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

Dateline: June 8, 2019 – Southwestern Virginia

There is an eerie specter haunting the rivers of the Eastern US, and it is named Pat Kerwin. Imagine having this conversation all week:

Pat: “Hi Steve.”

Steve: “Aaaaaaagh!” You scared the $#!& out of me!”

Legendary species hunter Pat Kerwin, and one of his legendary t-shirts.

And how did we get where legendary species hunter Pat Kerwin was scaring the daylights out of me? That story begins a year ago, in the wilds of North Carolina. It was on the Appalachian Barbecue Tour trip with Martini and Pat, and someone made the mistake of mentioning the tangerine darter, one of the largest and most beautiful darter species. Strong on impulse and weak on planning, I decided that we needed to go catch one immediately. Pat patiently explained that tangerine darters live in Southwestern Virginia. I replied that it couldn’t be that far, as the states share a border. Later than evening, using advanced teaching tools, like maps, Pat educated me that the very left hand side of Virginia is extremely far from Raleigh. In fact, it’s extremely far from anything, and would need to be explored on its own trip. Common sense and fishing are a difficult mix for me.

I don’t forget these things, and when Pat and I started talking about doing a week somewhere on the east coast this summer, the tangerine darter became my main focus. We planned a few days in the wilds of southwestern Virginia, which seems closer to Phoenix than Springfield. Marta finds it amazing that I never forget a fish species I want to catch, and yet I can’t remember to empty the dishwasher.

Our trip began early on a Saturday morning. I picked up Pat in Alexandria and we headed southwest, and headed southwest, and headed southwest some more. It’s a big state, and our first fishing stop was some four hours from home.

That first stop was the Holston River, a clear, gorgeous stream in the middle of rural Virginia.

A huge thanks to Pat for finding spots like this.

Pat had scoped out some micros, and I scored immediately on a saffron shiner, the first species of the trip.

The saffron shiner – species 1865. That’s the year the Civil War ended, unless you live in some parts of Texas.

We should have left right away, because I spotted some redhorse and insisted on casting to them for quite a while. I caught all kinds of stuff – hogsuckers, bass, even brook trout – but no redhorse. This blog also could have been called “No Redhorse,” and if I had known that, I could have spent my time more productively.

A northern hogsucker. Not a redhorse.

At Pat’s gentle urging, we packed up and headed for the Clinch River. This watershed is not only home to the elusive tangerine darter, it also hosts a batch of other desirable micros, as well as some larger stuff, like, you guessed it, black redhorse.

The Clinch River. Did I mention there are black redhorse here?

We got there late afternoon, and started poking around a spillway. When that didn’t produce the desired tangerine darter, we moved to riffles about a mile downstream. We tend to fish separately to cover more ground, so when we reached the water, I wandered upriver and Pat stayed and looked at some likely darter hideouts. I caught my second species of the day – the redline darter.

I was thrilled with another darter. These are difficult to catch.

A while later, I was busily glaring at an uncooperative darter. Pat, with no ill intent, walked up to a respectful distance and said “Hi Steve.” I jumped out of my skin – “Aaaaaaaagh! You scared the $#!& out of me!” I don’t think Pat is trying to sneak up on anyone – he is just naturally stealthy, which is handy while fishing for skittish creatures. I have all the grace and stealth of a vertigo-stricken walrus, and when I am focused on a darter, I wouldn’t notice that same walrus until it bumped into me. (Or said “Hi Steve.”) When I stopped screaming, Pat let me know that he had caught a bluebreast darter, a rare and marvelous creature that I have tried and failed for many times.

Gorgeous. His photos are always better than mine.

Pat has amazing focus and hamstrings, because he can hold the “Darter Crouch” for hours without screaming or accidentally soiling himself.

The “Darter Crouch.” Photo taken by a mature person.

The “Darter Crouch.” Photo taken by me.

The next morning, we headed downstream on the Clinch and set up across a big, fast riffle. Almost immediately, I had a triumph – a gilt darter, the same species Ben Cantrell caught in front of me in Missouri a few years ago.

