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

DATELINE: NOVEMBER 6, 2023 – VERO BEACH, FLORIDA

Over the years, I have had some wonderful fishing trips to Florida. This will not be one of them. This will be more a sad tale of my dim-witted persistence, where the hope for 10 or more species was crushed into a desperate struggle for at least one. For that, and several other more important reasons, this blog is going to be a downer.

It started innocently and with the highest of hopes. Chris Moore and I had been looking for a pre-holiday trip, and thought we would skip Puerto Penasco this time. He found some budget tickets to Orlando, and, in talking between us and Dom Porcelli, we found a good number of targets we could chase in a few days. These ranged from very doable, like lesser amberjack or remora, to completely foolhardy, like mountain mullet. Still, it seemed like there was a shot at a few good ones and a chance to see Dom, so we set it up.

In the middle of all this, real life intruded in an awful way. Marta’s Mother, she of the endless hospitality, passed away. She was 92 and we can’t call it unexpected, but it was shattering. Anka lived an incredible life, hailing from a small village in Montenegro, spending her childhood under Nazi rule, suffering worse as the communists took over, then marrying, moving to the US without knowing a word of English, and raising five children. She was a force of nature, a woman who changed thousands of lives for the better, a woman who always had time for an injured animal, and still somehow always found a little humor in every situation. 

Anka Bulaich – 1931-2023. Read the obituary here – it’s one of the most moving tributes I’ve ever read.

The service was on November 1. It was attended to standing-room-only levels, and it was the most beautiful sendoff I have ever witnessed. (Until Marta asked me to say a few words with no warning.)

   

Anka and some close friends.

One of the photoboards Marta and her brothers put together. These always feel so incomplete, because for every photo you put up, you remember 20 others that were just as good.

Marta was in problem-solving mode, so she had something to keep her mind off of the loss, but I knew she was in pain – I lost my own Mom 12 years ago, and it’s rough. I tried to just cancel the Florida trip, but Marta would have none of that, and insisted I go so she could have some alone time to decompress – and a few days to catch up on work. 

I flew out on a redeye to Fort Lauderdale, checked into the hotel, and took an Uber up to join the guys at Phil Foster Park. We had planned to do the next two days on Dom’s boat, but, to put it lightly, the weather had turned against us. And not just in a “Brayden’s gonna puke” way – more like a “No boats on the water” way. Ten foot swells. 40mph wind. We were unexpectedly shorebound, and in conditions that were not going to make it easy.

Not that Phil Foster wasn’t fun. There’s a lot to catch, and Chris and The Mucus each scratched out a few.

I caught a cowfish. Cowfish are cool. (Ryan Crutchfield and I are tied for the world record on this, but confidentially, his was bigger.)

One of the more attractive grunts – and a porkfish.

Chris even got himself a bonefish, which I hopped a fence to land.

At dinner that night, we had to scramble to make plans B-Z because the boat was out of the question. The Mucus slowed things down by going through the five stages of boat cancellation grief:

• “It looks like it’s laying down.” (No, it’s not. Math isn’t negotiable.)
• “I’m sure we can find someplace sheltered.” (No, we can’t. Straight north wind.)
• “The swells are getting smaller up by Daytona beach.” (No they aren’t.)
• “Can’t we just try it for an hour and see how we do?” (This is why smacking kids upside the head shouldn’t have gone out of style.)
• “It really does look like it’s laying down.” (See #1 above. Rinse, lather, and repeat.)

Dom took us out shore fishing the next morning, first to a lagoon reputed to have fat snook. (They really are called that, so no, it isn’t snook-shaming, and if this even crossed your mind, you’re reading the wrong blog.) The guys added the species, but even that small, protected water was a mess with the wind.

A fat snook. I got my first one in Brazil in 1999.

We then moved to some neighborhood creeks to the east, and Chris and The Mucus both added an Eastern Happy Cichlid. (A fish Pat Kerwin had introduced me to several years ago.) 

I made friends with a horse.

Which animal would you rather have breathing on you? $10 Bass Pro gift certificate for the most creative answer.

We parted ways with Dom in the early afternoon and headed for South Beach in Miami. We caught plenty of fish down there, but nothing exciting – the water was as churned up as I’ve ever seen it. 

I don’t mean to make this post such a bummer, and we haven’t even covered all the bad news yet, but this would be the last time any of us would fish with Dom Porcelli, who passed away a few months later.

I wonder now, if we had somehow known, whether we would have done anything differently. The fishing was bad, but I still wish that day could have lasted forever, just for the conversation. I was so far behind in the blog when Dom died that there were eight more episodes involving him posthumously. This is the last, and it feels for me like having to say goodbye for the final time. We all miss you, Dom. 

We spent the next day hopping from shore spot to shore spot, but the wind was relentless and any sight fishing, which might have gotten me something new, was out of the question. We tried everywhere from Fort Worth Pier down to Boca Raton, and while I caught 82 fish, they were all repeat customers. The guys managed to tack on a few new ones, so I could take some solace in knowing that I was supposed to be glad for them.

Sunset over South Beach. We got to enjoy it pretty much undisturbed by fish.

There are probably good pictures of all of us, but not together.

The next day was similarly disappointing, and I was beginning to get desperate. I have had some awful trips, but never one that was a complete strikeout. The stars were aligning for me to catch absolutely nothing new. I was certainly grouchy, and I may have approached insufferable. But we soldiered on, and I kept fishing hard for just one random critter.

After dark on Boca Inlet. The rich and famous got to watch us catch nothing.

I stayed up very late that night chasing some pond creatures, and I thought I had scored with a golden silverside. Sadly, it turns out that the silverside I caught with Martini in 2015 and had counted as a brook silverside had been split into this species, so I was even, except for the mosquito bites. And now I needed a brook silverside, a fish I had passed up in the midwest dozens of times.

Our last day took us north, hunting some of Ben Cantrell’s old Florida spots. The wind, if anything, was worse, and everything we tried, from creeks to rock jetties, did not pan out. There were plenty of standard fish, especially catfish in Sebastian, but nothing new to report. I was as miserable and desperate as Cousin Chuck at a high school dance. (Especially considering he’s around 70 years old.)

We had some kind of awful sub sandwiches for dinner, and then, more out of duty than hope, we headed to a small creek where, according to some vague online rumors, there was a population of spinycheek sleepers. The guys both had a dozen or more new species on the trip, but this was going to be my last chance to avoid unspeakable shame.

This photo is the only redeeming thing that came out of the sub place. As The Mucus slowly, dutifully chewed his sandwich, I asked him what was in it. He said “I literally have no idea.”

We examined the water carefully, and one by one, we started spotting the target fish. Getting them to bite was another story, but after a couple of hours, we all had one, and yes, The Mucus pointed mine out to me. Triumph at last.

There is no explaining this to a non-species hunter, but this single catch, especially as late in the game as we were, makes me remember the entire trip as a success, even though it was a 2017 Cleveland Browns-level disaster.

And I caught another fat sleeper, one of the cutest fish in existence.

We kept at it for a little while longer. There was one other fish there, a goby, which seemed terrified of light, sound, movement, and bait. But we had nothing better to do, and we kept playing goby-spooking pong where we scared them back and forth across the creek to each other. Sometime after midnight, I actually had one hold still long enough to present to it. It stayed put, albeit with apparent disinterest in my bait. I always view this as a good sign, as I believe fish that hold like this will eventually bite out of boredom or annoyance. It took quite a while of gently touching him on the nose (not a sentence I ever thought I would write,) but in the wee hours, he finally eased forward over the bait. I struck, and landed the fish hooked cleanly in the mouth. It was a lyre goby, so-called because The Mucus says anyone who says they have caught one is a lyre. Yet there we were, and I have two words for you, Mucus – River Redhorse.

I somehow had two species at the last second, taking me to 2239 lifetime. I felt inexplicably triumphant.

The only redeeming feature to this entire mess is that I thought it would be the last time I would have to fish with The Mucus for two years. He would be heading off on a church mission shortly after Christmas, the best present I could ask for, except maybe the Stella 500 Marta refuses to get me. I have very limited influence in the Mormon community, so the letters I wrote trying to get him assigned to Yemen or Cleveland fell on deaf ears, but he would still end up on another continent, so that was a plus.

