Late autumn is a precious time. We savor every moment of daylight, each glimpse of sun. As the cold fronts from the north become more biting and frequent, we steal any hour we can for the pleasure of fishing without gloves or parka. A weekend that isn't totally miserable is seen as an opportunity, a gift.
I had such an opportunity, although it didn't seem that way at first. The ad agency where I freelance needed someone to photograph the opening of a fast-food franchise. I figured the good will and the extra income would make it worthwhile, so I volunteered to give up my Saturday.
But an online visit to Mapquest revealed the true potential of this assignment. The place in question was in the far western suburbs of Chicago, not far from a river known to hold smallmouth bass.
All summer I had perfected the art a catching largemouth with a fly rod. I had enjoyed some epic battles and acquired a bit of bass bugging skill. Yet the river-dwelling smallmouth continued to elude me.
I have always fantasized about casting my wooly bugger into fast-moving riffles, only to be devoured by an unseen bronzeback. But the closest wadeable rivers are at least an hour's drive away, unlike the smattering of stocked ponds that dot my suburb. I needed an excuse to grab my fly rod and disappear from family responsibilities without seeming totally self-indulgent. And now I had one.
It took about 20 minutes to find the stretch of the DuPage River that I had targeted. I followed the perimeter of the forest preserve until it led to an access road. The parking lot was nearly empty except for some Boy Scouts and parents with strollers.
Instead of a rushing, rock-strewn stream, I found a lazy backwater. Charming, but definitely not smallmouth territory. Still, I threaded a bit of nightcrawler on a small jig and cast my lightweight spinning rod in hopes of at least attracting a famished bluegill. But the minutes passed without any results.
I noticed I was being observed by a couple of locals. One asked me what I was fishing for.
"I heard there are smallmouth," was my reply.
"All you'll catch here are bullheads," he said. "You have to go downriver past the bridge."
They described a small dam just off the road. At the foot of the dam, in the deep holes scooped out by the current, I would find what I was seeking. I retreated to my car, dug out my hip boots and grabbed my fly rod. This was my last chance to do it right. The light was fading, and it looked as of it would rain again.
The falls were a short walk away through a forest golden with fallen leaves. I followed a path along the river until I could hear the rushing water. Tumbling down a slippery mud embankment, I found myself streamside.
Here was the shallow, rock-strewn water I had seen in all the fishing magazines. I entered the water tentatively, but as I got a feel for the bottom, I grew more confident. Starting with my lightweight spinning rig and jig, I zeroed in on the water just below the dam. Before long I started getting hits. After a short tussle, I landed my first contender.
My thrill at catching anything was slightly tempered by close inspection that revealed not a smallie, but a lean, athletic largemouth. More confident, I switched to my fly rod. I tied on a white fluffy leech with a silver cone head. It cast nicely and I started wading closer to the opposite shore. The steep, carved bank looked especially promising, and I placed my lure precisely. Within minutes I saw a flash in the water, and my line rocketed sideways.
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