A gilt darter. Ben’s was prettier, but they all count the same on the scoreboard.

Ben Cantrell. (And Cora the cat. Note that Ben’s current cat, Rascal, is far cooler than Cora.)

Rascal. You’ll be reading more about him next month.

After that, the morning was soul-crushing. I spotted black redhorse, so those were on my mind, but I had also seen a quillback, and even more importantly, I saw and missed three different tangerine darters. I felt awful, and I have a hard time leaving a place that I suspect holds fish, even to move somewhere that could be much better. (Ask Martini.) Pat finally talked me into moving a few miles, to a river that was alleged to hold quite a few redhorse. When we got there, we could see dozens of them, even from the parking lot, and I had high hopes that I would finally get my black.

I walked into the water, armed with some red worms on a #10 hook and a six-pound spinning outfit. I would pick out a redhorse, cast to it, and watch it carefully avoid the bait and swim upstream. To no one’s surprise except mine, this went on for quite a while, and, as you can imagine, I was exasperated. I left the bait sitting at my feet while I was looking for targets, and was startled by a small but definite bite. Reflexively, I lifted up and felt a small fish. I flipped it up through the air and dropped it into my occasionally-reliable glove hand.

It was an impossible explosion of color – neon green, neoner yellow, and electric tangerine orange. It was a tangerine darter, completely by mistake, but it was species four of the trip, and species 1868 lifetime.

Is that cool or WHAT?

I would have done the trip for this species alone.

We fished the Clinch again in the evening, and I still did not get a black redhorse. We did meet a very nice game warden, who couldn’t believe we were fishing for something that wasn’t a bass or catfish.

There were better versions of this photo, but the look on Pat’s face in this one is priceless.

Our dinner was something special, even by the low standards of unsupervised men on the road. We found one of the few remaining Long John Silver’s in America, and, I am proud to say, gorged ourselves on fried stuff.

Oh how I love fried stuff.

Pat wrestles down the Admiral’s Platter.

We spent the next morning hopping from creek to creek, searching for assorted micros that Pat had researched. I added two to the list – the Tennessee shiner and the Western blacknose dace. I also may have gotten some sort of recently split sculpin, but these IDs give me a headache.

A Tennessee shiner.

The western blacknose dace. Species six of the trip.

Any ideas? Thor? Val?

I also caught a teensy stripe-necked musk turtle. (Thanks to reader Thomas from VA who spotted the correct species.) It was cute until it bit me.

Late that afternoon, we pulled up to the legendary New River. Ironically one of the oldest rivers in the world, the New is supposed to be loaded with species, and from the bridge, it looked fantastic.

I had read about this place for years.

When we fought our way down to the water, however, it looked sterile. We searched riffles and rocks, and saw … nothing, as if there had been a toxic spill. Pat took it in stride, but I was apoplectic. I had read about the New River for years, and now that I was finally here, it was going to shut down on me? This is a legendary smallmouth haven … but of course, I wasn’t fishing for smallmouth. And if I fished for river bass, I was giving up on new species for the day. But I love smallmouth fishing – I remember my Uncle Jim talking about them back on early 1970s trips at Port Sanilac. I figured I might as well return to my fishing roots for a couple of hours. I took a sturdy spinning rod and a box of lures, and waded up the rocky, slippery passages until I arrived at a perfectly gorgeous spillway.

Tell me that doesn’t look full of fish.

I tied on a classic Panther Martin and cast into the edges of the white water, just as Uncle Jim taught me all those years ago.

Bang. Instant, big hit. I knew it was a smallie without seeing it, and it battled me in and out of the current until I beached it. It was a beautiful, strong two-pound fish. I released it, and cast again. Bang. I caught fish on my first five casts, all around two pounds.

This is what it’s all about.

They were everywhere.

I was in an isolated section of the New River, catching nice smallmouth. I was back at my roots, and loving it every bit as much as I love catching anything. I ended up with 14 smallies, ranging up to three and a half pounds. It was truly one of the golden moments of this or any other trip.

The beast of the group.