Ah, who am I kidding. I’ll kind of miss him. 

Steve

POSTSCRIPT – LOSING A HERO

I returned from Florida on November 7, which gave me three days to plan something for my Great Uncle Ted’s 99th birthday. The youngest brother of my grandfather Steve, (who was killed in WWII,) Ted was a decorated veteran who was in combat from Normandy to Mortain, on to Aachen and the Battle of the Bulge. He was the humblest man I have ever known, and while I am sure many of his worst experiences were never shared, he knew that merely surviving the war had been luck – beating the odds by a wide margin in many cases. He knew and lived by the fact that every day is a gift. I had met Ted a few times as a kid, but I was only reacquainted with him in 2007. Marta met Ted that same year. He had to go in for unplanned heart surgery when I was on a trip to Singapore, and Marta went to visit him in the hospital. She got to the right floor, but before she could find a nurse to direct her to the room, she saw a patient and knew it was him, from the eyes alone. She said “It was like seeing an 82 year-old version of Steve, except better looking.”

Steve and Ted, circa 2008.

Ted and I became very close over the next 16 years – the nearest thing to a father figure I have had in my adult life. We got out to lunch or dinner weekly for many years, often joined by Marta, and Ted’s wife Donna. They made fun of us ruthlessly. He was just as stubborn and just as competitive as I am – indeed, only a week after he went home from that heart surgery, he had to be rushed back to the hospital because he burst a staple. While lifting a washing machine. I shamelessly admire him for that, and while he did have to go to the ER, the washing machine got where it needed to be, and that’s the important thing.

It was my privilege to learn so much about the Polish side of my family, about his experiences in the war, and especially about my grandfather. We spent many late nights talking about the war, and over time, he trusted me with many of the brutal details of those awful 11 months and two days of his life, from June 6, 1944, on Omaha Beach, to May 8, 1945, on the banks of the Elbe River. One story I will never forget was about Raymond, a private in Ted’s platoon. Raymond was from rural Tennessee, a good soldier, and a deeply religious man. As their unit fought through the hedgerows and the casualties began to mount, Raymond would sing a hymn every night for the dead. Ted said he had a beautiful voice. Just before Christmas of 1944, in the Battle of the Bulge, Raymond was killed, just yards away from Ted. Ted told me this story 74 years after it happened, but he still choked up. “That night,” he said, “There was no one left to sing for him.”

Ted came home to Detroit later in 1945, suffered from what we would call PTSD today, but then somehow put it all behind him, married, had four kids, ran a successful business, and ended up out in the San Francisco Bay Area from the early 1960s onward.

Ted was in his eighties when we met up again, and I always regretted that I never went fishing with him. But he looked at every fish picture I ever thought was worth showing, he read every blog, and he gave me a few pieces of gear I will treasure forever. He also gave me plenty of advice that I will carry with me for life. I’ll never forget when I told him I was having a bad time at work. He heard me out, and then said “Well, is anyone shooting at you?” I smiled and told him no, that no one was shooting at me. He smiled and said “Then it really wasn’t really that bad of a day.”

I had to take his word for that. I’ve never been shot at, and this was a man who, on August 7, 1944, was awakened from his foxhole in Mortain, France by the entire Second SS Panzer Division coming down the road in a surprise attack. As he recalled, they all seemed to be headed directly toward him, but in a week of pitched fighting, the Germans were driven back, setting the stage for the Falaise Gap and the collapse of the German Army in France. 

Ted had not been in great health for a couple of years – he was in his late 90s after all – but his mind remained incredibly sharp. He could recall the addresses of his childhood homes, give the stories of so many relatives I had never met or only faintly recalled, and he could name every man who died next to him in combat. He passed away quietly, on his 99th birthday, about two hours before I was going to head over to see him. He was one of the few men left alive who had fought in WWII – “The Greatest Generation” – and he had lived a good life, leaving behind two surviving children and a host of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

In “Saving Private Ryan,” Captain John Miller’s last words were “Earn this.” That was the only thing all the men who didn’t make it home asked for – that those who survived made the best of the opportunity that came at such a high price. My Uncle Ted never forgot those men, honored and thanked them every day of his long and generous life, and now he rejoins them. I hope that Raymond and my Grandfather are waiting to welcome him home.

 

DATELINE: AUGUST 11, 2023 – DEFEATED CAMP, TENNESSEE

It had been an eventful summer. June was taken up with the cross-country Mucus Marathon. July had two major events – my unretirement and return to the working world, which occurred on July 10, which also happened to be my (gulp) 60th birthday.

Marta set up a large group dinner at a local steakhouse, but there was a power failure 25 minutes before the reservation time. (Because PG&E is a third-world utility, although the executives have first-world salaries.) Utterly unflappable, Marta got on the phone and started looking for decent restaurants who had power and could sit 20-odd people on short notice. Miraculously, Danny, the head waiter at our local high-end Chinese place, Peony Garden in Walnut Creek, told us to bring the group, and the event was saved.

Danny, the greatest waiter ever – the man who saved my birthday party.

 

Part of the gang behind the bar. Several of them were found there the next morning.

It was moving to have so many people show up, although the open bar may have had something to do with it. It wasn’t the same experience as a 50th birthday – 60 feels SO much older. With the exception of Thor and Danielle, the guests were much kinder, and it didn’t turn into a complete roast. It was sobering to think that we would have another big one like this in 10 years, and a lot can happen over 10 years. But the moment was perfect, and the same things that were important to me 10 years ago – Marta, fishing, family, and friends – are the same priorities I have now, although they are not necessarily in that order. I had retired from hockey a few years back, at the insistence of my dentist, orthopedic surgeon, and our goalie. 

August kicked off with a business trip to Chicago, which meant that I got to eat dinner with the fabled Cousin Chuck.

He’s actually somewhat normal by our family standards.

The plan was then to continue on to Indianapolis for a few days of fishing and Skyline Chili, which I thought was an excellent plan. 

Any visit to this region means I’m going to call the fabled darter duo, Ron and Jarrett. Ron happened to be available, but it would have to be one of those leave Wednesday afternoon and be back Thursday afternoon things, because although Ron who loves to fish, he has adult responsibilities. At least I had a week to emotionally prepare for an all-nighter, but in truth, it didn’t seem like it would be too brutal, because we were going to stay in Indiana and not have to drive more than a few hours. There were plenty of targets for me, including the dreaded pirate perch, and this itinerary would even allow for a few hours of sleep.

I landed at Indianapolis in a light rain, but this didn’t concern me. The forecast showed a few showers near Indy that night, but nothing much further south. I met up with Steve Ramsey and we headed immediately to Skyline Chili, with few cares in the world except making sure we had Tums and fiber capsules.

Note that Mr. Ramsey is wearing a Tigers shirt, bought on his birthday last year.

I tried on my new waders in Steve’s living room. Note the Isaiah Thomas jerseys – since Isaiah played for IU and Detroit, he is one of the sports figures we can agree on.

By the time we got home from Skyline, it was pouring. I told myself it was fine – there were supposed to be a few showers right around town. Around midnight, Ron texted something like “Uh-oh.” I opened the weather app and my jaw fell into my lap hard enough to hurt my testicles. The light rain had somehow morphed into a monster storm that would drop inches of rain on everything from Chicago south to the Tennessee/Alabama line. How, I ask, can meteorologists be so wrong so often and still keep their jobs? If my tax guy messed up that badly even once, we’d both be in jail.

But it was what it was, and we had the day free, so we just got in the car and started driving south. Very south. To the point where we were looking at spots in Alabama kind of south – it might have only allowed a couple hours of fishing, but it would be better than nothing. The weather was now clear and gorgeous, but millions of gallons of rain were working their way through every river and creek we could reach. We just crossed our fingers and hoped we could find something high enough in its system that it wasn’t completely blown out.

The conversation in the car is always great. Ron has a phenomenal knowledge of freshwater fish, especially those found within 20 hours of Bloomington. Stuff that is just an odd curiosity in Peterson’s Guide, like pygmy sunfish, are all possibilities in Ron and Jarrett’s world. It usually involves driving 12 hours and tramping through a swamp in the middle of the night, which is exactly where I begin to question my level of commitment. 

We were well into Tennessee when we made our first stop to look at a creek, in some sort of local park/campground/halfway house. The parking lot was flooded.

