The doom and gloom surrounding anything AI continues unabated lately. It will be the end of us for sure it seems. But I noticed the end has more to do with those still in the workforce. Probably replacing workers en masse in some situations. Since I don’t work anymore, I guess it will generally have no affect on me whatsoever.
Most things I need and use are already automated as far as I can tell. If more of that happened, I’m not even sure I would notice. On a day to day basis for the things I do and need to get done, AI can’t compete. I can tell it to write half way interesting fishing and hunting stories all I want, but it can’t physically go do either.
Same with the growing and processing of food. I’m sure AI can tell me all about those things, but beyond that it can’t participate at all. No help with spring planting of seeds. No help with prepping the soil for planting. No planting of seedlings, weeding, pruning, picking of ripe fruits and veggies. I’m sure it can tell me all about water bath and pressure canning, but it can’t do it or help. So it’s totally useless as far as I’m concerned.
Now if I were an outdoor writer, I guess I once was, I might be a little nervous. Fine tuning ChatGPT to put out passable outdoor stories on fishing and hunting hasn’t been that difficult and I still think they’re better than 90% of what I read out there. I’ve thought about presenting these to magazines just to see what happens, but that seems like too much work on my part.
Some day if I get around to it I might put everything ChatGPT has generated into a book.
The hardest part of doing that will be coming up with a name for ChatGPT.
Till then, more AI generated fishing stories.
_________
A week had passed since my last visit to the Fox River during the peak of fall color. As I returned to the river’s edge, I couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes that had taken place in such a short time. The fiery reds and golden yellows that had once adorned the trees had now mellowed into earthy tones of russet and brown. It was as if the river and the surrounding forest were preparing for the long slumber of winter.
The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of fallen leaves and the promise of the approaching cold. I stood at the river’s edge, the same bamboo rod in hand, but with a sense of anticipation different from the previous visits. I knew that this day would be a farewell of sorts, a final embrace of autumn’s beauty before the inevitable arrival of winter.
With the river’s surface reflecting the muted colors of the trees, I tied on a fly that mimicked the fallen leaves now drifting on the water’s surface. It was a bittersweet reminder of the changing of the seasons, a reminder that all things, even the most beautiful, must eventually come to an end.
The strikes from the smallmouth bass were gentler now, as if they too were aware of the river’s imminent transformation. Each battle was a subtle dance, a graceful exchange of energy between angler and fish. The smallmouth seemed to sense the changing of the guard, their movements more deliberate and measured.
As I fished the Fox, I couldn’t help but take in the serenity of the moment. The rustling leaves provided a soothing backdrop to the river’s murmur, and the world seemed to be settling into a state of quiet reflection. The riverbanks were empty, save for the occasional passerby, and it felt as if the river and I were sharing a private moment.
As the day waned and the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, fading light upon the river, I knew it was time to bid farewell to this place that had become such an integral part of my life. I packed up my gear slowly, savoring each moment, each detail of the river’s changing face.
Driving away from the Fox River, I felt a sense of nostalgia mixed with gratitude. The end of fall color marked the passage of time, a reminder of the ever-turning wheel of seasons. But I knew that this river would be here, waiting, when the world once again awakened from its winter slumber. And as I left the river behind, I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that I would return, time and time again, to greet the changing seasons with each cast of the line.
