2000fish's Blog – Steve Wozniak's hunt for fish species

DATELINE: MAY 23, 2024 – INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA

Many of you have wondered, often loudly, what in the world Steve Ramsey is thinking when he invites me to stay at his place for 10 days at a stretch. Marta, who adores Steve, still questions his judgment when he subjects himself to these marathons. Say what you will, but when Steve and I catch up, we get a lot done in a short time, even if it means sacrificing sleep, healthy diet, and occasionally, Steve’s dignity.

This trip would be no exception. I showed up at Ramsey’s house around noon, the day after the lake chubsucker debacle, and 13 minutes later, we were at Skyline Chili.

Welcome to Indianapolis.

The rest of the day consisted of more Skyline, half a gallon of ice cream, and countless episodes of “Blue Bloods,” but we turned in early, like 3am, because we had big plans that day.

One of the many things I love about Steve is that he helped re-introduce me to my Hoosier roots. I was born in Indiana, but because my parent moved so often, I was always that new kid in school, behind the curve in having any sort of cultural grounding. I formed my sports loyalties in Michigan, but it was only as an adult, courtesy of Steve, that I reconnected with Indiana.

Our destination that day was Fort Wayne, my home town and location of the ill-fated road trip/hostage situation to see a minor league hockey game. This time, we would be seeing baseball – the Fort Wayne Tin Caps, Single-A affiliate of the San Diego Padres. Unlike the spontaneous Komets adventure, we left ourselves plenty of spare time, because, before the game, we were going to attempt to find the house I was born into. I had an address and some faint memories from no later than 1967.

The trip up seemed to take a while, because, to Ramsey’s great relief, we went the speed limit. We took the same exit we had for the ice arena, and only then did I start looking at the map, which I had directed to the street, but not the address. I wanted to see if I could recognize it. It had only been 57 years.

As we wound our way through a residential area, I tried to picture the house. I remembered it white with red shutters, and very big, but then again, everything seemed big when I was little.

We passed a brown house that was obviously built well after I lived in the area, and then I hit the brakes. There it was. It was painted differently, but the shape was instantly recognizable. Sadly, there was a Notre Dame flag waving near the door, but this was it.

My first home, present day.

The same home, circa 1965. The sapling on the near right has grown into the big tree on the right and top of the previous picture. I think of my parents in this, the first house they bought together, full of hope, two young children, and their entire future ahead. On the day this picture was taken, everything was possible for them.

I walked around the perimeter of the property, and little flashes came back to me – a pond in some vacant property behind us, long since built over, me playing in the front yard, my Mom making cookies in the kitchen. Impulsively, I knocked on the door, and the current owner generously invited me in to have a look.

The kitchen counter, present day. Amazingly, they had cookies. If I close my eyes, I can still see my Mom with a baking sheet, probably 1965, standing just to the right of the stove. I would have been standing at the entrance to the back porch, where I once broke all the windows with a deposit bottle.

This is where I formed my first memories. This is where I got over my fear of a monster coming out of the closet, and sadly, where my sister never did, because the monster in her closet was me in a Frankenstein mask.

The ballpark was one of the better Single-A stadiums I have ever seen, and we got to watch the Tin Caps pull off a 9th-inning comeback – an excellent night.

Steve and Steve at the ballpark, in full Tin Caps regalia.

The trip home included our standard stop at the Anderson White Castle.

We eat here quite a bit, because Skyline isn’t open in the middle of the night.

The next day was fairly epic as sports days go.

The Indianapolis Indians were playing Detroit’s AAA club, Toledo. (As I Tigers fan, I am obligated to root Mud Hen.) It was a great game, especially knowing we were watching some future Detroit stars.

I would be remiss not to mention we were hosted by Pam Aitken, who seems to know everyone, and I mean everyone, in Indianapolis. Pam is the only confirmed witness to my home run at the Field of Dreams in Iowa.

We had to leave the game a bit early to catch a dinner reservation. As we walked around the outfield lawn, Steve mentioned to keep an eye open in case someone homered. I chuckled. I have never gotten a batted ball as a spectator at any level of professional baseball.

Parker Meadows of the Mud Hens was batting, and I wasn’t looking, but I heard the distinctive crack of solid contact. I looked up, and the ball was on a trajectory indicating the pitcher should have thrown something else. The ball landed in a camera pit over the fence in deepest center field.