This type of water is not conducive to sight fishing.

We continued, south and east through Tennessee, and everything we crossed was high, muddy, and full of debris. It was midafternoon by the time we got to some smaller, higher waterways that looked at least marginally improved. At around 3pm, some seven hours of driving from Bloomington, we finally found a place that looked worth a stop. It was a lovely little stream, gin clear and full of structure, and I thought we at least had a chance.

Finally, clear water and gravel.

Of course, the Fish Gods have a sense of humor that borders on the sadistic, and the first three things I caught were a rainbow, a fantail, and another rainbow.

Another %$#^ fantail. I keep hearing rumors of splits. If anyone knows anything definite, please contact me. At least this was a colorful one.

I was glad to be catching fish, and I was amazed that Ron could even find clear water, but it seemed morally unfair to go all that way and be catching the two most universal darters.

Ron gets to work as I photograph the fantail.

We kept at it, and Ron thought he spotted an orangethroat split known as a Buffalo darter. I had to work around creek chubs, shiners, and more rainbow darters, but I finally got one to eat, and upon close inspection in the photo tank, it was clearly a new species.

The first one – apparently the blue on the lower body is a key ID element.

My second one was a much more colorful male.

The trip had now turned into a success. Everything from here would be a bonus. Call it too much fishing, call it low standards, call it what you will, but the drive and anxiety had paid off with at least one addition to the list.

After spending half an hour trying to extricate ourselves from a conversation with a farmer who could not believe we were actually fishing for darters, Ron and I headed off into the evening. We checked a few other spots, which were variably fishable depending on size and proximity to heavy runoff, and we didn’t find anything new.

Except some places that could use renaming. 

Ron had a secret spot about an hour away that he thought could hold a rare darter or two, so we made the decision to head directly for that to catch the last bit of daylight. We headed deep into the countryside, gorgeous rolling woodland, and soon, we were following a stream. Moments later, we parked and headed down through what looked like a commercial poison ivy farm. The creek was exquisite – slow, protected, rocky, and just deep enough to hold all kinds of fish but still see them. I thought I saw a fantail, but Ron explained that everything here would likely be new for me. 

The darters were a little finicky, but I got one to bite after a while. It took some serious ID work, mostly by Jarrett, but this one turned out to be a lollypop darter, one of the many species that are difficult to figure out unless you get a breeding male.

I need to take photography lessons from Ben Cantrell, but let’s face it, there’s not much to work with here.

And you never get a breeding male, and the fact that I am discussing my desire for a breeding male right now makes me uncomfortable and I just need to stop.

Ron assumes the darter crouch as he hunts the creek for new species.

There were definitely some other darter species in the spot, so we kept going, even pulling out the headlamps to cut through the twilight. One of the fish we kept seeing was some kind of snubnose, which I think are just a cool-looking fish, so I kept after it even though I’d caught them before in Alabama. It took a while, and a few mouthfuls of gnats, but I got one to come out from under the rock and attack. I put it in the photo tank just for fun – not easy in humid weather because the thing clouds up. It was during the photos I got the surprise of the evening – the fish was not a snubnose. It was a blackside snubnose, the very same fish The Mucus had whined me out of catching back in June.

Improbably, I had my third darter species of the day, taking me to 71 lifetime.

I still stand by my goal of 100 lifetime. And The Mucus still doesn’t have a river redhorse. If you think this sounds like I’m being immature and spiteful toward a teenager, you might be disconcerted but you certainly aren’t surprised. 

We spent the rest of the evening hopscotching around Tennessee, including a stop at the same Buffalo River boat ramp where I fished in June on that glorious day when The Mucus broke off not one, but two river redhorse. This is a bigger river, and the recent rains had raised it just a few inches, but those few inches really messed it up. We saw some absolutely enormous spiders, but alas, no new darters.

As it got well past midnight, the difference my age and Ron’s got more apparent. Despite consuming close to a crate of Red Bull, I was ready to fall asleep on the steering wheel, but Ron kept me motivated with spots for unusual species that all seemed to be just less than an hour away. Unfortunately, as we got back into the lowlands and bigger bodies of water, everything we looked at was high and muddy, including one of the convenience store clerks. 

This was our food for the evening.

It was about 4:30am when Ron finally threw in the towel, and we found some sort of motel with noticeably sticky furniture. The address was, and you can’t make this sort of stuff up, on Barren Hollow Road. We got a few hours of sleep at most, because Indianapolis was seven hours away, but after a quick breakfast from the Loretta Lynn’s kitchen gift shop, we were on our way. 

They are actually better than Waffle House.

Ron had a few stops to break up the long drive, and at one of these, I was busily catching some sort of nondescript Notropis when I got something that just looked different. So I took photos. I’m glad I did, because the fish turned out to be a rosyside dace, a new one for me.

That’s species 4 of the trip and 2230 lifetime.

I also get to report that it was caught in Bucksnort Creek. It might not be Booger Hollow, but it was definitely a trip of memorable names, and I have to take my hat off to Ron (and Jarrett, who provided remote technical support,) because they made a worthwhile trip out of what had looked like a meteorological disaster. Thanks again, guys. It’s always a pleasure to fish with professionals. 

I got back to Indianapolis early that evening, just in time to meet Steve Ramsey at Indiana’s famous Squealer’s BBQ in Mooresville.

Mooresville is the birthplace of the Indiana state flag, by the way.

The following day, we met Ron and Carol for dinner and then an Indianapolis Indians game.

Dinner was at the fabulous Iron Skillet, an iconic family-style Indianapolis restaurant that may even predate Ramsey. Tragically, it has since closed.

Steve, Ron, Carol, and Steve.

Victory Field was just a few minutes away. Not only had we been introduced a few times to Bruce Schumacher, the team owner, we have also gotten to be friends with his brother Mark Schumacher, Director of Merchandising.

I guarantee you I have the best collection of Indians gear in California.

It’s a phenomenal field, right in the middle of downtown. Steve and I worked together in 1990 in the tower in the background.

Oh, and Carol was mean to me. 

The next day, I flew out, but my joy at escaping Carol was tempered by the fact that I would be seeing her again in just five weeks. Although she didn’t know it at the time, that trip would also, against most odds and all common sense, involve a fish.

Steve

DATELINE: JUNE 27, 2023 – RURAL NEW MEXICO

Looking at a map, it made no sense. But in deference to the weather, we headed from Southwest Virginia back to Northwest Alabama, to the Sipsey spot I had fished with Dom Porcelli in 2021.

We covered a lot of miles.

The rain cleared as we got there, and as we set up on the morning of the 22nd, I still had no idea that The Mucus would have an absolutely traumatic day coming up in just 24 hours.

As we walked down to the river, I couldn’t help but remember what an awesome day I had there two years before with Dom – four species, including three darters – in an absolutely pristine location I could wade for hours. Some winter storms had moved big trees around, so there was less of a deep pool at the bridge, but that just meant that there was more darter territory.

One of my favorite spots in Alabama. Dom first fished this in a February. At night. In tennis shoes and shorts.

The guys cleaned up with several species each, but I was busy hunting the one darter I had missed the last time – the Warrior. I went a quarter mile in both directions, catching plenty of mobile logperch and Tuscaloosa darters, but didn’t see my target. Until The Mucus caught one right in front of me not 10 feet from where we got into the river. They were there. Right there.

It took me another hour – they were finicky – but I finally got one.

The warrior darter – my 30th species of the trip.

I just sat on the bank and drank a Red Bull, content that I had caught what I had come there for. The Mucus, meanwhile, was setting up a float and worm. I asked him what he hoped to get, and he said “Warrior Bass.” I hadn’t thought of that – this spotted bass split indeed was in this river system, and while it wasn’t common, Dom had gotten one.

So while The Mucus cast his float, I half-jokingly pulled out a small, white hard bait that legendary German guide Jens Koller had given me – the magical “Chubbie” crankbait. On my second cast, I got bashed and pulled in a nice little Warrior bass.

Species 31.

The Mucus got a smaller one moments later, and then Chris moved in to try for what should have been an easy catch. But the Fish Gods are fickle, and Chris got nothing but sunfish. We got on the road toward dark, and worked west in Alabama, knowing we would finish the next night in Tennessee. I know this all sounds geographically inefficient, but with the weather and spots we had to work with, it was the best we could do.

