While talking to my wife about going fishing in a couple of hours, the television starts beeping and a crawl comes across the bottom. Tornado warnings are being issued and the names of counties and towns are scrolling by. Some are not far from where I live.
“You still going fishing?”
“Sure, I’m not worried about this.”
“How close are some of those towns to where you’re going?”
“Uhhh, a couple of miles. I know, I know, you don’t have to say it.”
“Oh no, an idiot goes fishing in the rain. You’re going to drive into an area where there are tornado warnings and they’re telling people to seek shelter in their basements. That would make you a moron.”
“They’ll be gone by the time I get there.”
“And if they’re not?”
“I’ll worry about it then.”
Tick, tick, tick, tick. I don’t even have a clock in the house that ticks, but I could hear a ticking noise, the silence was that deafening.
She knows there was no way of talking me out of it. She knows I can’t go more than three days without going out fishing flowing water somewhere. She knows that the river is high, the creeks are normal and it’s going to rain for the next 48 hours, blowing out all the water. I won’t go fishing for days. That would drive both of us nuts.
“Try not to get killed.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.”
By the time I got 9 miles up the creek, on the southern edge of where the tornado warning had been, it was still raining. I could tell it wasn’t going to last much longer. It was no big deal.
By the time I had hiked over a half mile through the woods to a good starting point, the rain had pretty much stopped. I’ve always enjoyed hiking through the woods in the rain. Everything closes in around you it seems. All you hear is rain coming through the trees and the creek running over rocks. In this stretch there is virtually no street traffic anyway, so there are no distractions.
In the past week everything has turned green and flowers are everywhere.
Practically happened over night.
The deer path I walk is getting over grown and navigating through these woods gets more difficult. During the summer months I’m reduced to crawling through a couple of short areas, the brush gets that dense. For now I can still brush things aside.
I was a little disappointed that the first spot produced nothing, not even a hit.
I didn’t have my hopes up for how the late afternoon was going to go. Then a muskrat that was annoyed at my presence started slapping the water. In the woods on the opposite shore a deer took off on a run, startled by the noise. A couple of wood ducks whistled by. The next cast got slammed hard by a decent smallmouth.
All in a span of about 15 seconds. Odd how that happens.
Next a couple of rock bass hit hard.
I’ve been waiting for these fish to turn on in this creek. Since I’ve never caught one out of the Fox River, only this and one other creek, I’m starting to think they winter over in some of the deeper spots. Since these two creeks are spring fed, they never freeze over. Next winters goal is to test out this theory.
If there is a fishing god and he’s a benevolent god, then he wouldn’t let the biggest fish of the day hit hard and put up a good fight without letting you land the fish. If he was benevolent he wouldn’t let you see the biggest fish of the day roll to the surface then dive for the bottom, only to flip the lure so it shoots straight up out of the water and gets tangled in the trees 10 feet over your head.
No gods are that cruel.
As I wandered down the creek, each pool produced fish. I hadn’t planned on even fishing this stretch. It was a whim that hit me when I got to the creek. I turned left instead of right and kept on going.
The biggest fish landed came out of an area I don’t recall producing a big fish in the past. The creek isn’t wide here, but there is a narrow channel in the middle with slow moving water that gets about 4 feet deep. This and another one both came off the edge of the channel.
Tucked up against a log in a tiny little pool a hand sized smallie hit as hard as it’s big brethren.
Further down in a small washout I got hit 3 times by what I assume was the same fish before I was able to get it hooked.
Throughout all of this the shores were alive with wild life. A couple of deer ran across the creek in front of me. An owl was hooting in the distance. Woodpeckers were hacking away at trees and a few ducks and geese kept looking for some place to land.
One stretch is long and shallow and is now blocked by a still live tree laying in the water.
It amazes me what the fish go through to get this far up from the main river. It amazes me that I go through all this just to catch fish. I know enough of this creek to know that it’s 9 miles of long sets of riffles and a series of long slow pools. One after another.
Of course in the shallower runs there were still more of those Illinois Creek Chub Trout to be caught. Their spawning colors seem to be fading so that must be just about done.
When I got to the pool where I had planned on starting, I barely got a hit. I’m glad I had that whim to turn left back at the start. This pool is large and easily over 8 feet deep. Some very respectable fish have come out of here over the years. I thought for sure I would do much better.
To get to the next long, slow, deep pool I had to walk through about 100 yards of shallow riffles. Half way through I gave up. It was getting late and I didn’t want to chance walking through the woods in the dark.
At that point a couple of wood ducks whistled by. They startled a red tail hawk from a tree over my head. On my right was a big dead oak laying on the shore. A huge great horned owl lifted and flew down the creek. I had never got that close to one before. Their wing span is massive. I knew at that point if I went the few more feet to the long, slow, deep pool I was going to catch a fish. These signs had been happening all the way down the creek so far and fish were caught every time.