Without a second thought, I broke into what passes for a sprint at my age. I pulled up just short of the camera, made sure the camera guy didn’t want it, and picked up the ball. I had finally gotten one.

According to Steve, I barely beat some heartbroken eight year-old to the ball. Stop the hate mail, people – the kid will have plenty of time to get his own ball.

Parker Meadows ended up on the big club quickly thereafter, and was a crucial part of the Tigers unexpected playoff run.

Mr. Ramsey and I walked over to St. Elmo’s, a local institution and one of the best steakhouses anywhere. (And a prominent part of “Two Parties” – one of my favorite “Parks and Recreation” installments.) As we enjoyed our beef, we got chatting with our waitress, Emilee, who turned out to have been an extra in that very episode.

Emilee – a standout among one of the best restaurant staffs I have ever worked with.

And there she is with Nick Offerman, who plays Ron Swanson. How cool is that?

You will notice that I was wearing a Ron Swanson t-shirt. I come prepared.

Our evening plans were actually the highlight of the trip. We had tickets for the WNBA’s Indiana Fever and the home debut of Caitlin Clark. I don’t know basketball that well, but I know a generational talent when I see one, and I was looking very forward to seeing her play.

Gainbridge Fieldhouse was absolutely crazed – I don’t know that I’ve ever been in a louder arena. And although the girls from New York were bigger and meaner, we could see that Caitlin was going to be a star. And we were there in person.

Caitlin’s first home free throw. She deserves more of these. The other team played a lot more hockey than basketball.

Although they lost this matchup, they still turned their season around and made the playoffs.

Congratulations on reading this far – you just knew there would be some fishing, and we have reached that part of the story. I had connected with Bloomington-based species expert Ron Anderson (of Ron and Jarrett fame,) and he would be taking me and Gerry Hansell on a three-day swing through what was intended to be Kentucky and Tennessee, but ended up including Georgia, Alabama, and possibly Mongolia.

The first day of these things invariably involves a lot of driving. We were in the car around five hours before we pulled over in a nondescript Tennessee town, walked through a city park to a small creek, and set to it. Ron has his locations down amazingly well, and it didn’t take me long to add a species – the headwater darter.

I never get great photos of these. Carson Moore does, but I don’t.

We had a sumptuous dinner at Subway, during which I commented on their wet floor, but then sheepishly realized I hadn’t changed out of my water shoes. We finished up, then drove off to another nearby creek to hunt more darters. It was absolutely perfect – a low, clear river with plenty of structure to hunt until the wee hours when our headlamps would finally give out.

I managed to scratch out two more darters – the dirty darter and the Cumberland snubnose.

The dirty darter. You can fill in your own punchline here.

The snubnose complex gives me ID fits, but if Jarrett says it’s good, it’s good.

We stayed out to some insane hour, and I ended up wading a God-forsaken swamp after something that turned out not to be there, but I did get one of the nicer pictures of a snubnose I’ve ever gotten.

You have to love those colors, even at 3am.

But you don’t have to love that spider.

Even though we would end up with a very short night of sleep, three new ones on the scoreboard took the sting out of it.

The next two days are what we call “regressing to the norm.” The further south and east we went, the murkier the water got, evidence of recent heavy rain. We tried side channels, we tried tributaries, but it was hard work. Gerry managed to scrape up a Caney Fork darter, which I hadn’t caught.

Steve hunts the river with the aid of a “Minnowview 3000” – a bucket with a plexiglass bottom that provides a vastly improved view through roiled water. Alas, it won’t x-ray through sediment, but Ron is working on one that does.

I certainly saw a few, but just at the very edge of visibility. This did not please me, but my consolation prize was a spectacularly bland cherry darter.

These are normally much more colorful, but a species is a species.

Near starvation and off the beaten track, we stumbled into Ramsey’s Barbeque – a truly authentic local place that opens when they’re finished cooking and closes when they sell out.

No relation to Steve. Damn it was good.

That evening, we caught up with Robert Lamb, a local naturalist who is very well-known in the species hunting world. He’s an expert in almost anything that lives near or under water within a day’s drive of Southeastern Tennessee, and I have heard Ron and Jarrett speak of him in glowing terms. We met up at a section of river that was supposed to have several rare darters, but alas, Robert’s superpowers end at controlling the weather. Everything we tried was blown out – this is always a risk on road trips.

Ron, Gerry, Robert, and Steve. I didn’t know it at the time, but I would be back at this same spillway in a month.