My day was complete.

Then it happened. “Hi Steve.” followed by “Aaaaaaaagh! You scared the $#!& out of me!” Pat has somehow walked all the way up the river without me noticing. Luckily, my pants were already wet.

We checked into some local motel that evening, and had a nice conversation with the night clerk. She noticed we were fishermen, and, unsolicited, she mentioned that she had done quite a bit of fishing in the Clinch. “Oh yes,” she said. “We used to get a lot of bass, and catfish, and that other thing … redhorse! We caught a lot of redhorse.” Pat tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back laughter and ended up making cough-up-the-hairball noises. I know the lady didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, but I hated her nonetheless.

The next morning, we continued our way through the western part of the state.

And it was all scenic.

I added one species early in the morning – the mountain redbelly dace. This is another one I missed in North Carolina last year, so I was thrilled.

Species 1871.

Our next move was a long one, down what felt like a hundred miles of country road to a beautiful creek near a small church. When we got there, there was no parking to be found. The church lot was plainly marked as church parking only, and I tend not to do anything to mess with churches, as I am always worried I will cause them to burst into flame. Some local guys were volunteering their time to shore up the rockwall next to the building, and as soon as they saw we were fishermen, they invited us to park there. The kindness of strangers had saved us again. Pat and I got into the water and fished most of the afternoon – it was gorgeous. There were darters all over the place, although when I finally caught one, it turned out to be a fantail, a species I seem to get in every state.

Why is it always a fantail? Anybody have data on the Chesapeake split of the fantail?

I did get a crescent shiner moments later, species eight of the trip and 1872 lifetime.

The crescent shiner.

After that, it was mostly darter hunting, and just enjoying whatever wanted to bite in a small creek. Pat was off doing his own thing, spotting and catching stuff I didn’t even know was there. As we closed out the day, I had one lucky catch – it didn’t give me a new species, but it did give me a photo I’ll never forget.

A spawning crescent shiner. I think this was the only thing I caught all trip that Pat didn’t.

It was getting late and was time to leave, but of course I was still locked in on another darter than turned out to be a fantail. Pat walked down the stream and gently said “Steve?” I responded “Aaaaaaagh!” You scared the $#!& out of me!”

The following day would be our last one on the road. Pat had to go back to work at the Library of Congress, and I had to face my sister. We hit a number of attractive spots on the way back up the DC area, and one of these, a spillway on the Roanoke River, produced a wonderful surprise. At first, I thought I had gotten a juvenile logperch, but when I showed the photo to Pat, he immediately recognized it as a chainback darter. This was my 9th and last species of the road trip, and my 20th overall darter species.

My first darter was in 2015, a rainbow with Martini and Ben. 

I also caught a large cutlip minnow, which I thought was worth sharing.

This is a behemoth of a cutlip.

Adorable. 

Our last spot was a creek known to host longfin darter. The results were a microcosm of the whole trip – Pat got the longfin; I got fantails.

No missing this ID. Pat’s photo of course.

As we were getting past time to leave, Pat kindly walked in my field of view for at least 20 feet and called out “Steve?” But I was focused on another fantail, so naturally … “Aaaaaaagh!” You scared the $#!& out of me!” The Phantom of the River had struck for the final time. Or had he?

The ride home featured dinner at Zaxby’s, a regional fast food place that everyone should eat at before they die. Preferably just before, if you have the gravy.

Best fried chicken this side of Chick-fil-A, and no protesters!

Once I was back in DC, Pat had a couple of local trip ideas, allowing me to get out of the house and avoid my sister. The first species should have been easy – it was a sculpin that Pat had found in a particular set of rocks below a particular bridge in a particular stream.

The particular stream.

Unfortunately, I don’t always read instructions. I bashed around the creek for a couple of hours with no success, and finally, in desperation, I reread the email and noticed I had gotten it exactly backwards. I waded to the correct spot and caught the fish in 30 seconds. I had just finished taking photos and was quietly enjoying the scenery when Pat called. I had accidentally taken my phone off silent mode, so “Aaaaaaagh!” You scared the $#!& out of me!” The River Phantom had struck – remotely.

