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…

A Rookie In Tight Quarters!

When we were kids the first thing that my sisters and I would inquire of my Dad, upon his returning from a fishing adventure, was if he had caught anything.  He’d usually reply, “Well, I swam as fast as I could, but I couldn’t catch any.”  Our typical response to him at that point was, “Dad, you know what we mean!  Did you get any fish?”   It was a standard “Dad Joke.”

This morning, after sleeping in a bit longer than expected to make sure potential storms had moved northeast of us, I prepared my gear for fishing.  As my wife, daughter, and I are staying in a rented cabin this week, I flipped over the kayak included in the package deal.  I had already grabbed a life jacket from the hallway closet, and picked up both my pole and backpack full of lures and other helpful equipment.

I started southeast from our dock and pitched my six inch Rapala towards the shore and neighboring docks, reeling it back out over the drop-off.  I worked my way around to where I knew a twenty foot hole extended diagonally across the lake.  Once lined up, I continued casting ahead, allowing the drag of the lure to pull me slowly ahead as the paddle lay across my lap.  After reaching the opposite shore, I proceeded through a channel into a wider, enclosed bay; working lily pads as I entered.  I hadn’t gone too far before a bald eagle flew over me, and two loons serenaded me with their wailing cry.  Their sound was unique; both exciting and haunting.  

Weeds began to show as the depth shallowed, so I switched to a Scum Frog lure that my Dad had given to me.  It allows you to cast onto lily pads and over underwater vegetation without getting snagged.  My wife likens it to an all-terrain vehicle.  Still, I moved on without anything even slightly resembling a hit from a fish.

After almost two hours of being on the water, I began to exit the bay by way of the channel I had come in through; this time working the southwest bank with a #5 silver spooned Mepps spinner.  Occasionally on my cast I would remember to swirl my lure in a figure-8 pattern, or at least back and forth as much as my low profile in the kayak would allow me.  It’s a technique that many fisherman use for those trailing, lurking fish that need encouragement and a little extra time to think twice about opportunistically hitting what looks like food and the catch of their day.  

One of my casts at that time landed on the outside edge of some lily pads sandwiched between two docks.  I was about to consider making the extra patterned movement before lifting the spinner from the surface of the water when at 7 to 8 feet off my starboard bow, I finally had a hit.  It was both immediate and solid; doubling my pole.  Elation was my first thought, as I just knew this was going to be a really nice pike.  The fish dove for the bottom of the channel, wrapping my pole under the bottom side of the kayak and then surged for the lily pads, dragging me with it.

The great fish made several more runs like that before rolling at the surface, and triggering that inner voice that had kept trying to tell me that this was probably more than a pike.  On that roll the fish looked greenish-brown, with none of a pike’s horizontal yellow dashes along it’s flank.  Several times I tried to bring it alongside me as I held on with one arm and scrounged through my backpack laying in the bottom of the kayak; looking for my phone to try to take some pictures of what was going on.

This fish was big, dwarfing the silver Mepps lodged in the side of its mouth.  It slapped its tail, dove, and sprayed me when I reached for my gripper.  I had managed to fire off a few quick pictures of the fish on the surface of the lake, but I was struggling to get the gripper attached to its jaw.  It would pass so swiftly through the water that I couldn’t get it fixed on like a person might that could lift the fish’s head while standing in a boat.  At water level, the points of my treble hook, and the points of the teeth in its huge head were a bit more “up close and personal” than one might like, but I finally got the gripper hooked into its jaw on around pass number ten.  I also got thoroughly soaked in the undertaking!  I was now solidly attached to a 40 inch-ish muskellunge!

I quickly saw that the small forceps I use to extract hooks from the trout that I typically catch was dangerously akin to bear hunting with a switch.  While my right arm was being wrenched from its socket, I again dug into my backpack for my multi-tool.  The pliers on that could do the trick.  In fact, they had to do the trick.

If elation was my first thought, panic was a close second; not for the fish and the catch, but more for the release.  I was attached to what some might term a predicament.  Fortunately I was able to get the Mepps lure out of the corner of its jaw and out of the muskie using the pliers.  Unfortunately, once I did that I saw that my line came down from the tippet of my pole and through the small gap between the sides of my gripper, which of course was attached to my wrist and the muskie; the cheaper quality, smaller model of gripper at that!

If the fish had thrashed again with a loose lure, it could have gotten ugly (-er).  I worked desperately to cut the fluorocarbon, threw the lure in the bottom of the kayak, whipped my pole out of the way, got my phone ready, grunted to lift the muskie up out of the water for at least a partial selfie with half of me and half of the fish...and then the #%@$ phone wouldn’t work!  No matter what I tried (with one hand), I couldn’t get it to take my picture as my phone had gotten wet.  “Nooooo!”  In frustration I thought to myself that this couldn’t possibly be happening now.  I wanted a picture.  I needed a picture!

I was getting nervous about getting the fish released, however, so I lowered him into the water and undid the gripper.  It was just that easy.  Suddenly all was calm.  I watched the silhouette of the fish descend into the murkiness of the water and then scoot up under a dock.  I know muskies can grow much bigger, and that in these parts, a “keeper” only starts at 40 inches, but considering I was sitting in a kayak at water level, with an average pole and gripper, it was still a respectable catch.  Most likely it was the new braided line and fluorocarbon leader I had recently put on, coupled with the knots I had learned how to tie that certainly made all of the difference.

I could see the muskie gently finning in place and his tail even came up out of the water once when he bobbed down, but after about five minutes or so the great fish disappeared back into the channel.  I felt confident that it would survive the ordeal.  I had gone from elation, to panic, to frustration with the camera, and now finally relief.

The release was not how I had pictured it, as in a perfect situation I would have wanted to hold the muskie and slowly work it back and forth before letting it swim strongly away.  Catch: A+; Release: C-/D.  I was definitely a rookie in tight quarters, but admittedly it would make for an exciting story. 

I restarted my phone as I paddled away, and of course it instantly worked again.  And once I was back at our cabin, I took the case off and dried it entirely so it was back to normal on all accounts.

Later when I told my family about my experience, Mom said that she wished she could see a whole movie of that adventure, while my sister replied that she could picture the craziness.  Dad had wondered what would happen if he ever got a hold of a big pike or muskie while in a kayak, adding, “Now I know.  Think I’ll stick to a boat or canoe at least...if I have a choice!”  My Uncle Bob wrapped it up commenting, “When you have a fish like that, anything can go wrong and always does.  It’s part of the fishing experience!”

I suppose the story of what I caught and how I caught it became the picture that only I can see inside of my head.  I’m not gonna lie that even several hours later I was still a bit jittery from the whole darn experience...but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take another shot at it given another chance.

See you along The Way...