We searched well into the night, and each new target idea took us hours off the planned route. We somehow ended up in Georgia at 2am, and, while exploring up some small creeks, inadvertently wandered onto a state facility and had to deal with a polite but extremely bewildered official. Once he understood what we were trying to catch, he was very interested and gave us quite a bit of good advice, but we had certainly dodged a bullet. Semi-literally. Folks in this region tend to be well-armed.

The next morning held a melancholy destination – the Estillfork in Northern Alabama. It was and is one of the greatest darter spots on the planet, but my last visit here had been with Dom Porcelli. Ron and Gerry had both fished with him, and we all shared our memories as we made the drive. I didn’t expect anything new, but it was still incredible to see it, just as prime as it was that day in May of 2021.

Gerry and Ron both got blotchside logperch, a lifer for both of them. Sadly, Dom never got one. I wandered the shallows, just fishing for the sake of it, hours I hoped would never end, getting darter after darter, with every new rock a shot at something new and memorable.

Gerry chases a logperch. This place is pure magic.

I passed the time catching assorted darters, like this snubnose.

We finally hit the road in late afternoon, and headed a few hours north into Tennessee, where we had one more target that would make the whole day if we could find it. It was a slabrock darter, something of a rarity, and we had to deal with several obstacles, not the least of which was a locked parking area. Mind you, the creek wasn’t closed, just the park adjacent to it, so we ended up with a much longer walk than planned.

The fishing more than made up for any inconveniences – Gerry and I nailed nice slabrocks in just a few minutes, and we actually got to sleep at a reasonable hour.

Species 2293, and my first of the barcheek darters.

Drive home days are usually set up with one or two targets to break up the monotony. Ron had picked out a couple of quick stops, and for that one day, everything came up roses. Our first stop was on the Stones River, scene of a brutal Civil War battle, to chase the stone darter. It’s not much more than a creek, and it was sobering to think that almost 3000 soldiers died here in 1862.

The guys at the river. Nice place, but it didn’t look worth fighting for.

Poking around some loose rock, we found the target right away, and they bit aggressively.

Another of the barcheek variants, this was my 6th species – and 6th darter – of the trip. This was my 80th darter species.

A few hours later, we pulled up at a familiar location – the campground where we had been flooded out of a shot at a redtail chub a few years ago. This time, the parking lot was not underwater, and we made short work of the beast.

The first non-darter new species of the trip.

The water conditions – definitely fishable.

The same spot in 2023. Not fishable.

A couple of hours later, we made our last stop of the drive, chasing yet another “shot in the dark” darter – the Shawnee. We parked at a small creek somewhere in the middle of Kentucky, and again, very quickly, the darters showed up and bit.

The Shawnee darter.

We were thrilled, and the five hours home flew by as we talked shop – future trips, future species, future sleep deprivation. We parted ways in Bloomington, and I can’t thank Ron and Gerry enough for their time and dedication.

After another day of Skyline Chili and local wandering, I decided I was going to give it a try for the one species near Steve’s house that was still realistic. The bowfin has recently been split into northern and southern varieties, and all my catches thus far had been southern. On the advice of Ron, I drove to a spillway perhaps 40 minutes from Steve’s place, caught a few panfish for cut bait, and worked my way to a pool downstream. (I had tried this spot one chilly late October day and missed a big fish, so this was a rematch.) The weather was pleasant this time and I knew I had a good chance. The fish made it undramatic, except when I nearly went swimming trying to net it on a steep, slippery bank.

The eyespot bowfin, species 2297, and likely the last one within an hour of Ramsey’s place.

Since I was back at Ramsey’s, we had to squeeze in at least one more sports event. Bearing in mind that Steve and I think nothing of driving five hours to go to an evening game in Detroit and then coming back that very same night, we were off for Comerica to see my beloved Tigers play.

It’s not Tiger Stadium, but it’s still our home field, and yes, we will drive 10 hours to see three hours of baseball.

And of course, if we’re seeing a game in Detroit, we’re inviting Sean Biggs, he of the massive slap shot – a buddy I have known since 7th grade. That’s almost – gulp – 50 years.

Sean, Steve, and Steve at the ballpark.

And in those almost 50 years, the Tigers have won exactly one World Series – the “Bless You Boys” year of 1984. The Tigers fell short on this evening, losing to Toronto on “Canadian-American Heritage Night” – the staff got even with the Blue Jays by playing Justin Bieber songs. I hope the Tigers pull off another one in my lifetime – note we are not discussing 2006 or 2012 here – but in the meantime, the important thing is just getting to every game we can.

