Category Archives: Fox River

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A Hard One to Shoot

Sometimes you run into something that’s a hard one to shoot.

This is one of those.

This little valley is maybe 200 yards wide, but I’ll bet it’s a half mile long.

I have no clue what these red leafed things are, burning bushes come to mind, but I have one of those in front of the house I rent.

That’s not it.

Doesn’t really matter.

Knowing the name of something doesn’t make me appreciate it any more, or less.

The ground cover in this valley is pretty sparse. Last week these red leafed bushes were just about all that was left that had any leaves on them.

They were everywhere, for as far as you could see up and down the valley.

None of the other shots I took did them justice.

Not convinced this one does either, but they are a hard one to shoot.

This will do, for now.

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The Last Shot of the Day

There’s always the last shot of the day. That shot when you know you’re done, it’s time to walk away.

There’s a spot I go to at Silver Springs State Park to watch the sun set.

It offers an unobstructed view over a huge prairie.

Seems only fitting to watch sunsets over prairies in Illinois.

After taking this shot I started walking back to the car.

A glance over my shoulder.

There must have been a break in the clouds on the horizon that I couldn’t see. The pink/orange glow was starting to spread across the gray clouds in this shot.

I walked back to my spot, raised the camera, and…

Nothing.

Nothing happened.

The battery was dead.

I think I heard… No shit, really?

I walked backward to the car.

As I drove east, I watched in my rear view mirror as the pink/orange glow grew to cover all that is gray in the shot above.

It covered all of it.

I pointed my rear view mirror downward.

I had seen enough.

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In These Woods

In these woods, no one would hear you moan.
Oh, baby.
Oh, baby, baby.

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All I can tell you is that it’s on an island.
Just before walking up on this, I spooked a family of turkeys.
Two adults and at least 10 young ones.
Which means they are living on this island.

Nearby I found a stack of unfinished wood.
I think this was built onsite with driftwood out of the river.

The no trespassing signs all over the place are to be taken seriously.
Depending on the mood of the owner, a trespasser will either be arrested or shot.
At least shot at.

Except for me. I have permission to be here.

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Oh, oh, baby…

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Last Weeks Fishing Report

Last weeks fishing report that Dale Bowman of the Chicago Sun Times didn’t include in his weekly summary. I kind of liked it even though I didn’t get out fishing much and didn’t catch much either. Didn’t write much, but I put in a few paragraphs by someone that did. I don’t know, I liked it…
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Not much to report this week, only got out twice and both were short ventures. Two creeks, two smallies caught, two missed. The creeks were high running chocolate. Hit the river once, it was even worse and produced nothing.

The spot on the river I hit is a good spot I used to frequent and while living in Yorkville, I didn’t get to it much. Now it’s just upstream. Nobody goes there cause it’s pretty much a haven for the homeless. They even put a bike path and bridge over the river. Now the homeless don’t have to walk over the rail road bridge to get to the island.

I’ll go back there. Me and the homeless get along well for some reason. I don’t judge them and I’m good for a cheap cigar.

I think that makes the following from Big Two Hearted River a good thing to run, if you feel like it and nobody else sends you anything. Just substitute smallie for trout. Wish I ran into more river anglers that embody this sentiment. They seem to have all disappeared.
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Nick looked at the burned-over stretch of hillside, where he had expected to find the scattered houses of the town and then walked down the railroad track to the bridge over the river. The river was there. It swirled against the log spires of the bridge. Nick looked down into the clear, brown water, colored from the pebbly bottom, and watched the trout keeping themselves steady in the current with wavering fins. As he watched them they changed their again by quick angles, only to hold steady in the fast water again. Nick watched them a long time. 

He watched them holding themselves with their noses into the current, many trout in deep, fast moving water, slightly distorted as he watched far down through the glassy convex surface of the pool its surface pushing and swelling smooth against the resistance of the log-driven piles of the bridge. At the bottom of the pool were the big trout. Nick did not see them at first. Then he saw them at the bottom of the pool, big trout looking to hold themselves on the gravel bottom in a varying mist of gravel and sand, raised in spurts by the current. 

