When The Fish Wouldn't Bite - Much

Over the course of 4 different outings stacked almost back to back over 2 different weekends, the fishing was bleak at best; especially under the intense heat that the Midwest was experiencing at the time.  Still, the winds were out of the south to southwest, so regardless, I proceeded while hoping for the best.  Typically if I have an open chunk of time, and am excited about the opportunity to escape to water somewhere, I’m what others often refer to as “fair game.”

On The Way To The River - Cows : )

   The first outing began on a Saturday morning.  I launched my kayak into a local river and began the arduous task of working my way upstream.  I fished as I went; often from my kayak, sometimes while standing at an inside bend to reach the outside bank, and on several occasions when I tossed my anchor out to hold me stationary in the otherwise strong current.  My anchor is somewhat sad and humorous at the same time, but it works.  To lock it in at the correct depth, I press down on the nylon anchor rope with my foot to hold it firmly against the floor of my purple kayak. While using it, I can easily remember back to when I retrieved the window counter-weights from our first house; when we remodeled to add a sliding glass door and deck out into the backyard.  The window weight anchor is a bit clunky and unconventional, but as I said, it works. And at 16 pounds, the 4 rusty iron tubes do the trick to hold me fast.  That day I caught one lone white bass and that was it.  I had been hoping to get hooked up with some river pike, but after many hours of fighting the current, I turned around and began the paddle back.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than fishing!  I also enjoyed the many different wildflowers, and the scenery as the sun reflected off the water in a thousand shards of sparkling light.

Blue Vervain

Cardinal Flower

Fluff Left Behind From An Eagle
That Took Off In Front Of Me

Woodland Sunflower Along The Banks

Labor Day weekend allotted me the opportunity for three more days to fish, so I decided to cash in on the choice to step into moving water.  It was too hot to do much else.

On that Saturday I woke early and drove 50 some miles through the dark to begin trout fishing at daybreak.  The waxing gibbous moon still hung in the southwest sky, and it felt good to once again visit a small creek I hadn’t visited in several years.  I took my time, but it was tough going in water that was choked with weeds due to the lower water levels.  I managed to catch 4 to 5 brook and brown trout.  The biggest and first fish was a 10 inch brown trout.  Each fish in succession was noticeably smaller than the last by at least an inch, until my final fish wasn’t much bigger than the lure itself.  All of them were released of course, and while doing so I remembered that it had been several years since this creek had produced much.  I like it though, and I can’t remember ever seeing anyone else there, so I give it a chance from time to time.  I saw signs of other people who have fished it though, so perhaps that’s the difference.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  That may be why I hiked back to my Jeep to try another section of the creek with a bit more water, but not without stopping first to smell the native flowers and take some pictures.  Their colors were brilliant and spectacular.

Highbush Cranberry - Viburnum

Sandpiper

Goldenrod

Purple Aster

Unfortunately the second stop yielded nary a fish, so on one last ditch effort I headed to a nearby bigger river in search of pike and smallmouth bass.  I managed to catch one bass, but almost became a permanent fixture of the area after getting bogged down in what amounted to a silt trap.  If you’ve ever stepped into one, you know the fear that can rise up within you.  I wallowed against the current through waist deep muck and water up to my chest for about one hundred yards; falling ungracefully once, but somehow managing to keep from filling my waders with water and sinking into the depths.  Once I reached a sure footed riffle, I took a picture of myself and upon the next immediate cast, my braided line became a tangled birdsnest.  Game over!  It was time to hike out and drive home.

On Sunday I started fishing in the midmorning on a locally large river; under the shadow of a fairly new sports stadium.  At this point I was only slightly desperate and willing to catch anything willing to hit the lure that I was casting into the bends.  Several times I had small fish follow my spinner up to me, but none were hooked.  I made my way up to an old railroad bridge turned bike path, and positioned myself there under its shadow to avoid the intense heat.  While the fish eluded me, I did spend a lot of time saving clams that were stuck in the shallows of the quickly receding water.  I enjoyed seeing them cleaning the water as they were filter feeding and pushing themselves along with their pseudo-foot.  Each one was carefully picked up and tossed into a little deeper water.  As I performed this conservation minded effort, I identified three different  species of the double shelled mollusk.