Paying homage at the Norm Cash shrine. Cash was my childhood hero, and inspired me to play first base, a position well-suited to my fielding range.

We all parted ways around 10pm, and it was off to Indianapolis. The trip took us from Detroit, where I had formed my sports loyalties in the early 1970s, south through Indiana and Fort Wayne, where it had all started a long, long time ago. At one stage of my adult life, this place had seemed foreign to me, but now it just felt like home.

Steve

DATELINE: MAY 13, 2024 – PEORIA, ILLINOIS

At my age, and with my behavior, I don’t end up at a lot of weddings. So it was a great pleasure to get invited to one, especially when two great friends were getting hitched. (To each other.) Of course, you know I was going to find a way to go fishing, but to your collective relief, I managed not to do this during the ceremony, despite the fact it was held next to a lake.

Ben Cantrell has been a good friend for ten years. He was single when I met him, but I always sensed that he, unlike many of my irresponsible and commitment-averse college buddies, wanted to settle down, as long as he could find someone who could put up with his fishing. (And Marta, that gold standard of patience, isn’t available. As far as I know.) This is where Ally entered the picture. A skilled species hunter in her own right, good-looking, successful, and kind enough to deal with Ben, Ally was the woman he was waiting for. I knew it was serious when they got communal cats. (Although I must admit that Daisy, Ben’s original cat, remains my favorite.)

I landed at Peoria mid-afternoon and immediately headed for a local stream Ben had recommended.

Ben left a tractor for me at the airport.

Central Illinois has some very interesting species – the highfin carpsucker comes to mind. To be fair, Ben also warned me there had been heavy rain, so despite my efforts, I managed only a few assorted panfish.

It was a lovely location that has great promise when it’s fishable.

I stocked up with plenty of Wed Bull.

The northern lights were supposed to be visible that night, but I did not get the right location and, while I did see the occasional street lamp, the aurora borealis would have to wait.

It still was a beautiful night.

In the morning, old buddy Ryan Crutchfield’s wife showed again why she is just too awesome for him. She let Ryan out for a few hours of fishing. It was great to see him, and we gave it a game effort in some small creeks that had stayed clear. Ryan managed to add a red shiner, but I, like Cousin Chuck throughout college, remained scoreless.

I did get a beastly common shiner.

Proudly wearing our Ferguson hats. We miss Dom, who would have been a big hit at the wedding.

As it got into the afternoon, we knew it was time to head back and make ourselves presentable. Since it was a formal occasion, I tried to get all the worm dirt from under my fingernails (and eyebrows) and put on an actual sportcoat, one of my few pieces of clothing that does not have a fishing logo embroidered somewhere.

The venue was gorgeous – a country estate turned event location, and the actual ceremony would be held right on … a lake. All the fishermen there noticed this. A few of us even had gear in our cars, but there was enough adult supervision there (meaning wives and girlfriends,) to keep anything bad from happening. The background music was Taylor Swift’s “Wildest Dreams.” I actually like her music when it isn’t being played during a football game.

Ben is one of those guys who seems to be at the center of the species hunting world – he has fished with a bunch of the big numbers guys, and quite a few of them were at the wedding. There were old acquaintances like Ryan and Pat Kerwin. And there were guys I had emailed with but never met, like Marc Eberlein and the phenomenal Eli, who will likely be the next guy across the 2000 species barrier.

That’s Marc on the right. It’s always nice to hang out with another Michigan person.

They started the ceremony just as the late afternoon sun turned that golden shade I can never capture in photographs, and out came Ally. She looked amazing, and she handled the long walk from the building to the lake with perfect confidence. I’m sure Ben looked a little terrified, but let’s face it, no one was looking at Ben.

Ally was beautiful. And Ben was … well, Ally looked beautiful.

Ben waits at the altar. This may be only picture of him up there by himself, because everyone else was looking at Ally.

The vows begin, or, as I like to call it, the pre-reception staredown.

It was a lovely ceremony, and just like that, they were a married couple. I give Marta a lot of trouble on this blog, but let’s face it, life is a lot easier when you get to go through it with a true partner. And that’s what I felt had happened here – the right people had found each other.

Back up the aisle as a married couple.

But enough emotion already – there was free food and fishing conversation to be had. They split the fishermen up into a couple of tables so we could bore more people, and the party started.

