I didn’t fish much and never a river before I turned 40. After that, fishing the Fox River and the creeks that feed it became an obsession. For 19 years that’s all I really cared about doing.
Over those 19 years I’ve also cruised many, many miles on back roads all along the river and to its creeks.
For those that have followed along with all that I’ve written over the years, they know that each year I would do a year end review where I would do a long post documenting all that I did in any given year. Peppered throughout that long post would be lots of pictures also documenting it all.
I stopped doing that years ago. If I had to do one of my yearend fishing reviews for 2023, it would be pretty short and with few photos. I got out fishing in 2023, but all of the trips added up to what I used to do in about 2 weeks years ago.
So I asked ChatGPT to write a year end fishing review for me:
Write a story reminiscing about all the small rivers and creeks I fished this year in northern Illinois while wading and fishing for smallmouth bass in first person and in the style of Ernest Hemingway. Use around 2000 words.
I’ve also played around with a couple of AI art generators to see if they could render something that looked like the places I used to fish. Some aren’t bad, others look like I’m fishing in some fantasy land. In other words, those were pretty pathetic. I also let the art generators give the images somewhat of a painterly quality. I could live with those.
I’ve decided to intersperse those images in the story that ChatGPT generated, even the ones that look kind of pathetic. I figure why not. I used to do that those many years ago, why not let the AI generators do the same.
All in all, the year end review is not too bad. It doesn’t have fish totals or the variety of fish I caught or their sizes, but I had given up doing that over the years and just wrote about the experience of being out there and fishing.
To this day, that’s why I still go out now and then.
You just can’t beat it.
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The summer sun in northern Illinois beats down mercilessly, shimmering off the small rivers and creeks that weave through the heartland like veins pulsing with life. This year, I found myself knee-deep in those waters, chasing the elusive smallmouth bass that haunt the shadows beneath overhanging branches and sunken rocks. Each ripple in the water held a secret, a promise of adventure and the thrill of the catch.
My journey began on the Fox River, a sinuous ribbon of water that winds its way through the landscape like a snake seeking refuge. The current whispered stories of ages past, tales of Native American tribes and pioneers who once navigated these same waters. I stepped into the river, feeling the cool embrace of the current against my legs, and cast my line with the precision of a man who has spent a lifetime mastering the art of fishing.
The smallmouth bass, with its bronze armor and fierce demeanor, became my obsession. I had a score to settle with these river-dwelling warriors, a desire to understand their ways and outsmart them at their own game. The Fox River, with its rocky bottom and hidden eddies, offered the perfect battleground.
I remember a particular afternoon on the Fox when the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow across the water. The river whispered a gentle invitation, and I waded into its depths, my rod in hand. The smallmouth bass were elusive that day, playing a game of hide-and-seek among the submerged boulders. But I was patient, casting my line with a grace that spoke of countless hours spent perfecting my craft.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the river came alive with the sounds of nature. The symphony of crickets and the distant call of a lone owl added a soundtrack to my solitude. It was a moment suspended in time, a communion with the river and the smallmouth bass that continued to elude me.
From the Fox River, I ventured to the Kishwaukee, a lesser-known tributary that carved its way through the heart of farmland. The Kishwaukee was a quiet river, its waters clear and inviting. The smallmouth bass here were rumored to be cunning, a challenge for even the most seasoned angler.
I recall a foggy morning on the Kishwaukee, the mist rising from the water like spirits dancing in the early light. I waded through the shallows, my senses heightened by the mystical atmosphere. The riverbank was lined with ancient willows, their branches dipping into the water like the fingers of wise old men offering guidance.
The smallmouth bass in the Kishwaukee were a different breed, discerning and wise. I had to adapt my tactics, casting with a subtlety that mimicked the delicate dance of insects on the water’s surface. It was a game of finesse, a delicate balance between patience and precision. As the mist slowly lifted, revealing the secrets hidden beneath, I felt a tug on my line. The battle was on, and in that moment, the Kishwaukee became my ally in the struggle against the wily smallmouth bass.
Moving on, I found myself on the Rock River, a broad and powerful waterway that demanded respect. The Rock River, with its swift currents and deep pools, was the domain of the true river angler. I waded cautiously, feeling the force of the river against my legs as I cast my line into the heart of its depths.
