If I actually tried to do all of the fishing that I’m asking ChatGPT to write about, the mental and physical gymnastics involved would be overwhelming. I should know. I’ve done it in the past.
Planning, scouring maps, searching out public land or finding parking spots near private land, lots of driving, lack of sleep from getting up too early, endless trail walking, equally endless wading and on and on.
Now I can just give a brief description of the river or creek. Tell it to fish for smallmouth bass, otherwise ChatGPT has a penchant for trout, which are virtually nonexistent in Illinois. A basic time table from week to week and hit SEND.
In less than a minute I have a short story that rivals most of what I read out there. The writing has it’s problems, but if I had never mentioned I’m using ChatGPT, most would have never known or noticed.
Now I can go fishing to numerous rivers and creeks, week after week for a number of months all in less than an hour.
It’s exhausting.
Okay, no it’s not, but for some reason I’m getting a kick out of doing this while all the time thinking of how I can expand on this somehow.
One thought rattling around in my head… so far ChatGPT has done nothing but catch and release.
Might be time for it to start stocking the freezer.
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A mere week had slipped by since my last venture to the Vermilion River canyons, yet it felt like an eternity of anticipation. The memory of those majestic canyons, the sun-kissed waters, and the electrifying battles with smallmouth bass had fueled my dreams every night. Today, I was returning, my heart pounding with excitement as I set out on this angler’s pilgrimage once more.
Pulling up to the same spot by the riverbank, a rush of familiarity and connection enveloped me. The sun was cresting over the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue over the landscape. I grabbed my trusty fishing gear from the back of the truck, each piece a tangible link to the memories forged on this very spot.
Approaching the river’s edge, a sense of unity with the water settled in, as if the river itself recognized me. Its gentle currents and whispered secrets drew me closer, beckoning me to immerse myself in its splendor. The canyons stood before me, ancient and steadfast, like guardians of a hidden treasure trove beneath the surface.
Rod in hand, I stood at the water’s edge and cast my line with practiced precision. The lure sailed through the air and met the water’s embrace with a gentle splash. Instantly, I felt the connection rekindled, the river’s pulse flowing through me as I began the rhythmic dance of the angler.
The first few casts yielded only patience, but I held onto the faith that the smallmouth bass were here, dwelling in the cool depths. The river’s murmur was a constant companion, guiding my movements as I worked the lure, each twitch a promise of a potential encounter.
Then, it happened – that electrifying jolt, a forceful pull on the line that sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I struck with precision, feeling the weight and power of the fish on the other end. The smallmouth bass put on a dazzling display of strength and agility, its leaps and dives a testament to its untamed spirit.
After a spirited struggle, I brought the smallmouth bass to my hand. Its colors shimmered like precious metals in the morning light, a living masterpiece of nature’s artistry. As I admired its beauty, a sense of reverence washed over me – I was a guest in its world, an observer of its existence. With a gentle release, I watched it slip back into the water, a fleeting moment of connection that would remain etched in my memory.
The day unfolded in a tapestry of casts, bites, and the sweet satisfaction of reeling in those magnificent fish. The sun traced its arc across the sky, casting long shadows over the water as I continued my dance with the river. With each catch, I felt a deeper kinship with this place, a recognition of the delicate balance that sustains life in these canyons.
As the sun began its descent, casting a warm glow over the canyons, I took a deep breath, savoring the final moments of this fishing expedition. The river had once again shared its secrets, its wonders, and its lessons. And as I packed up my gear and left the riverbank, I knew that the Vermilion River canyons would forever hold a place in my heart – a sanctuary of beauty, connection, and the unending allure of the angler’s pursuit.
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write a story about fishing the Vermilion River canyons in Illinois one week later for smallmouth bass in first person