When the newlyweds made their entrance, they looked like the couple they use in advertisements for nice wedding venues. And they were both indescribably happy about the whole thing.

Entering the reception.

You would think this photo came with the frame.

Ok, there had to be one of these.

The evening flew by, a blur of toasts and fishing stories, and as it got late, we made our way outside so I could miss the northern lights yet again. I went back to my hotel content that I had watched a great couple sign up to spend the rest of their lives together.

The following morning, Ben and Ally kindly invited me to their home for a gathering with their parents and a few other friends. Both sets of parents are a pleasure to hang around. And yes, every time I see a home twice the size of mine in an affordable part of the country, I question my commitment to California. Their house is gorgeous, and Ben has a riding mower twice the size of my first car.

Mr. and Mrs. Cantrell. Damn they were happy.

We got to hang out and chat for a while, and most importantly, I got to meet all three cats (Daisy, Yosi, and Thomas.) The cat relationships are complex, as Daisy and Yosi would each prefer to be in a one-cat household, but Yosi is much larger and will occasionally try to reduce the number of cats in the home.

This is Thomas. He just loves everyone and everything and wishes we could all just get along.

This is Yosi, who was trying to figure out if I was pro-Daisy.

And this is Daisy, who I shamelessly admit is my favorite. This is her most-cherished spot in the world, next to the aquarium.

As we got into the later afternoon, I, of course, had fishing plans. I would be heading for Indianapolis and Steve Ramsey’s house, a few hours east, but I figured I would stop along the way and try to pick up a lake chubsucker in that God-forsaken swamp I had gone to with Ron and Gerry last year.

I took my time, as I knew it would have to be well into the night before the fish would bite in the swamp spot. I made a stop in Danville, Illinois, (where I had previously fished with Gerry Hansell,) on the off chance I might get an odd shiner or darter, and as it turns out, I did add a species – the Rosyface shiner.

I had no clue at the time. But digital photos are free – take lots of them.

I would have written it off as a Carmine as per Peterson’s Guide, but Jarrett, as thorough an academic as there is, had done substantial research and discovered updated papers that indicated that the watershed I was in actually hosted the Rosyface.

Just across the state line in Indiana, I also caught a bluebreast darter, which is always an event.

In my opinion, one of the more elusive darters. And this one was in a foot of water. Go figure.

I headed north in Indiana, thrilled that I had put one on the board. I kept in close touch with Steve, and, since he is quite the night owl, I had planned to give the chubsucker and perhaps even a pirate perch a try, close up around 11, and get down to Indianapolis in time for a late pizza.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

The first thing I forgot was that Indiana is on eastern time, so I lost an hour immediately. Then dinner took longer than I hoped, because the guy at Burger King didn’t seem to understand that a cheese Whopper must, by definition, involve dairy products. Then there was a detour. It was around 10 when I got there, but I still hoped the fish would bite quickly.

In hindsight, this was not rational. These are difficult species to spot, let alone catch.

I rigged up, turned on my headlamp, and saw … nothing. Not a single fish. I had expected at least a few small chubsuckers, and there was nothing. Irrationally, I viewed this as a challenge. The fish HAD to be there somewhere. I should have just gotten in the car and been at Steve’s place in time for Sportscenter and a White Castle, but anyone who think I might have done that is obviously a first time reader. Welcome!

I spent a couple of hours exploring culverts in the area and blind fishing every likely-looking rock ledge, and … nothing. It just couldn’t be. The last time I was here was late in the year, so I wrote that off as a seasonal thing, but the place was absolutely sterile on what should have been a pretty good night.

It was a gorgeous night outside. But no northern lights. Those are clouds, Cousin Chuck.

At one stage, it was so fishless that I resorted to a childhood pastime, catching bullfrogs by hand.

So many childhood memories of Jacob’s Creek in New Jersey. This is also a picture of the end of every date Marta went on before she met me.

Midnight came and went. I texted Ramsey and let him know it was going to be more like a 230am arrival, so maybe we could catch some pizza rolls and an episode of Golden Girls.

Then, something horrible happened. I saw a fish. It was a pirate perch. Actually, two of them. One spooked immediately, but one didn’t, and I was focused enough to put a bait in front of it. It bit, and I hooked it. Holding my breath, I tried to swing it the five feet to shore, but it fell off the hook midair into the low retaining wall right in front of me. Despite my leapng there immediately and moving nearly every rock I could, I didn’t find the fish. This is the most heartbreaking thing that has happened to me since Lisa Woodford ditched me at junior prom. (Which, in hindsight, may have been more on me.)

