double the size, adding a second room that will have, among other things, a bar and a dartboard.

Near The Lodge, Scott Curtis, of Millis, is the owner of a teal bobhouse with whimsical stenciling on its exterior. A front-door sign with the family’s name and a black Lab welcomes visitors. The Curtises have a house in Meredith, and their 8-year-old daughter, Meredyth, who loves to ice-fish, begged for the bobhouse. It was her idea to have the purple butterfly and the “Gone Fishin’ ” sign.

The Curtis house is sparsely furnished. But Scott Curtis is known in the ’hood as the best cook on ice. He’s got his grill set up outside. “They’re having hot dogs,” he sniffs in the direction of The Lodge, “and we’re having rack of lamb.”

Charles Coffin is in a class all by himself: His little red house has a license plate and spare tire on its rear and a TV antenna and solar panels on the roof. Unlike the other bobhouses, Coffin’s is set on wheels. He travels all over the state to ice-fish, his house hitched to the back of his pickup. Coffin, 70, of Rumney, built the entire thing — house, alternator and generator — himself.

It’s snug inside, and he can fish from his bunk, thanks to the four trap doors — one in each corner — that open to reveal holes he’s cut in the ice. Sitting on his bunk, he dangles a fishing jig over a hole, glancing periodically at the TV he’s put in or, next to it, a monitor hooked up to his underwater camera. With that, he can see his bait and his approaching quarry.

“I’ve got everything,” he says, “including the kitchen sink.” And he does, right there next to his stove.