I slept that night utterly unaware that The Mucus would have a life-changingly bad day when we woke up. Looking back on it, I still have to smile, because he did irresponsible things, like drown all the red worms.

We gave him ONE responsibility – rebag the worms so they wouldn’t get immersed in melted ice, and he just couldn’t do it. This led to several unplanned Walmart stops.

At a Walmart somewhere in Alabama, we entered him in a cutest puppy contest. He came in 7th.

After a very short night, dawn broke on June 23, which would be The Mucus’ Worst Day Ever. I almost made that its own blog, because yes, I enjoyed it so much. If that sounds spiteful and immature, I will refer you to my lawyer, who will have no comment. But you’re not missing anything.

The kid had been intermittently driving me nuts for around two weeks, whether it was arguing the metric system or killing all the redworms. (Stuff I likely did as a kid as well.) In any case, he had been talking about one particular fish the entire trip – a river redhorse – and this would be the day we had a shot at them. 

We opened up in a small creek near a swap meet in Alabama. Although I got a nice photo upgrade on the flame chub, both Moores caught blackside snubnose darters.

Now’s that a nice flame chub. That’s the Mucus in the background, catching his fifth blackside snubnose darter, which left me none by the time I had taken this photo.

The Mucus was so wound up about getting to the river redhorse spot that he kept pestering us to get on the road. I wanted that darter, but I wanted The Mucus to be quiet even more, so I just gave up and got in the car. I had thought being a good Dad was about consideration and giving, but I realized that there must also be a fair amount of capitulation as well.

A spot nearby. Chris missed a prime chance.

An hour or so later, we arrived at a medium-sized creek with some wonderful deep blue pools. According to reliable sources, the place was loaded with river redhorse, (which I’ve already caught,) and this was one of the few times I saw The Mucus palpably emotional. He raced down to the creek ahead of us. Chris gently steered him to the tailout of a deep pool about 100 yards upstream. At the same moment, we all saw them – two big river redhorse, slowly cruising the bottom in about five feet of water. The Mucus was trembling with anticipation, and the extra hormones this pumped into his teenage brain may have been the reason his first cast landed five feet up the other bank and snagged in the rocks. 

Frustrated and in a hurry, he just cranked his drag down and walked backwards. He got lucky and the whole rig – which had way too much weight on it in the first place – came whistling back across the river and landed in the bushes behind him, where he still had to undo it for a few moments. I gently tried to advise him to re-tie and go with less weight, but he was not in a listening mood.

The Mucus, seconds before disaster.

He cast again, with all the finesse of dropping a depth charge on a U-Boat. But this attempt at least hit the water, and a few minutes later, somehow, one of the redhorse bit. It slowly loaded up the kid’s rod, and I knew from experience that it would take off shortly. The fish had to be at least four pounds. 

Just as it started running, I remembered that the boy had never loosened his drag from the snag, and disaster loomed. I yelled “LOOSEN YOUR DRAG! LOOSEN YOUR DRAG!” He dismissed me like Meghan Markle waving off the Queen, and a split-second later, his line snapped with a loud crack.

I hate to use terms like “butt-hurt,” because Marta doesn’t like me to say “butt” in the blog, but The Mucus was as butt-hurt as any human could possibly be. I probably didn’t help much by pointing out the drag issue. He half-heartedly argued with me and started re-tying. This time, he went with a hook tied directly to light line with some split shot above it. Both his father and I gently advised him that he should use a leader, as there are rocks in the area. I offered to show him a quick knot to tie on the right rig. He ignored us and, as the butt-hurt really took hold, he actually started bickering with me again that this rig would be the most effective. I responded with something to the effect of “We will probably never know, as you spooked every river redhorse from here to Oklahoma.”

Meanwhile, I caught a beautiful longear.

He cast the rig through the pool for about 20 minutes, and then the Fish Gods, with their capricious sense of humor, granted the boy another bite. It was another river redhorse – we all saw it – and it took the bait down solidly and began to run upstream. Toward the rocks. The process was as quick and heartbreaking as Cousin Chuck’s honeymoon, because the minute that light line hit the structure, it broke. The look on his face was simply priceless, but even I knew better than to do the “I told you so” dance. The kid was inconsolable and looked like he has lost all hope in life. Moments later, I walked up to him, put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and said “Wow, you #@$%ed that one up.” Chris gave me a chilling look that, without saying a word, conveyed that I was not being helpful.

Shortly thereafter, we were off for our evening spot, a river landing in central Tennessee famous for darter variety. Brayden, still in a deep depression, managed to shake things off a bit by adding duck and spangled darters before Chris and I could get rigged. We fished well into the night, with the guys tacking on the occasional shiner or chub, and me just enjoying being there. I got the duck darter fairly quickly, but the spangled eluded me.

My duck darter, species 33 of the road trip.

Just as we were about to leave, there was one of those random accidents that caused us to stay there until 2am.

The gang, shortly before Brayden decided he was never leaving.

I had given up trying to headlamp the spangled, and was pitching tiny baits out into the deeper water to see what would pick it up blind. I got a few shiners and stonerollers, and then, at about 10pm when I really could have left with no problem, I got a spirited little bite and pulled up a fish, perhaps four inches long, that looked like a small bass in the water. I lifted it into my hand to unhook it and realized it wasn’t a bass. It was an Ashy darter, a rare and protected species that is really only found in this area. I released it right away – you can’t help what grabs a worm, but when I showed it to the Moores, Brayden had another emotional moment. “I just wanted to see one of those. I’ve wanted to my entire life.”

This is someone else’s photo off of the internet. I was up to 34 species for the trip. We didn’t even see another one, even though the kid stayed up until 2am trying. It was truly an awful day for him. Two “fishes of a lifetime,” two fails. He was actually quiet as we drove to the central Tennessee Motel Fungus.

The following morning was the stuff of sweaty late-night darter dreams. On very little sleep, because we got in at 3am the night before, we walked into a city park somewhere in Tennessee, where Chris said there had been three darter species sampled over the years. Generally that means that you will get one of them, maybe two. But it was our day, and in 45 minutes, we all had all three of them. This in no way cheered Brayden up.

The redband darter. I mentioned that these make good river redhorse bait.

The saffron. It was sitting under the same rock as the redband.

The Fringed. These were all caught within 50 feet of each other.

That was 37 and counting, although at this stage of the trip, the drives would be longer and the fishing stops shorter. Chris needed to be home the night of the 27th, and we still had 1700 miles to cover. We worked our way through the rest of Tennessee and into Kentucky, and while I didn’t add species for a long stretch, I did manage a substantial photo upgrade on the scarlet shiner.

My first one may have been the plainest scarlet shiner ever caught. Take that, Cody!

On our last stop of the day, at a creek that was a bit high and cloudy, I stumbled into species 38 of the trip, a suckermouth minnow, a species that normally bites only at night.

Chris also got one, but the Fish Gods did not reward Brayden. I’d like to think that I was gracious and kind about that, but who am I kidding here.

We got some amazing sunsets as we worked our way west.

The following day, June 25, took us through some very familiar territory – Poplar Bluff, Missouri, home of so many fishing adventures with Tyler Goodale. We unfortunately were not able to catch up with Tyler, but we had enough local knowledge by this stage to make the day worthwhile. We fished McLane Park, site of my triumph over the western creek chubsucker, and while the guys loaded up on a few cool new ones, I drifted baits in the main creek and randomly stumbled into a redfin shiner.

Species 39 of the journey. This whole area is gold. Never mind that this is the plainest redfin anyone has ever seen, it still counts.

I also got a great photo upgrade on brook darter.

We finished the day up at the same Arkansas Creek where Dom and I had gotten Arkansas saddled darters. Chris and The Mucus were positively wound up to have a chance at this rarity, and even though I didn’t have much new stuff to go for, I was glad to be there.

Another gorgeous creek, eminently wadable and jammed with darters.

The water was lower than it had been with Dom, which you would think would be an advantage. As soon as it was fully dark, we started seeing them. I acted as an extra spotter, and soon, we had both guys presenting to fish. But this is where it got weird. That slight change in water flow, while it made the fish easier to present to, also seemed to have them off the bite. We worked at it for hours, but they all seemed to have lockjaw.