I stumbled to the car, still panting in disbelief. I could have screamed at the sky, but I voted wrong for that. I could have cried, but the tears wouldn’t come. I just had to take the pain. I had done everything right and still lost a very difficult fish, and likely wouldn’t see one again that evening.

So I let Ramsey know I wouldn’t be making it down there that night, and prepared for an all-nighter, because there’s nothing like handling failure by piling more failure on top of it.

About the time the panting subsided, I thought I noticed a tiny flash in the water underneath the culvert. On closer inspection, I could see a small school of fish, too far off the bottom to be chubsuckers. I drifted a tiny bait through them, and they attacked it. After a few tries, I landed what appeared to be a shiner, Notropis nondescriptus. I toyed with not photographing it, because I hate researching shiners that much, but I stayed disciplined and took a few shots.

The beast in question.

For fun, and remember that it was now past 3am, I texted Jarrett. (Of Ron and Jarrett fame.) He was not only up, but he also immediately flagged it as an ironcolor shiner, which came as a great surprise, because I didn’t have one. Somehow, this made everything seem ok, and the pirate perch was at least briefly forgotten. (Species hunters and field goal kickers, in order to be successful, require a short memory.)

I chuckled to myself and opened a Red Bull, which is not something people often drink at 3:30am. I got my rig ready, and, switching to my third and final headlamp, I went back to the water. What happened next was a miracle, nothing short of Michigan’s 2024 victory over Ohio State. Out, below the culvert, and as far up the reedy bank as I could see, there were lake chubsuckers. Dozens of them. They had materialized.

This does not mean they would readily bite. I presented to each one in order, and, in order, they were indifferent. This is what chubsuckers do, and that is why the creeks in hell are jammed with them. It somehow became 430, and I knew I would be struggling with daylight soon. So I moved over to the other culvert nearby and prepared to be ignored by those fish.

It’s hard to describe what was different about the first fish I presented to over there. I’d like to say body language, which sounds idiotic when we’re talking about a three-inch fish, but every species hunter reading this knows what I’m talking about. It acknowledged the bait, and even swam slowly up an inch or so to examine the split shot. Its fins were moving. I swear it looked at me. Right into my soul. Daring me to make that one perfect drop that would put the bait just on its nose.

So I did. The shot landed softly and the bait settled slowly, grazing the fish right across the snout and fluttering to the bottom, perhaps a millimeter from its mouth. I looked at me again, dead in the eye, and it ate. Making up in purpose what it lacked in speed, it inhaled my fleck of redworm and flared its gills. My hookset in these cases are generally overdone, and yes, I was on caffeinated hair-trigger setting. I launched the fish up into the air above me, followed it with my headlamp, and then caught it in my bare hand. It was 4:41am, and Ramsey was probably just going to sleep.

The lake chubsucker, species 2287.

I shouted my celebration out into the swamp, unheard by human ears but likely startling a possum or two. After three long trips, I had finally conquered a very difficult adversary, with a big assist from Jarrett and Ron, and knew I had finished my journeys to this particular Gid-forsaken ditch and could move on to other God-forsaken ditches.

The first glimmer of light was just coming over the horizon when I got to a nearby small town and checked into whatever Motel Fungus had a vacancy. It had been a memorable evening of fishing, but I smiled and remembered how it all started with Ben and Ally. This meant that the chubsucker was, improbably, the second-best thing that had happened that weekend.

Steve

SPECIAL BONUS POSTSCRIPT – Not long after this, Ben turned 2024 from the best year ever to somehow an even better year. On November 24, Ben joined the 1000 species club, with a white seabream (Diplodus sargus) caught in Southern France. Ben was the ninth person to accomplish this feat, and he is an adult-onset species hunter, only beginning his quest in 2008.

Congratulations Ben!

DATELINE: APRIL 28, 2024 – REDONDO BEACH, CALIFORNIA

I had been home from Australia for nearly a week, so, as you can understand, I was itchy to go fishing. Species opportunities near my house are limited, but Southern California still has quite a few opportunities, especially in deep water. This is not something that most charter boats will do, so this is where the species hunting social network comes into play.