The Blue Ridge Sculpin.

The following day, I gave it one more try. This spot took me all the way to the backwaters of Chesapeake Bay, through some gorgeous hiking trails and into a wadeable lagoon alleged to contain a population of naked gobies.

The ledge was crawling with micros.

I set forth with light gear and had a ball. There were lots of micros, like killifish and sheepshead minnows, but the naked gobies were especially abundant.

Sheepshead minnow. They’re cute.

A naked goby. They do not wear pants like other gobies.

I then went after some interesting-looking killifish, one of which turned out to be a rainwater killifish – species 12 of the week and 1876 overall.

1876 was the year Custer screwed up. (But he still got a monument. Sometimes I think this could confuse our children.)

Speaking of confused children, this trip was also to recognize my niece Elizabeth, who quietly managed to graduate high school with all kinds of honors and to do so without catching any species that I have not.

Roughly 17 years ago, I was the only family member to witness her first steps.

That’s Elizabeth on the left, and some vagrant photobombing us.

Steve

 

SPECIAL BONUS SECTION – WORLD RECORD 199

After substantial confusion, mostly caused by me, we have a good count on my IGFA records. It stands at 199, and it stands there instead of 198 because of an almost unknown California native fish – the hardhead. It started with a road trip. Marta is always game for a weekend road trip, especially someplace with steep hills and a yoga retreat. This time, we drove five hours to get to Alturas, a charming mountain town in remote Northeastern California. The hailstorm that broke my windshield was not as charming.

Also dented my hood and roof.

The aftermath. That’s a pile of hail on the shoulder.

Rumor had it that there were big hardhead and a few other species in a nearby river, so I gave it a shot.

The Pit River, central Alturas.

Luke Ovgard, he of blue chub fame, joined us. I trusted his guidance, as he happened to hold the world record on hardhead. Unfortunately, the river was completely blown out, but luckily, this did not stop the hardhead from biting. We had great action through the evening, interrupted only for an excellent Italian meal. The next morning, while Marta hiked a local mountain, I unintentionally but gleefully shattered Luke’s record.

Luke, and his record fish from 2018. It was one pound.

Mine was two. So that’s like catching a 3100 pound black marlin, although I suspect I won’t get as much press.

Enjoying the scenery. In the Bay Area, that barn would cost $3,000,000, more if you’re a Republican.

 

 

 

Dateline: May 12, 2019 – Boca Raton, Florida

This episode should really be three separate South Florida blogs, but the complaints would be overwhelming. Miami is always a great place to visit, but, like any spot I have fished frequently, the opportunities get more and more specific over time. This trip was not just about species, however – it was also about seeing some friends and keeping some promises.

My first fishing trip to South Florida was on August 9, 1999 – the day I caught my 100th species – with legendary guide Vinnie Biondoletti. (So you older species hunters can take some solace in this late start, and yes I mean you, Gerry Hansell.) In the 20 years since, the area has always produced, and when I had a business trip to Miami come up, I had a few targets to get after – notably the brown hoplo and the dreaded Caesar grunt – fish that everyone but me seems to have caught.

Even Jamie has caught a Caesar Grunt. Boo.

But first, I needed to get there. United Airlines, who should adopt the slogan “We Make Things Unnecessarily Difficult,” undercut even their low standard. I was flying to Miami through Houston. There was a huge storm heading to Houston.

It didn’t take a degree to figure this out.

There was an alternate flight through Chicago with plenty of seats available, so I asked United to move me. The agent, apparently a meteorology minor at Ohio State, spent 15 minutes insisting that the weather in Houston was fine, and refused to switch me. Of course, Ohio State’s meteorology program is only there for the football team, and Houston was chaos.

But United just couldn’t see this coming.

United was completely unprepared for an airport full of stranded passengers – there were three customer service reps and thousands of people waiting in line, so I just got my own hotel room, at, dare I say, the vilest crackhouse of a Motel Fungus I have ever stayed.

My motel’s soda machine. I think this says it all.