At around midnight, The Mucus, who had been perched over one particular fish for over an hour, let out a high-pitched gurgle of triumph. He had managed to get an Arkansas saddled to bite – a marvelous example of his dogged persistence. Of course, this meant that Chris thought they would bite now, so we spent a couple more fruitless hours before he threw in the towel. We stayed in the same Motel Le Grunge that Dom and I had stayed in a month before, and I think I recognized some of my old dandruff on the pillowcase.

To have any shot at getting home on time, we needed to end the next day west of Oklahoma City, so, with our fishing detours, that meant about 500 miles of driving. We made several stops, and the guys put a few more on the scoreboard, but I drew a blank until the very last stop of the day, somewhere in Western Oklahoma. It was there, in perhaps the slipperiest creek I have ever stumbled through, that I added a Ouachita longear sunfish and finalized my Lepomis collection.

I was up to 40 species on the trip – epic by any standards.

The gang celebrates.

Speaking of slippery, a suggestion for those of you making similar trips. While I normally wear water shoes for wet wading, since we had so many days in a row, I used an old pair of low hikers. These provide a lot more stability and protection, although they have to be thrown away at the end of the trip because there is no way to ever get the smell out. The socks doubly so.

These, and the socks, were ritually buried at the end of the trip.

The socks put up quite a fight.

Sunset somewhere in Eastern Oklahoma.

Our route that night took us through Shawnee, Oklahoma.

That’s the birthplace of Brad Pitt, for those of you who don’t know the music of “Bowling for Soup.” Brad Pitt is the third-coolest person ever born in Oklahoma. (Chuck Norris is the first two.)

The 27th broke dark and rainy, but since our first stop wouldn’t be for a few hundred miles, it didn’t bother us. We had 985 miles to cover that day, so the fishing would be limited to three quick stops. This is part of the deal with long road trips, but these are actually good guys to travel with. There are always more fish to talk about, and the conversation was pleasant unless The Mucus woke up. If I started in on him too hard about the river redhorse, Chris, apart from his giant music playlist, had a great assortment of comedy clips to choose from. My personal favorite was Ron White’s routine on the digestive consequences of aging, but Larry the Cable Guy is also a genius. (If you were expecting Mozart, you have the wrong blog.)

Somewhere in the barren wildlands of Texas, we stopped at a creek that was stuffed with plains killifish. We couldn’t have been there 10 minutes, but a species is a species.

Number 41.

It was a long, long run to our final spot of the day, a creek in the middle of New Mexico, far enough off the freeway where they would never find us if we encountered a family of chainsaw murderers. We drifted small float rigs on the edge of the current, and again, in less than ten minutes, we all had Rio Grande chubs.

My 42nd and final species of the adventure. To put this in perspective, Chris got 99 – the same number Dom got in South Africa – and Brayden got 103. This took them to 628 and 643 lifetime. That puts them in roughly the top 30 in the world.

We still had five more hours to Phoenix, so there was one more stop for burgers – we’ll see if Chris ever finds the pickles. I knew, at last, I would be staying someplace with non-transparent towels and no wildlife in the shower. I knew I would be sitting down for meals and taking as long as I wanted to eat.

Sunset over Northern Arizona, just a few hours from home.

But I also knew I would miss the whole three weeks terribly – we only get so many male-bonding, weeks-long fishing trips in a lifetime. I had to grudgingly thank The Mucus, because he certainly found me a few fish, but most of all, thanks to Chris, who put up with two teenagers in the truck for 21 straight days.

Steve

DATELINE: JUNE 21, 2023 – LOWER LEFT-HAND VIRGINIA

It had been an exhausting week, but I still I didn’t sleep much the night of the 15th. We stayed someplace that should have been called “The Marital Crisis Inn” that put us in adjoining rooms, with an arguing couple on either side of us. Making matters worse, either Chris or Brayden snores like The Tasmanian Devil trying to eat Jello through his nose.

We were up early on the 16th to get over to Phil Foster Park, an old and reliable Dom spot. I started on the pier, hoping for one of the random whatsits that frequent the place. As I worked through the standard stuff – grunts, snappers, and pinfish – a guy on the other side of the pier walked up and asked what we were all fishing for. I started to explain the species hunting thing, and he suddenly smiled and said “I know who you are!” I was hoping I didn’t owe him money. To my great relief, he turned out to be Alexander Orr, a well-known lifelister from the upper midwest, who is well over 500 himself – and he has done all that pretty much in the USA with spots he has found himself. Darn impressive.

And he conceded that I wasn’t as much of an @$$#@$% as he’d heard, which made my day.

Hopefully, I can meet up with him someday and track down a channel darter.

We stayed a few hours, with both Moores tacking on a couple of new ones. Late in the session, on a random sabiki cast, right in front of The Mucus, I landed a dusky jawfish – a small but cool addition to my species list.

My second jawfish species. The first was in the Sea of Cortez. I was at 17 and counting for the trip.

That afternoon, we headed over to Boca Inlet. There are always angelfish here, although they won’t bite, and the ridiculously elusive orangespotted filefish, which everyone except me seems to have caught. It was a breezy but clear afternoon, and we caught loads of damsels and wrasses in the rocks right below our feet. The Mucus spotted and sight fished a green moray – this was just a mile or so from where I got my first one.

We saw more, but Chris couldn’t connect.

In the meantime, I focused on the filefish. For hours. There aren’t that many of them, and so the idea is to wait and present to them when they show, but then dozens of damsels and wrasses move in and steal the bait. I must have missed eight of them, and Chris and Brayden both had one by then. As a matter of unfortunate fact, I think Chris caught six.

I did catch plenty of scrawled filefish. This is an emotional fish for me, because a pre-Marta girlfriend caught one years before I ever did.

Late in the afternoon, Chris mentioned that he kept seeing an orangespotted near him, so I plopped down there and waited. He pointed it out to me. I cast. It showed interest but then a sergeant moved in and spooked it. It showed again. A wrasse stole the bait. The filefish wandered by a third time and moved toward my bait again – every muscle in my body tensed as I looked for the bite, but I couldn’t see my bait. I was so focused that I barely registered Chris yelling “SET THE HOOK SET THE HOOK SET THE HOOK,” but I finally snapped back and launched a small orangespotted filefish over my shoulder and onto the grass.

We had done it, despite my cluelessness.

They really do have orange spots.

I had species 18 under my belt, and best of all, it started pouring rain as we left, so we got to sit down for dinner and get a reasonable night of sleep. The next day, June 17, promised to be a biggie – Dom Porcelli would be hosting us on his boat. Dom, an avid species hunter (well over 1000,) had lived in the area for quite a while and seems to take special delight in helping visitors add to their totals.

We set off at the crack of dawn into what looked to be a nice day. As always, Dom had prepped thoroughly, and we had every bait from shrimp to live scad. We spent the morning bashing some medium reefs, and while I had nothing new to report, The Mucus did great work on live bait.

His first red grouper.

And a solid amberjack. Dom really knew his stuff.

The Mucus in full sun-protection mode. Never mind that he was wearing shorts and didn’t put sunblock on his legs.

Around noon, for no good reason, the weather went suddenly and completely to hell. We stuck it out despite the conditions, but to my dismay, neither of the Moores barfed.

Chris doggedly sticks it out.

I decided to try small sabikis, and somewhere in that mix of tomtates and wrasses, I got a parrotfish that looked unfamiliar. It took weeks and the involvement of a scientist, but the fish was finally identified as a striped parrotfish, number 19 of the trip.

A big thanks to Dr. Ross Robertson of the Smithsonian for the ID.

Dom decides it’s time to go.

Dom took us in a bit early because the inlets were starting to get dangerous. We got inside safely, but just as we hit the no wake zone, the skies opened up into a downpour.

As always, Dom was all smiles. 

There are two dry spots on Dom’s boat, and there were four of us. Dom let The Mucus drive and took a soaking – he is one of the most generous people I have ever met. We parted ways that afternoon, and as we headed south, he headed out for dinner with Tracy. I can’t help but think he had the better evening.

It let up by the time we docked. You don’t see many rainbows in Florida.