A Clam Pushing Along With Its Pseudo Foot

Seeing as though it was lunchtime, and more importantly that I was hungry, I zipped home for an hour or so to refuel, regroup, and refocus my efforts.  I decided that the rest of my day would be about exploring a few other local areas in addition to fishing.

I elected to return to the same big river that I had been on that morning but in a different area next to a boat ramp.  I walked and cast into the water from the shoreline until I got to some soupy muck that simply became too much.  With the walking all but impossible, and the number of downed trees lodged in the shallows threatening to snag my lures, I turned around and made my way back to the Jeep.  Although I had nothing resembling a hit, the potential was there, and I made a mental note to return at some point with my kayak to better access some of the backwater areas.  Just off the main current there had to be some toothy pike patrolling the perimeters for unwary bait fish.

My final destination for the day was below a dam that fills a raceway to a hydro plant.  Other people were scattered in various areas of the river - either fishing, swimming, or exploring.  Ironically I saw my neighbor and his daughter off in the distance moseying along in their canoe.  I found out later that they had paddled up to the dam to check it out while enjoying the opportunity to spend time in the cool water under the intense heat.  Later that evening they camped on its bank farther downstream.

I couldn’t believe how low the water was.  Mounds of gravel sent shallow trickles into a myriad of channels that would reconnect in sapphire pools before spilling out and continuing on its journey.  What a picture it painted!  All I could think about was how cool it looked.  How had I missed out on this location all of these years?  I’d been here before of course, on both sides of the river, but had somehow failed to realize the Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer opportunity held within its banks during the low water of summertime.

As I walked out onto a gravelly point, an osprey watched from the top of a dead tree above me.  At one point I actually stood in the middle of the river.  I was barely waist deep in what had always held me with a slight sense of dread.  Rightfully so of course as this river can oftentimes roar with a vengeful power that will pierce you deep with fear when its water runs deep and fast.  Today was not that day.  Although there was the continuous sound of water pouring over the dam, I waded peacefully in the tranquil water.  I fished in old running shoes and shorts, a baseball hat pulled down tight on top of sunglasses for my eyes; the rest of my skin laid bare to the power of the sun and some of our last hot days of the summer.

Standing In The Middle Of A Major River

Despite my best efforts, I didn’t see or catch anything, but I was excited about the area and figuring out how to fish it.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  I’d be back to explore its mysteries.

Monday was Labor Day.  I stopped for some night crawlers before daybreak to supplement casting with lures.  Surely I could catch some panfish, catfish, or something with fins using worms!  I returned to the spillway I had been to the previous afternoon.  The area had transformed overnight.  Whether from rains far to the North, or dams releasing more water, the gravel bars had disappeared.  You could still walk to various areas below the spillway, but with a good foot to foot and a half more water than 12 hours prior.  I fished for quite a few hours; some of that time again under the watchful eye of the osprey.  A toad and leopard frogs kept track of my movements as well; basking in the warm stagnant pools up off the river but down in the crevases of the gravelly banks.

An Osprey Takes Flight From A Dead Tree

I did foul hook a channel catfish, but with the higher water washing more food into the river, the hope for an early morning feeding frenzy was off, even after trying almost every lure in my arsenal as well as a crawler on a bobber.  A clam was the final act of my fishing for the day.  Apparently it had closed down over a hook as my spinner was reeled over it.  I had to work hard to get the hook out before releasing the mollusk unharmed.  Fortunately such an adventure constitutes more than just fishing.  It’s at times like this that you take on a different perspective of such an escapade.

I Caught A Mollusk On A Spinner

The Clam Was Released Unharmed

On my hike out, I ran into a neighbor who had lived next door to the first house that Cindy and I bought in Rockford.  Having finished fishing for the day, we talked while standing in the water and caught up with what the various members of our families were up to in the 17 years since we last saw each other.

Four outings, during 4 days, in four locations, with 4 different experiences.  The commonality throughout it all was that it was both hot as blazes and the fish wouldn’t bite.  If you look at the outings collectively, I kept from being skunked.  But it was nip and tuck on most days, and it wouldn’t be anywhere close to being considered productive; in regards to fishing anyways.  In terms of exploration and experiences it was significant.  Fortunately such adventures constitute more than just fishing!

See you along The Way…