I went for a walk in the Fox River on Saturday…

I went for a walk in the Fox River on Saturday with the hopes of catching some fish, preferably smallmouth bass, but it’s the first week of November so anything that swims will do. My hopes weren’t completely crushed, but came close.

What hasn’t happened so far this year is the usual expected turn on of fish. I’m still catching smallies, but the wonderful weather we’ve been having should have produced much better numbers than the few I’ve been catching on each outing.

I was looking through my archives to see if there was some kind of pattern. There wasn’t one. November has always been a numbers month for not only smallies, but white bass and walleye. So far, that’s just not happening.

I found reports from November of 2002 that paint a totally different picture. This month back then there were schools of gizzard shad, numbering in the hundreds, moving throughout the Montgomery area. On one of the days I was seeing the shad I had caught 50 smallies and a few walleye and white bass. That was November 26th.

Today’s walk was going to be a nice easy one down the river. I knew a fifty fish day was out of the question, some things you could just sense. But there was plenty of time to comb the half mile route and still leave plenty of day time at the end. I settled into a casting and slow walk routine that let me enjoy what few colors were left on shore against a backdrop of intense blue sky. This routine was quickly and abruptly interrupted.

It doesn’t help your state of mind to have a couple of ignorant anglers see you working your way down the river and then race ahead and get in the water. Normally this doesn’t bother me, but this time one of the anglers did a good job of walking all around in the water where the fish usually held. A nice slow moving spot with a couple of feet of water that sits in the sun. He stomped all over the area so he could throw a spinnerbait all the way across the fastest riffles and then reel it too fast back to himself. In the middle of August when the river water is near 80, this might have been a good idea. First week of November with water temps barely reaching 45, you couldn’t pick a dumber way to fish.

His partner didn’t make a cast as far as I could tell, he just stomped all over the other area that usually holds fish. Eventually they headed across the river to the side where even during the summer there aren’t any fish. I could see them both casting away to some of the most unproductive water in the area. Good riddance and good luck.

I took my time getting down to the areas they effectively ruined for the day. I was able to coax a few tentative hits from both, but nothing solidly hooked. For the next couple of hundred yards, a stretch that slopes from ankle deep to almost chest deep, the lack of landed fish was my own fault. After the third one that got away I sharpened my hook even though it didn’t need it. Didn’t help, missed the next two.

I knew how my day was going based on the pictures I was taking. I caught a fish, I didn’t photograph it. Instead I was fascinated by the intense green of the remaining grasses.

I tend to not look at the individual blades, but at the overall light/dark pattern created by the whole field. It’s usually not till I get home and can open the picture at full size that other aspects of what I was looking at becomes apparent. Color, whether subtle or intense, defines a whole different pattern. I’m sure I must have seen that color pattern when I took the picture, it just becomes more apparent when you can look longer at your leisure.

My other fascination is with the boulders that litter the river. Leftovers from when the last glacier receded from this area over 10,000 years ago and created all these waters that we now love to fish.

The boulder that sits sentinel along here is a good 5 feet in diameter. You wonder if it’s always sat off on the shore or has the river moved back and forth enough to have once covered it with water. Has the river ever been powerful enough to move it and how big was it when the glacier dropped it here. If you wander enough of the river you find these all over. Most smaller, but there have been a few much bigger. The last dam on the Fox River is 26 feet tall. Supposedly there are boulders at the bottom of this dam pool that are the size of cars. Semi truck cabs depending on who’s giving the description. There’s a good chance that won’t be confirmed in our lifetime.

When in the water a boulder must be fished. A lure held in front of it to see what’s sitting in front. A lure placed on top of the boulder, then slid down it’s side into the eddy behind. If a fish is there, it eats.

When on shore the boulder is a necessary rest stop. Sit for awhile. Take off your wading vest and stretch your back out across its well rounded surface. Pull out some lures, some water, sip the water and sort a few lures while watching the river slide by. Before walking away, lean heavily against it to see if it moves.

The sun was setting, streaking sharply through the trees. I was at the end of the half mile hike. This is always the last spot I fish, a slow moving chute with some nice depth. Put a lure down into the chute and let it swim around, no real point in even reeling since the water does everything for you. Just move your rod back and forth and up and down.

I got a nice solid hard hit. Big smallie maybe? A foul hooked carp? This fish had some nice weight to it and then I had my line fluttering in the wind. I reeled it in and checked, a nice clean bite off. This is no easy feat considering that I use braided line and don’t bother with any kind of fluorocarbon or monofilament leader. I’ve never noticed that the fish care about leaders one way or the other, so why bother with them. I have caught or seen few northerns in the Fox, but two of them came from this exact spot. Those two were small. I think this may have been their big relative.

The day was over. With something big and full of teeth in this chute and pool it was pretty much guaranteed there would be nothing else caught. I hopped up on shore, a flood plain now covered in trees. A few feet in was another rest stop. This one buried half in the ground. I sat for a bit, slid off my wading vest and stretched my back over its well rounded surface. Drank the rest of my water, it was long hike back to the car. Packed up to go and leaned heavily against the boulder.

Damn things never do move.