We found excellent pizza – our third and final sit-down dinner of the trip. As we headed for Homestead, I received a random and game-changing phone call from a former co-worker. He had taken over as CEO of a private-equity buyout. Weeks before, he had asked my help in finding someone do to what I used to do. One thing led to another, and they put a job offer on the table. I took it, and agreed to a start date of July 10, which would be my 60th birthday. My retirement would last just shy of four months, although I knew this new job would truly be my last. So while my first 10 days of the trip were as a retired person, the last 10 would be as a guy who would be going back to work in a few weeks. Marta sounded understanding and supportive when I gave her the news, but I could hear the faint sounds of the “I Told You So” dance in the background.

This would add some urgency to the last 10 days of the trip, as I would definitely have less free time in the coming months. 

As we closed out the 17th, our 10th night on the road, we were still actually heading away from home. We would not reach our furthest point from Phoenix until the next afternoon, and while I was sleep-deprived and unhygienic, we were stacking up the fish. If I could keep pace, I would finish with 38 – and I would have been ecstatic with 30.

Little did I know that in just five days, The Mucus would have the single worst outing of his life.

June 18 would be one of the most important days of the trip for me – we would try for gray angelfish near Marathon Key. Angelfish are amazing and beautiful creatures, and I am awful at catching them. I had 2203 species to my credit at that stage, and only one of them was an angelfish. (The King angelfish from Mexico in 2019.) 

The angelfish process involves a lot of King’s Hawaiian Rolls, the same food that helped Martini survive the bird flu in 2014. Our first spot was a harbor, which would be the apogee of the trip – 3125 miles from Phoenix. We managed to raise a couple of parrotfish, but Chris was quickly distracted by the possibility of green morays. The area was loaded with them, and Chris managed to pull a big one out from under a concrete boat ramp with 12 pound gear.

Chris is a magician. I lost one this big on a 100# leader.

By late morning, we realized the harbor wasn’t going to produce the parrots and angels we wanted, so we headed for the primary spot. This was an otherwise unspectacular stretch of bank on the seaward side of a bridge, bolstered with a low concrete corrugated metal and concrete breakwall. There were a few kids fishing there, but plenty of room for the three of us to set up.

I have to admit I was a naysayer at first. The place looked like any other dingy shallow spot, and I thought it would be loaded with grunts and small snappers. But then Chris started tossing in bits of bread. In about 15 minutes, the first parrotfish showed up – big rainbows. As they started cruising by regularly, we took out our rods and floated out loose pieces of bread. We watched them drift down, and as soon as they disappeared, our lines would shoot off for deep water and we would hook into a hard-fighting parrotfish. 

Over time, a few different parrotfish started joining the group – blues. Rainbows were still the most common, so we had to steer baits away from them and in front of the blues. It was an imperfect science, but after a while, I hooked one. This was a relatively light rod – eight-pound class, so the fish ran pretty much where they wanted to, but after a while, we had it in the net. I was up a species.

20 for the trip. The Cracker Barrel hat had brought me good luck.

These things are just so darn cool.

More and more fish joined the frenzy. We saw some sort of darker parrot that kept flitting around the edges of the group, but no one could get a good look at it. We also saw our first gray angelfish. This is why I was here – and Chris and Brayden both had one, so I had a clean shot at any fish that showed up. We kept drifting bread, and in between more rainbow and blue parrots, I got a hard hit and run off the bottom. It took a few minutes to get it back to the seawall, but when I saw what it was, I yelled for Chris to get the net. It was a midnight parrotfish, beautiful and relatively rare, and Chris deftly landed it. I was up two unexpected species.

Of course, The Mucus also caught a midnight, but Chris did not. That’s morally wrong.

At this stage, I was totally focused on the angels. They would drift in and out of the group, hard to present to because they were more mobile than the parrots. I spent at least an hour of narrow misses when a golden opportunity presented itself. A gray angelfish got right on top of the water and started nibbling a bread bait. Unfortunately, it was Chris’ offering, but when the fish actually ate the bait and headed downward, I unceremoniously snatched his rod and set the hook. I’m going to presume that Chris had no problem with this. The next 90 seconds seemed like an eternity, because the fish battled like a three-pound bluegill, but it finally came to the net, and I had my second angelfish species, completely due to the kindness and generosity of a good friend.

I can only hope Chris would tell the story the same way.

 

One of the worst photos of Chris ever taken. I can’t explain the look on his face, nor can I figure out where his right hand is.

Due to rain and hostile picknickers, we left that location and went a few bridges north to try for assorted damsels. There are more of them than you would think. I added on a cocoa damsel.

Number 23 of the trip.

Two more bridges north, right before more pizza, we got checkered frillgobies, which I must unfortunately credit The Mucus with finding.

The frillgoby. I was frilled.

Five species in one day. That doesn’t happen very often for me. I was up to 24 species on the trip, 2208 lifetime. Which means that my goal was 2209. Stop the 3000 talk, Marta.

The next day, June 19, was our last serious shot at Florida saltwater. We spent most of our time at the Miami waterfront, watching The Mucus try to ignore the bikinis.

The whole park is loaded with structure – and fish.

I added one new fish that day, the threespot damsel.

Cousin Chuck – can you guess how many spots it has? 

Dr. Ross Robertson provided the ID on this one, and he shared that these are indeed the feistiest of the damsels. When he was snorkeling with them to do research, they would often attack, and had a particular penchant for biting him on the lip. So the next time you’re tempted to make fun of my small fish, just remember that some of them are actually lip-hunting monsters.

I also got an adult striped parrotfish, which The Mucus still couldn’t catch.

We had been blessed with pretty good weather for most of the drive so far, but our luck started to run out on the 20th. Our intention was to head north, aiming for central Virginia, where exotic sucker species awaited us – but the eastern seaboard weather report began looking FOUL. We sat down over the satellite forecasts, and it was obvious we would need to call an audible. 

We reached St. Augustine by evening, and while we had plenty of action on the pier, there were no new species to report. And then the weather found us. It was brutal. We piled into the truck, soaked and shivering, and drove northwest, as we could see the rain didn’t go too far inland. We spent the night at some Motel Fungus in Georgia. 

The next morning, we checked the weather again and decided to head to lower left South Carolina. It was a long, rainy haul, made longer when The Mucus would wake up and debate my position on whatever I was talking about. At one stage, he claimed the metric system was “incorrect,” just because I said I liked it for fish measurements.

Chris’ iTunes playlist saved us frequently. This is one of the many songs I bought when I got home.

Slowly, we got back into brighter skies, and we pulled up to a beautiful little creek. It was narrow; not a lot of room for three people to maneuver, but we made the best of it.

Chris and The Mucus explore the riffles.

There was the occasional darter. and loads of shiners with bright yellow fins. We all caught one of those quickly – the aptly-named yellowfin shiner – a new species.

Number 26 of the road trip.

I settled into hunting the stray darters in the shoreline, but these turned out to be westfalls. The Mucus kept himself busy under the bridge, which I hadn’t bothered with because it was fast, riffly water and in deep shadow. He seemed very focused on something, which is unusual for more than 12 seconds, but after 45 minutes or so, he suddenly set a hook and went sprinting for shore. He had caught a turquoise darter – a rare and beautiful member of that family. Of course, Chris and I wanted to get in on the action, but it was hard. It required a “Minnowview 3000” – a five-gallon bucket with the bottom cut out and replaced with plexiglass – that allowed us to see what was going on under all that turbulence, plus a headlamp because it was surprisingly dim under the bridge.

Chris and I made it a two man job, with one guy maneuvering the bucket and light, and the other fishing. Chris got his pretty quickly, but I kept missing bites.

Searching for darters using modern technology.

Brayden got into the act to help. Both of them were very patient with me, as we spotted several more that spooked while the strong current was waving my bait crazily in their face. We found another one, and I tried to ease the tanago down as gently as I could. The bait looked perfectly positioned, and I held my breath. And then I couldn’t see my bait. Chris emitted a loud but unintelligible grunt and I looked at him curiously. I looked down again and still couldn’t see my bait. Chris finally used his words. “SET THE HOOK SET THE HOOK SET THE HOOK!” I couldn’t see my bait because the turquoise darter had eaten it and was sitting there cooperatively. I lifted up and swung him into the bucket.

Courtesy of some excellent teamwork, I had species 27 of the trip.

We also saw what was likely the last Bud Light ever consumed in South Carolina.