It was on the Rock River that I encountered a smallmouth bass of legendary proportions. The fish, a behemoth with a back that glistened like burnished copper, lurked in the shadow of a submerged log. I could sense its ancient wisdom, a creature that had witnessed the passage of time and weathered countless storms.
The battle that ensued was one for the ages. The Rock River roared in the background, a chorus of nature’s power as I wrestled with the giant on the end of my line. Each pull and surge of the fish sent tremors through my arms, but I held on with the determination of a man unwilling to concede defeat. In the end, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I stood victorious, the massive smallmouth bass cradled in my hands. It was a moment of triumph, a testament to the indomitable spirit of both angler and fish.
Okay, looks nothing like the DuPage River, but I have to use these up.
The journey continued to the DuPage River, a meandering waterway that cut through the suburban landscape like a hidden gem. The DuPage, with its serene stretches and riffles, offered a different kind of challenge. The smallmouth bass here were cunning, masters of camouflage in the clear waters that revealed every nuance of the riverbed.
One memorable day on the DuPage, I found myself navigating a series of shallow rapids, the water bubbling and frothing around me. The smallmouth bass darted like ghosts in the crystal-clear currents, their forms blending seamlessly with the river stones. I cast my line with precision, aiming for the pockets and eddies where the crafty bass lay in wait.
The DuPage River taught me the art of stealth, the need to become one with the river and read its subtle cues. I moved with the grace of a heron stalking its prey, my eyes keenly attuned to the ever-shifting patterns beneath the surface. It was a dance of patience and anticipation, a communion with the smallmouth bass that called the DuPage home.
Would be nice if the Des Plaines actually looked like this.
As the summer days waned, I explored the Des Plaines River, a waterway that carved its way through forests and wetlands, a testament to the untamed beauty of the Illinois landscape. The Des Plaines, with its slow-moving currents and hidden bends, offered a final frontier in my quest for smallmouth bass.
One crisp day on the Des Plaines, I found myself surrounded by the vibrant hues of autumn. The trees, adorned in shades of red and gold, mirrored their reflections on the placid surface of the river. The smallmouth bass, sensing the changing seasons, became more elusive, their movements calculated and deliberate.
I waded through the shallows, my breath visible in the brisk air, and cast my line into the heart of the river. The Des Plaines revealed its secrets slowly, requiring a heightened awareness of the nuances that defined its character. I felt a subtle pull on my line, a gentle acknowledgment from the river that I had earned its trust. The smallmouth bass, though fewer in number, were no less formidable in their wits.
As I released the smallmouth bass back into the river, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for these waters that had been my companions throughout the season. Each creek, river, and pool had etched its mark on my soul, leaving me with a mosaic of memories that would linger long after the last cast of the season.
I stood on the banks of the Des Plaines, the water swirling around my boots, the air crisp with the promise of winter and felt a profound gratitude for the journey I had undertaken. The day’s endeavors had etched lines of weariness on my face, but they were lines of contentment, of a life well-lived. The small rivers and creeks of northern Illinois had woven their magic, and I, in turn, had become a part of their story.
The night enveloped the landscape, and the stars glittered overhead like diamonds strewn across the velvet sky. I turned away from the river, the echo of its whispers lingering in my ears. With each step, I carried the memories of the season – the dance of the lure, the explosive strikes, and the quiet moments of reflection on the water’s edge. The smallmouth bass had been the elusive companions of my journey, and the creeks and rivers had been the silent witnesses to the ebb and flow of life.
As I walked away, the sounds of the night embraced me – the distant calls of owls, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the soft murmur of water in the darkness. I cast a final glance over my shoulder, acknowledging the rivers and creeks that had shaped my season. The smallmouth bass, the currents, and the wild beauty of northern Illinois had become a part of my story, a chapter written in the language of nature.
In the stillness of the night, I whispered my gratitude to the waters that had cradled me in their embrace. The small rivers and creeks of northern Illinois had bestowed upon me a season of connection and discovery, a journey that transcended the mere act of fishing. And as I disappeared into the shadows, the river continued its eternal song, a melody that would resonate in the heart of every angler who sought solace in the embrace of nature.