I am not an especially internet-savvy person – this blog represents my entire social media presence. Facebook is just an open invitation for that old girlfriend from Columbus to stalk me, and no one wants to see me on TikTok. But Marty Arostegui, who I met at an IGFA event in 2011, introduced me to Martini, who introduced me to Ben Cantrell, who introduced me to Chris Moore, who introduced me to Vince in Santa Cruz, who happened to know a guy named Zach, a species hunter in Redondo Beach who specializes in the deep water canyon-type stuff. We had chatted a bit – ON THE PHONE, like people used to do in the good old days – and we set a weekend for late April when we could try one day on kayaks and one day on a boat. To my great delight, Chris Moore, who had no family responsibilities for part of the weekend, would be able to join us for the kayak portion of the adventure.

The drive down is always broken up with lunch at one of my favorite restaurants in the universe, The Willow Ranch BBQ in Buttonwillow.

The best pulled pork west of the Mississippi.

At the time, Zach was 16 years old, but unusually wise for his age. He really has the species hunting bug and had acquired an amazing amount of knowledge about his local fish. I got into town in the evening, and it hit me that I had never actually seen a picture of this young man, but I figured he would be the only person waiting at the Redondo Beach Yacht Club gate when I texted him as I was pulling up.

Heading down to the water. I’d seen this sign a hundred times on TV, but never in person.

As it turns out, Zach is not only an unusually experienced fisherman for his age, he is also unusually hairy. I was waiting for some teenager, and up walks a dude with a Grizzly Adams beard who I would have guessed at 32 years old. But it was Zach. What do they feed these kids?

That’s a 16 year-old on the right. Jeez.

That’s Zach just a couple of years ago, shortly after his last known haircut.

We should get it out of the way that I had never fished from a kayak previously. (Collective gasp.) Fishing is hard enough without having to add an athletic event to it, especially when that athletic event involves paddling 230 pounds of me around on shoulders that might have one rotator cuff between them – giving up home runs is harder work than you would think. Chris was equally thrilled, but he had a bunch of targets and figured Advil could take care of the rest.

We set out early in the morning, and it was relatively flat, but even a small swell gives you a strong reminder of exactly how close to the water you are. We messed around inshore for maybe an hour, and Chris added a couple of species. I got a nice sarcastic fringehead, one of my favorite fish names and one of my least favorite fish to de-hook.

Do NOT put this in your pants.

We then set out for the deep water, three miles out. I know this doesn’t sound far, but after a mile, I knew I would not be able to brush my teeth in the morning. I tried to keep up with Zach, which made it worse – Chris set a more leisurely pace and stuck to it, so he got there in less pain.

After what seemed like an eternity but was really more like 5280 yards, Zach told us we were at the spot and to bait up. Nothing complex, just squid on a two-hook bottom rig, with a pound of weight to get us down around 800 feet. The targets were varied – assorted cusk-eels, and various rockfish, especially the surprisingly elusive Mexican rockfish. Fishing and controlling drift was quite a chore, although Zach made it look effortless. (I think he turned his beard into the wind to keep him in place.)

On my very first drop, I got a solid bite and started the lengthy process of dragging something up 800 feet. I had plenty of time to think hopeful thoughts about what it could be, but I was also keenly aware that if it had been much bigger, I would have had trouble keeping my balance on the kayak. Somewhere during the reeling process, Chris caught up to us and started fishing as well. Just as my AC joint was about to give out completely, I saw the flash of a fish beneath me. I carefully lifted it up onto the kayak, and it was – finally – a no-doubt-about-it Mexican rockfish, species 2281.

A new species I had expected to catch last year. You can tell that Zach was in shape for paddling, as he could lift his arm without screaming.

The slightest of breezes had started to pick up, and this was our signal to return to port. This was three more miles of shoulder-killing paddling, especially because I tried to go fast, although I did turn around now and then to pretend to look for Chris. He got there, at a much more thoughtful, measured pace, but I’ll bet you he still had an evening full of Advil.

We spent the rest of the afternoon hunting the harbor for assorted whatsits, and somewhere in there, I failed to catch a reef finspot yet again. When I finally catch one, I am going to put it in a tank, fly to Hawaii immediately, and use it for spearfish bait. After we finished for the day, Chris and I ate a prodigious amount of Chick-fil-a, and then he had to head back to Arizona.

By the time I got up the next day, it felt like months had passed. I grabbed my deepwater gear, and secure in the knowledge I would not have to paddle myself, I met Zach at the harbor and we walked over to meet John, a local fisherman Zach has known since before the beard.

That’s John. Yes, he is really that tall.

