The Fox remains one very special place

Phil Harrington is long gone from this earthly quarter, but when I met him more than three decades ago he never hesitated in passing along some of his personal philosophy.

It was probably his statements about rivers and all those other places that drive one's imagination about those ethereal places.

Simply, he stated, "Never take these special places for granted, hence one day they may well disappear or change for the worse."

For me the Fox River falls into that sacred category of specialness.

He we are, on the cusp of winter, still being injected with surprising doses of autumn warmth, and bonus fishing days if one is willing to wear clothing a tad heavier than what we have draped ourselves with the past month.

The Fox River, both here in Illinois and in southern Wisconsin is one of those rare gems that has gone through its own strife and abuse. And because I am often naive, my usual tactic led me to believe the Fox was always treated with respect and gentleness. That has not been the case.

I went back to a stretch of water north of Wisconsin's Highway 50 and roamed the banks. Paul Engstrom informed me that he relishes the smallmouth and white sucker fishing here as well as the scenery.

I was drawn to the river's smallmouth bass opportunities some years ago. I discovered the joys of tossing small spinners to slack-water pools and feeling the strength of a smallie challenging me to a battle. The late Buck Squancho and I discovered a school of walleye on that Wisconsin stretch I just mentioned. We beached the canoe and sat in one spot for over an hour catching and releasing fat 'eyes almost as if we were in northern Minnesota.

One can't help but enjoy the Fox, especially when an angler dons chest waders and slowly explores the various hiding places where fish sneak away, out of the current, if you will.

The Fox is one of those storied streams that has been abused by an ever-growing human element along its shoreline. It was only in fairly recent times that the bureaucrats got smart and made valuable changes for sewage removal that this piece of natural treasure was able to have fresh breaths of life applied.

So, as I wandered the grassy banks I looked for potential spots where a a sinking fly could possibly tempt a customer.

I noticed the water roil near an outcropping of rocks and I made my short cast. It took four tries but in the end the fly line went taught and I knew something grabbed my offering. Six inches of smallmouth bass leaped out of the water and danced its way to the other bank. It was no match for my fly rod. I gently placed the fish back in to the water and moved slightly upstream. I made another half-dozen casts and then a fish struck like a freight train. A 14-inch torpedo kept my adrenaline pumping as the wind picked up, causing the remaining leaves to whip around the branches of nearby trees.

We as fishermen have certain obligations, you know. There is an unspoken suggestion that when we visit a precious place like the Fox we are supposed to leave it in better shape than when we first arrived there. Just by absorbing the majesty of this stream, my incentive to adhere to that obligation only increases.

This river is the gift that keeps on giving.