I looked down the creek. I looked up at the darkening sky and then to the woods. My flashlight was back in the car.
Next time I put the flashlight in my fishing vest.
Mike
14 May 2011You couldn’t be more right about the woods in rain. We sat on the covered porch last evening and enjoyed a hard shower ourselves last evening. The sound, color, and smell of forest rain is a joy for the senses and a balm for the soul.
And fishing in it is a blast as well. Glad you got out and glad you shared it!
Ken G
14 May 2011The nice part is that this creek is down in a somewhat narrow valley, about 40 feet below the surrounding farm land. No wind.
Bad part is, if a tornado were to appear, I wouldn’t know it till it was on top of me. There’s always a trade off.
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Wolfy
15 May 2011Great post Ken. Smallies and rock bass are terrific!
joe
Ken G
15 May 2011And not very far from you Joe. You could do it on a long lunch.
Mel
15 May 2011Really good post, Ken. Enjoyed all the pictures of the fish and the area from which they came. Those were some nice ones! Thanks for sharing.
bob long
16 May 2011I suppose one should be circumspect in one’s statements regarding tornadoes, but I find it difficult.
I am respectful of all of Mother Nature’s activities; most of which are soft and inviting, a few of which are reminders to us humans of her more powerful side.
But even the words “powerful, soft, etc.” are all judgements from a human viewpoint. The end of my very existence is a foregone conclusion. Is it better to happen in a tornado or flood while fishing, or in a bed with loved ones gathered around?
The former suits me more than the latter, although I’m sure what loved ones I have would rather the second.
“You know, we nere found nuthin’ of him but his hat, twas all. And a broken rod. A G.Loomis bronzeback it were. His favorite. Although it didn’t have a name on it or nuttin’, so, cain’t be sure it was his.”
“Wouldn’t like to said ‘goodbye’ although he wouldn’t said to that, ‘hell, iffin’ you ain’t told me that before the tornada or flood swept me up” then when wuz you gonna’ tell me?”
Tornadoes have been here a rather long time. They owe us no apologies for what they are, for what they do. Everytime you walk out the house, Di ought to put her arms around you, give you a kiss, tell you she loves you, and ask “where’s them insurance papers again?”
“See ya’ soon, Honey Buns.” More than likely, she will, but it’s not guaranteed.
And should you not be swept up and flung to counties or places unknown, you got a chance to walk a creek, catch a fish, take a picture, see stuff most don’t, do things most won’t, and write it up so others can enjoy at least one man’s connection to nature.
So close to home, so far from people’s minds. I not sure such isolation from nature bode’s well for humankind in the long run. But, I do know Mother Nature will still do what she does regardless of how many red flags we wave about and say,
“Hey! Not here! We’re living here! Go around.”
Maybe I’m just on your wave length, in terms of what you write about, and how you write about it, but, from my point of view….
“You write better’n a gap-toothed hooker, what can suck a golf ball thru a garden hose can do what she do,” is what comes to mind as I read you.
As to exactly how I might know such things to which I might compare your writing, well, I knows.
Ken G
16 May 2011I have this habit of kissing the wife whenever I leave the house. At my age, I’ve known far too many men that have walked out and not back in.
I remember when I was a young buck, those days when you feel you should be a man and shake your old man’s hand when you see him or give him that perfunctory hug with a pat on the back. He said “you too old to give your old man a kiss? You did it as a kid and I’m still your old man.”
No, I’m not. Years later I was told by an ex-father-in-law that grown men shouldn’t kiss their fathers. The response in my head was “fuck you” and the admonition completely ignored.
Point being, by mother nature or human forces, you walk out the door and you may never come back. I’m not going to regret anything I do, even kissing the old man. His health ain’t the best these days and I would regret it if I didn’t.
For some reason when I’m out there I don’t sweat mother nature. It’s my own nature I’m having issues with. I’ve taken some falls while out in the woods, some pretty damn hard. I came down hard this year and thought I broke my leg. Still not sure I haven’t, but it’s getting better.
Now I walk through the woods and I’m hyper sensitive to the beaver punji sticks lining the river and creek banks. I remember the times I’ve fallen and the only thing that stopped my face from being smashed into the ground was the bill of my hat. There was no way my arms were going to stop me fast enough.
I can think of a lot of ways to die while doing what I do, impalement seems the least pleasant.
I think we’re cut from similar cloth Mr. Bob. From chasing rats through alleys and gangways with baseball bats as city boys to sitting still and alone on a boulder that may have been planted in the river 12,000 years ago when the glacier went away. A slight edge and a healthy dose of awe. Both come out.