John, a pleasant, affable guy, loves to fish but is not burdened by our OCD species obsession. We went out maybe 10 miles, which was really fast not in a kayak, and started looking for particular reefs that Zach had marked for various exotic rockfish. It was a bit sloppy out there, but this was the day I was there, and John was very patient and skilled driving the boat to hold over a particular reef. If things went well, we wouldn’t be there very long.

There was one main target – the blackgill rockfish, and a secondary shot at a pink. We set up in some insanely deep water – around 1400′, and let the rigs fly. It’s a long, long way down, and this gives you time to think about how long it’s going to take to reel back up, especially if you don’t have a fish.

The blackgills were cooperative – I got one on my second drop. They weren’t huge – these can get close to 10 pounds, but I was thrilled with a deepwater Sebastes.

Note the Ferguson hat. I think of Dom with almost every new species.

I wouldn’t say I’m any more technically proficient than the average species angler, but I do have a weird gift for catching stuff that my hosts have never caught. It’s not like I can do it on purpose, and I know I would be annoyed if someone did it to me, but the Fish Gods taketh away, and occasionally, they giveth.

We were fishing for pink rockfish, which are frustratingly difficult to differentiate from greenblotched rockfish. Indeed, the most reliable way to tell them apart is by gill raker shape, which requires disassembling the fish. I got to the bottom in around 1000 feet, and boom, I was hooked into something big. I use 30# line for most deep dropping. and whatever it was took a few runs before I budged it out of the rocks and started the long reel up.

Zach fully expected a pink, and I had my fingers crossed. As we finally got to the leader, Zach leaned over the rail, looked down in the water, and said something that would have gotten him thrown out of a baseball game. All I heard was “bronze.”

The fish was a bronzespotted rockfish, a deepwater rarity that he had never seen in person and that I only faintly recalled from books. John was certainly surprised, but Zach kept asking “How did you do that?”

I felt awful, but not too awful. The species is protected, so we immediately descended it with our best wishes.

About half an hour later, after Zach caught a definite pink, I got a fish that looked to be one, but in working with some very reputable scientists, namely Dr. Milton Love of UC Santa Barbara, who is THE source on these things, it could not be confirmed. I had photographed the wrong part of the gill rakers, and would have to wait for another trip.

I was sure this was a pink. Science is sometimes disappointing.

We also got a few small sablefish – you typically have to be very deep for these, although my first one was caught in bizarrely shallow water.

These sorts of things keep me up at night. Still, I was up three very important species, and I still had a day to go, albeit further north. Zach and I got into the car for what I’m sure was a very long 90 minutes for him, although many people do appreciate my college sports stories. We were heading to Ventura, to meet Jacob, which would give me a pier day to try for some assorted odds and ends I hadn’t caught there. The pier had been mixed luck for me – I got my first queenfish there, but that cost me a shopping spree for Marta.

Jacob had been busy. This is his first thresher, and yes, he got it from a wharf.

Conditions were not optimal for some of the smaller stuff I wanted. It was breezy and the surf was high, so looking for finspots, for example, was out of the question. There was also the possibility of a California pompano, which is more of a bumper or butterfish-looking thing, which I somehow missed over the years. Jacob thought they were fairly common, so I spent the morning tossing baited sabikis and catching squillions of shiner surfperch.

I decided to take a break for an irresponsible lunch at Wienerschnitzel, consuming two chili cheese dogs that made me not want to be in the car with myself. Then, after a shower and brief old person nap at the hard-to-recommend Ventura Holiday Inn, I was back at the pier. The resident gang there were a lot of fun – on the pier from dawn to dark, throwing big live baits waiting for that home run white seabass, halibut, or thresher shark. They had all caught pompano – and used them for bait – so they didn’t quite understand why I was fishing for them.

It was late in the day when I got a bite that seemed somehow different from all the shiner perch bites. As soon as the rig cleared the water, I could see I had a pompano on the line, but Ventura pier is some 30 feet above the water, which meant that I could not unclench my buttocks until after the four seconds, which seemed like an hour, it took to get the fish over the rail.

The fourth species of a very productive trip.

I spent the evening in the harbor with the guys, drinking Pepsis and just fishing for fun.

I gave up around 11 and they were still going strong.

I did get my personal best queenfish, but mostly, it was great to just be one of the guys and reel in a fish now and then. Both of them are far more knowledgeable than I was at twice their age, so the future of the sport is in good hands.

Steve