Nick looked down into the pool from the bridge. It was a hot day. A kingfisher flew up the stream. It was a long time since Nick had looked into a stream and seen trout. They were very satisfactory. As the shadow of the kingfisher moved up the stream, a big trout shot upstream in a long angle, only his shadow marking the angle, then lost his shadow as he came through the surface of the water, caught the sun, and then, as he went back into the stream under the surface, his shadow seemed to float down the stream with the current unresisting, to his post under the bridge where he tightened facing up into the current. 

Nick’s heart tightened as the trout moved. He felt all the old feeling. He turned and looked down the stream. It stretched away, pebbly-bottomed with shallows and big boulders and a deep pool as it curved away around the foot of a bluff. 

Nick walked back up the ties to where his pack lay in the cinders beside the railway track. He was happy. He adjusted the pack harness around the bundle, pulling straps tight, slung the pack on his back, got his arms through the shoulder straps and took some of the pull off his shoulders by leaning his forehead against the wide band of the tump-line. Still, it was too heavy. It was much too heavy. He had his leather rod-case in his hand and leaning forward to keep the weight of the pack high on his shoulders he walked along the road that paralleled the railway track, leaving the burned town behind in the heat, and he turned off around a hill with a high, fire-scarred hill on either side onto a road that went back into the country. He walked along the road feeling the ache from the pull of the heavy pack. The road climbed steadily. It was hard work walking up-hill. His muscles ached and the day was hot, but Nick felt happy. He felt he had left everything behind, the need for  thinking, the need to write, other needs. It was all back of him.

Post storm.

Like Fishing in a Sauna

Checked the USGS gauge of the creek I wanted to fish before leaving work. 4.78, the cfs gauge has been broken for months. I’m getting used to reading the feet by comparison. A few days earlier the creek had shot up to nearly 7. I plugged in a 90 day view, that’s the highest so far this year. Usually it’s April that gets like that, didn’t happen this year.

I’m sure I’ve fished this creek when it was at 5. Maybe it was 4.5 or 4. Whatever, can’t be that bad.

I get to the creek, get suited up and one big lone cloud full of rain and lightning parks its ass directly over head. Partly cloudy skies all around it. I sit it out in the car for twenty minutes. The rain did not cool things down, made it worse.

Got to the creek and it was high, fast and muddy. I’m not going in there, at least not past my ankles. Bunch of casts and nothing. Considered calling it quits.

Decided to put my exceptional high, fast and muddy fishing skills to work instead. It’s not the river, so it’s not so bad. In about an hour and a half and 200 yards I went 11/5 on smallies. I was glad I stuck around. One fish in particular hit hard, then practically crawled along the bottom. Drag humming and pulling out line. Couldn’t lift it off the bottom. Never jumped. I’ve landed a number of 18 inch smallies so far this year and I’m thinking this one has to be pushing the 20 inch mark to be doing this.

Finally get it near me and out of the water. I’ll bet it wouldn’t have measured 11 inches. I was impressed.

It wound up being the smallest fish of the day.

Was glad I wore the waders anyway. Everything was soaked from the rain. Back at the car and stripping down, the inside of the waders were wetter than the outside. Sweat was pouring off my head and down my shirt. This should smell good after a day or two in my trunk.

Walking through a swamp in April is easy, in June after a rain and everything is now thick and taller than me, not so much.

The wife says I should learn how to fear lightning.

The woods look like a jungle.

The sound of frogs was at times deafening only I couldn’t find a single one.

Like usual, I had the whole place to myself.
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Back at home, leftovers. Bow tie pasta, shrimp, garlic, butter, olive oil and parsley from the garden. More olive oil in a pan. Throw in all that stuff. Add the stripped off flowers from the basil plants in the garden. Toss in the first pepper of the year from the garden. More olive oil. Done and plated, add some parmesan and a couple of slices of garlic bread.

I smell wonderful.

The stronger taste of basil flowers has become my favorite part of the basil plant.

You can’t have too much basil.

Or olive oil.