The next fishable spot was a heck of a drive – to the Clinch River in southwestern Virginia, a place that the legendary Pat Kerwin had introduced me to a few years back.

I’ve always wanted to spray paint an “S” over the small heart.

As we struggled through Red Roof Inn’s free breakfast early on the 21st, I had no idea that in only two days, The Mucus would have the worst fishing day of his life. 

It was overcast and a bit chilly, but we missed the really bad weather and the high water that came with it. We tried a few creeks through a drizzly morning, but got to the Clinch as the skies started to clear in the afternoon.

The Moores hunt the river.

There were darters EVERYWHERE – but we had no idea what they could be. We all got one fairly quickly – these turned out to be wounded darters, an excellent new species.

Number 28.

The Mucus then spotted something different, worked on it diligently, and ended up catching a rarity – a banded darter. After appropriate photographs, he released it by the boat ramp.

Me with a wounded, The Mucus with a banded.

Chris and I spent at least half an hour upstream, unsuccessfully looking for the same species. I walked back up by the boat ramp, and, I’ll be damned, there was a banded darter sitting on a rock about 10 feet away from it. It was likely Brayden’s fish. It had the whole river to escape into, and it just sat there. Naturally, I decided to try for it – both Chris and Brayden advised me fish won’t eat once they’ve been caught, but they obviously have never been pike fishing. 

The fish seemed indifferent at first, but when I trimmed my redworm down to a mere fleck and moved the split shot further away, he stirred. A few presentations later, I landed it microns in front of his nose, and he flat-out nailed it. I had my second darter of the day.

Trip species 29. I suppose I should thank The Mucus.

We then got in the truck and drove and drove to lower right-hand Tennessee, stopping for some sort of Chevron microwave calzone that mostly ended up in Chris’ door panel. We were finally heading back west and toward home, although we were still thousands of miles from adult supervision. We sacked out around 1am at the “Warrants Welcome Inn” and were up early, because we still had a couple of hours to drive through the rain, to a familiar but unexpected spot.

Steve

DATELINE: MAY 21, 2023 – HARRISON, ARKANSAS

Dom and I had been planning an Arkansas micro trip for a couple of months, and as the date got close, it was clear that the weather wasn’t going to cooperate. Eleven inches of rain fell in the weeks leading up to the adventure. I’m not a hydrologist, but this did not bode well for clear water, which in turn did not bode well for sight fishing of darters and similar beasts. Dom altered the itinerary to focus on highland parts of the state, which featured smaller, rockier streams that should – SHOULD – clear more quickly.

My flight landed first, which meant that I got to rent the car and make the Walmart run. This is where I made things unnecessarily exciting. (There is plenty of blame to go around for this one – you don’t get from a normal drive to scattering groceries all over I-30 without a bunch of things going wrong.) Basically, the hatchback on the SUV wouldn’t close on its own, but the alerts were so obtuse I just thought one of the rear seatbelts had gone haywire. So I drove over to Walmart, bought a couple of small coolers and about 100 bucks worth of groceries, and headed to the Holiday Inn. The alerts continued, and I kept ignoring them. About five minutes from home, the hatch suddenly flew wide open and scattered trunk contents all over the interstate. I got off on the first available exit, and discovered that I now had one cooler and about 50 bucks worth of groceries. At least my computer, my underwear, and the Red Bull were safe. But I felt like an idiot, and this was not an auspicious beginning to a trip that was already going to need plenty of luck.

After half an hour of violent experiments, I figured out a ritual that would close the hatch, but it would still unlock now and then. The rental company, who shall go nameless because they actually credited me half the cost when I showed them the issue, was nonetheless not available by phone and I was not going back to the airport and taking away from fishing time.

Dom and I connected early in the morning. I explained the situation. He tried his best not to giggle, but it got real for him when he realized his granola bars were among the casualties. The plus side – I had Red Bull and Pop Tarts. The minus – Dom has half my body fat. We headed to our first spot, fingers crossed for fishable water.                 

It wasn’t. It wasn’t close.

Dom looks sadly at a creek that was supposed to be half this size and gin clear.

Dom consulted his extensive list of spots and decided to head for smaller water right away. We drove a couple of hours toward Hot Springs and started finding clearer venues. The fishing was certainly a lot of fun – we got all kinds of micros and sunfish, but nothing new for me.

A northern studfish – not new but certainly the best-looking one I’ve ever gotten.

We optimistically photographed everything, discovering later that we were standing in a big patch of poison ivy.

That evening, we went to one of those spots that somebody clearly risked their life to find. It was way, WAY back in the woods – an hour or so on slippery dirt roads, passing structures that looked increasingly like they held terrible secrets from the 1950s. We finally parked at a junction of two creeks, with both a gorgeous riffle and two side pools. 

The riffle held darters and shiners, and we happily put on our headlamps and went to work. Dom was particularly interested in a slender madtom, apparently the only madtom there and one I already had. We hunted the creek methodically, getting the occasional rainbow darter or shiner. We were standing together, looking at a fish peeking out from under a rock, when there was sudden, loud splash right next to us – like an anvil hitting the water. From space. I’m not sure who screamed the longest or who jumped into whose arms, but it definitely caught us by surprise. 

It was just a beaver marking his territory, and once we stopped trembling, we resumed our hunt. I came upon a madtom, so I called Dom over and let him fish for it. I moved on and found a darter that looked a bit different and set up over it. About five minutes later, we both got our fish.

Mine turned out to be a creole darter, the first new species of the trip.

Dom’s madtom turned out to be a Ouachita, certainly new for him but also one I didn’t have. Oops. He apologized profusely but these things happen. It’s a team sport when we play.

I wasn’t able to come up with Dom’s photo, but this is an example of the species.

When we returned to the car, the crappy tailgate had come open and let hundreds of bugs join us.

The next day, we headed north toward Russelville. Randomly, we passed a pool in the Iron Springs recreation area that Martini and I had fished a few years back. I remembered it as the place where one of the worst cold streaks of my fishing career had begun, but this time, it wasn’t pouring rain, and we caught assorted shiners and … sunfish.

Dom works the very spot where I failed so badly in 2018.

With the recent longear splits, the sunfish we caught had a good chance of being Ozarks, and as soon as we got to cell service, we confirmed these were indeed a new species for both of us.

My second species of the trip, and #2180 lifetime.

We were finally in reliably fishable water, and we hopped from spot to spot, looking for darters and whatever else would bite.

It’s a gorgeous state, once the water is fishable.

We had just left a beautiful set of pools and were driving along a gravel road when the hatch randomly flew open. I jumped out to do battle with it, and noticed we were at an attractive spillway, so we pulled out the rods. 

In less than five minutes, we both had redfin darters, adding another one to our respective lists.

The redfin. I was still not happy with the car.

We spent much of the afternoon in a bigger waterway, where Dom managed to land a channel darter – quite a tough one.  He spent an hour trying to help me find one, but it was not to be. I did stumble into a wedgespot minnow, species number four of the trip.

I really could wipe the tank off better. Species 2182.

We closed out the day exploring small creeks, and while there were no additional species to report, we did get to visit Booger Hollow, Arkansas.

It’s a real place.

We also passed Bug Scuffle Road. There has to be a story behind that one.

The next day, we awoke to driving thunderstorms, which washed out our first couple of spots. We tried to keep ahead of the front, and found a beautiful creek in Springdale. We fished there for about half an hour and were just starting to find darters when … the police showed up.

Part of microfishing, even on public waterways, is that people will call the police. Perhaps they don’t know what we’re doing, perhaps they have encountered Spellman, or perhaps they are just idiots – we can never be sure. We walked up the embankment to talk to the officer, not sure what awaited us. I generally respect the heck out of police – it’s a difficult job – but I hoped we hadn’t missed some “Critical Salamander Preserve” sign.

Officer Irvin was the picture of courtesy. He explained that this section of creek had problems with teenagers and so nearby landowners tended to call the cops whenever they saw someone down there. When he noticed our non-standard gear, he asked what we were fishing for. We told him. He thought for a moment, and said “Follow me.” We ended up with a police escort to a nearby river that turned out to be positively loaded with darters. We caught dozens over the next few hours, and although none of them were new species, it was a great way to spend the afternoon.

Officer Irvin of the Springdale PD.

One of my nicer orangethroat darters, from Officer Irvin’s spot.

