One of the first things I did when I started playing around with ChatGPT was to ask it to write stories about fishing the Fox River like Ken Gortowski would. I was still in learning mode and had no clue what I was doing, so the stories were kind of odd and more about fishing rivers in general than the Fox River in particular. Whether or not they sounded like something I would write is debatable. As Chicago Sun Times outdoor writer Dale Bowman said about them… too many adjectives. I’d have to agree.
After that first foray I played around and had ChatGPT write a number of other stories about places I’ve fished and never fished. It continues to do a half way decent job and I continue to play around with the prompts I give it to get more or different details. But in the back of my head I still wanted them to read like something I wrote. It dawned on me that since the initial foray of asking it to write about the Fox River, I never asked it to write about the Fox again in more detail.
Years ago I wrote a lot about the Fox River. The writings showed up all over the place locally. I like to think I write like I talk. Short, clipped, to the point, making statements more than writing sentences I guess. A handful of anglers I knew used to compare my writing style to Ernest Hemingway. I don’t kid myself for a second that I have that kind of talent, but I’ve read a lot of Hemingway in the past and do appreciate his more direct style.
So that gave me an idea for a prompt to give ChatGPT:
you’ve been wading and fishing the Fox River for many years and know the river well, write a story about fishing the Fox River in Illinois for smallmouth bass in first person in the style of Ernest Hemingway
ChatGPT did a decent job of it, I think. For whatever reason, it decided to have me go fly fishing with an old bamboo fly rod, something Hemingway would do I assume. I actually have an old bamboo fly rod, but it’s in no condition to fish with. Many years ago I did a review of a bamboo fly rod for a maker of them. I won some kind of contest and was sent the rod to fish with and write about.
I did another prompt telling ChatGPT that I only use spinning gear and had it generate more stories. I was impressed with what it did and I’ll put those up later.
For now, I’ll stick with fly fishing.
_________
The Fox River flows through my veins, coursing with the spirit of adventure and the promise of elusive prey. I’ve spent countless seasons wading its waters, chasing the wily smallmouth bass that call this winding, rocky river home. Each time I step into that current, I feel a connection to the past, to the countless anglers who’ve come before me. The Fox River is more than just a body of water; it’s a timeless story of determination, patience, and the thrill of the chase.
The sun was just a faint glimmer on the eastern horizon as I made my way to the river’s edge. I could hear the whisper of the water, a low, soothing murmur that hinted at the mysteries hidden beneath its surface. The air was cool, carrying with it the scent of earth and water, a scent that had become as familiar to me as my own breath.
My old bamboo fly rod felt like an extension of my arm, worn smooth by years of use. Its action was perfect, allowing me to cast with a grace that came only from years of practice. I tied on a small popper fly, a simple creation of feather and fur that had proven itself time and again to be irresistible to smallmouth bass.
The river, in the early morning light, was a study in contrasts. Shadows danced on the water’s surface, and the ripples of the current glistened like liquid silver. I waded in slowly, feeling the familiar tug of the current against my legs, the water rushing past with a gentle urgency.
I cast my fly with precision, the line unspooling in graceful loops before landing softly on the water’s surface. I let it drift, watching it closely for any sign of movement. The smallmouth bass are a cunning adversary, masters of camouflage and ambush. They can hide in plain sight, blending seamlessly with the rocky bottom and the sun-dappled shallows.
It didn’t take long for the first strike, a sudden explosion of water as a smallmouth smashed my fly from below. The reel sang its sweet song as the fish made a run, its powerful body testing the limits of my tackle. But I knew this dance well, the give and take of line, the surges of energy, and the moments of tension as I coaxed the fish closer.
Finally, with a burst of adrenaline-fueled effort, I brought the smallmouth to the surface. Its bronze sides shimmered in the morning light, and its eyes gleamed with a fierce determination. I marveled at the beauty of this creature, its wild spirit, and its tenacity.
With practiced hands, I gently removed the hook and cradled the smallmouth in the water, feeling the surge of life beneath my fingers. I watched as it darted away, disappearing into the depths, a brief but powerful encounter with a creature of the river.
I cast again and again, each moment a new chapter in the ongoing story of my relationship with the Fox River. The smallmouth bass were my muse, my inspiration, and my challenge. And as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the river whispered its secrets, I knew that this was where I belonged, where the past and the present converged, and where the pursuit of the smallmouth bass would forever be my passion.