An orangebelly from the same spot. It was a good day for photo upgrades.

We had a look at one more location toward evening, but the rain picked back up to biblical proportions, and we found a Cracker Barrel and called it a night.

Random wall decoration in Cracker Barrel. One has to wonder if that’s Lizzie Borden.

The 20th broke much clearer, and we set off toward Harrison, in the far north of the state. We bounced between creeks, catching an assortment of stonerollers (anyone have reliable info on the plains stoneroller split?) and shiners, with a few darters thrown in.

We were filled with optimism. Or at least Dom was. He always is. I don’t know how he does it.

Things didn’t get interesting until later in the day, we moved to a place I will just call Slippery Creek.

Slippery Creek, Arkansas.

It was clear and beautiful, but it had risen and dropped recently and there was a lot of silt. I didn’t actually fall, but I had a number of strenuous close calls and was reduced to moving very slowly using a big stick as a cane. Meanwhile, Dom had gone upstream and was exploring a rocky ledge in a pool. As I approached, he held a hand up to keep me from disturbing the water – he was clearly working something. A moment later, he set his tenkara rod and pulled out a big darter. Catching it in the bottom of his shirt (he isn’t as worried about showing his stomach in public as I am,) he had a quick look and gave that great big smile. He announced “Autumn darter!”

That’s a rarity, and I was psyched for him. 

He took photos, and then we headed up the creek, and no, we did not have a paddle. We both got plenty of generic shiners and stonerollers, and as we started to head back out to the car, we passed by the pool where Dom caught and released the autumn. We both smiled. It was a good-sized pool, at least 10×20, with plenty of structure, but I started working up the same ledge he had. This went on for about five minutes, and then, for no particular reason, a head poked out from under the rocks and took a swing at my bait. I didn’t get a good look at it, but I wasn’t leaving. It swung again about 10 minutes later, and finally, it came all the way out and attacked my split shot. It was an autumn darter, likely the same one Dom caught.

Maybe 10 more minutes passed, but he finally took the bait hard and I flipped him up on the shore. This was my fifth species of the trip, and I owed it to Dom’s patience.

My autumn darter and the ledge where it was caught.

So forget anything I said earlier about the madtom.

We had planned our last stop of the day to be mostly night fishing, in a medium-sized creek that was rumored to have the rare and elusive Arkansas saddled darter. It’s rare, because, well, it’s rare, and it’s elusive, because it lives in deep, fast water than makes presenting to them very challenging. If you are lucky enough to see one, you will then have to be rigged with a heavy enough weight to get the bait consistently in front of them – they get so wedged into their little hiding spots that they won’t move far to strike. Even a one-inch leader can still leave the bait flailing all over the place, but going shorter means that you can spook the fish with the split shot. It’s a challenge. 

But first we had to actually see them. Working our way out to the middle of the river, we were distracted by dozens of madtoms (Dom got his slender,) and assorted darters like orangethroats and huge greensides. It finally got really dark, and we headed for the center of the creek, spleen-high and fast, Dom with a serious amount of weight on this tenago, me with one big split shot. Slowly, we headlamped our way across, looking for a unicorn. 

I spotted mine first, right smack in the fastest part of the river. If they’re there, they aren’t hard to see – a buff base color with dark saddles, which stood out strongly against the dark rocks.

They are at least relatively easy to see.

My split shot was woefully inadequate, as Dom had cautioned me in might be. I tried a couple of times, but I couldn’t get it to the bottom. Just as I was going to let Dom step in and take a crack at him, Dom just handed me his rod and said “You spotted him – go get him.” 

Dom took my rod and headed for shore to get more weight, and I was able to get his setup down by the fish easily. With the bait spinning in the current, it took a few tries, but I finally settled it down right in front of him, and he bit immediately. I swung up, and worked through that heartstopping moment where a darter is swinging through the air and likely to come off, but I caught him on the first try and clenched him to my chest to walk in and take pictures.

My Arkansas saddled darter. What rain? What flooding? The trip was now epic.

Just then, Dom yelled “Hell yes, dude! Got him!” I shot back “Thanks man – it was your rod.” He said “No, I got one!” And there he was, with my rod, about halfway back to shore, holding another Arkansas saddled darter. He had spotted it while walking in, and had cleverly put most of the rod into the water to reach the fish. We had both gotten the species within seconds of each other. Mine was solely due to his generosity, and his was despite the handicap of using unfamiliar gear. 

It was something like 2am, but it had been an awesome day. We ate sandwiches in the car, found the nearest motel that didn’t look completely sinister, and caught a few hours of rest.

Dom’s first motel choice. I used my veto.

The trunk popped open somewhere on the drive, but we had learned to keep everything of value in the back seats.

The next day would be our last of the trip, but with six species in the bag, including four darters, it was already an excellent outing – and an epic save considering the weather.

That last day was a lot of driving, as we had evening flights out of Little Rock. We passed by some interesting bits of local culture.

I hadn’t seen a sign for S&H green stamps for years. If you’re younger than 55, look it up.

We checked a few creeks, and then headed for a full-on swamp. The place had lots of tall grass and murky water, and my snake radar was on high alert. I was quite comfortable fishing from the boat ramp where I could see a few feet in all directions. Dom, wandering freely across that blurry line between adventurous and emergency room, strolled into some tall grass. What happened next is not completely clear because it happened so quickly and there was so much screaming, but Dom either stepped on or kicked a large cottonmouth. It was big enough that I thought it was an otter when it flopped into the water. Dom was visibly shaken but got over it quickly. The snake got over it even more quickly and started swimming around the boat ramp, which made me less than comfortable.

Another reason not to wade without a suit of armor.

But we are guys, and guys are fascinated with dangerous wildlife, so we decided to try to feed the thing. We threw three or four sunfish onto the edge of the water. The snake knew something was up, but their eyesight is not the best, and he poked around for a good 10 minutes before he found on of the bigger offerings, a panfish the size of Cousin Chuck’s hand. He swallowed it in less than 15 seconds. It was horrifying and yet fascinating.

And yes, we took video – click here.

That night, Dom headed back to Florida, and I, with fewer responsibilities, flew to Washington DC to visit my sister. Those of you who know her are aware of what a grand gesture this was for me, but I figured it was the polite thing to do.

Steve

SPECIAL BONUS SECTION – THE HUNT FOR A DIGNIFIED BLUE CATFISH

So I got to have a couple of days with my family, including seeing my niece Elizabeth, an honors grad from William and Mary, before she headed off to a research position at Brown University.

Me, Elizabeth, and my sister.

We also got to go to dinner with Martini, who lives in the area now.

Family meets family. 

As an added bonus, my on-again, off-again nephew, Charlie, got a day off work and drove up from Richmond so I could take him fishing. We set up a day with old 1000Fish hero Phil Richmond, who was stationed near DC at the time. We would target blue catfish in the Potomac.

By the way, congratulations to Phil and Rosalind, who got married on April 15, 2023.

Although I’ve caught a blue catfish, this would be more than a photo upgrade for me – it would be a dignity upgrade. My largest blue catfish was smaller than some of the baits Phil was going to use. Charlie, ever the good sport, just wanted to catch something.

Phil warned us that this was not a big fish time of year, but we were both glad to get out on the water. We met early at a boat ramp, and headed up the Potomac past quite a few historical landmarks.

The Watergate Hotel. They say G. Gordon Liddy still haunts room 214.

The Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial.

Fairly quickly, Phil anchored us up and cast out big chunks of cut bait. We were ready for action.

Lines out, clickers on, and ready to go.

The bites started almost immediately. The fish weren’t big by Phil’s standards – most were between eight and twelve pounds, but this was more than enough for me and Charlie. 

Our first two fish.

We kept at it until midafternoon, and by the time it was over, we had all gotten at least 15 solid blues each. My biggest was well over 20 pounds, Charlie’s was in that range, and Phil stuck one well over 30.

One of my better fish.

Phil with the big fish of the day.

Charlie made the mistake of asking me to buy his lunch, so he ended up with Disney Princess fruit rollups.

I had upgraded by blue catfish substantially, and this is a species that foreigners ask about, so it will be nice to pull out a decent photo. Thanks again, Phil. And Laura, thank you so much for the home-cooked meals and sorry about the pillowcase.