And the frequent flier miles I earned for the trip are worth about half of what they were when I earned them, because United keeps “enhancing” and “evolving” their mileage program. (Which means “making the program even more inconvenient.”) I know air travel is going to have occasional difficulties, but I’ve flown over 2 million miles with United. Silly me for expecting more.

My late arrival into Florida meant that I could not roam north Miami hunting bluefin killifish and sailfin molly, which, in hindsight, was probably for the best. I picked up my intended schedule with an evening venture into the Everglades, where old friend Pat Kerwin had given me one of his inexplicable, “How-the-hell-did-he-find-that” spots for brown hoplo. (My first attempt at a brown hoplo cost me an impressive piece of jewelry for Marta.) There was also supposed to be an oddball South American catfish in the area, so that would be a great bonus if it happened. After covering myself with a mayonnaise-like coating of bug repellent, I hopped in the rental car and headed west, to a dreadful-looking ditch that was already hazy with mosquitoes.

Lovely sunset, but the place was full of insects.

I met another buddy there – Dom Porcelli, a local species hunter and kindred spirit. We instantly saw hoplos jumping, or at least that’s what I believe was jumping – other, more experienced anglers have suggested these were walking catfish, which would have made my optimism unfounded, but in my ignorance, I took it as a good sign. We tried a few different rigs – floats, unweighted, ledgers, but the bluegill were vicious. I finally got a leadhead rig to settle in some of the deeper water, and continued playing with a float. (I even caught a small jaguar guapote, a fish that had caused me to humiliate myself in front of Marty Arostegui a few years ago.)

The savage jaguar guapote.

Moments later, my other rod slammed down and headed for the water. I grabbed it and set the hook, and the fish responded with a surprisingly strong fight. I said hoplo prayers, and as a dark form surfaced, I swung it up onto the bank. It was a hoplo, it had taken less than 10 minutes, and I didn’t have to buy Marta any jewelry.

The hoplo and Dom.

Solid armor. It was only nine inches long, but it weighed almost a pound. Almost.

I expected that I would get dozens of the little beasts, but they seemed to disappear after that one fish, which didn’t please Dom. (He did finally get one about an hour later.) We stayed for about two hours, until the mosquitoes learned to ignore the repellent. In that time, I got a bunch of Mayan cichlids, which are fun but not a new species, and one South American catfish, Rhamdia quelen, which was not fun (four ounces of listlessness) but definitely a new species.

Hey, it counts.

Dom and I had a pleasant conversation about upcoming fishing adventures, including one planned in just a couple of days, and then I headed back to the Hilton and a few hours of sleep.

The next day was about keeping a promise. Of course, you all remember Cris, the Brazilian co-worker with the impossibly good-looking family.

Cris and his impossibly good-looking family. I have trouble figuring out who is the wife and who is the daughter, so use your judgment. There is a son, who is also good-looking, but he is a teenage boy, so he is always out of the house doing homework or helping the community or whatever it is that teenage boys are doing nowadays.

It had been years since Cris and I had gotten out onto the water together – every time I was in Miami, I seemed to end up with something else urgent to do, which, to my lasting resentment, often was not fishing. This is not how we should treat friends. Cris is a dedicated fisherman who has done a great job of learning the local waters, and is always sending me photos of everything from snook to tuna.

Cris’ personal best snook. I think he used my personal best snook for bait.

I was looking very forward to getting out and doing some offshore kite fishing. When we got going early the next day, everything looked perfect. It was warm, it was spring, and it was Florida. We were joined by Cris’ good friend Ricardo, the owner of the Brazilian pond where I caught a 19-pound tiger suribi on trout gear last year. But the Fish Gods rarely put everything in your favor, and when we got outside the protected backwaters, it became clear that we were going to have some wind. The nasty, all-day kind of wind that makes drifting offshore unpleasant. Cris and Ricardo were game and didn’t complain a bit, but it was sloppy out there.

The guys, right before we got into the wind.

We got some bites and landed a tuna or two, and I kept busy fishing the bottom. I got a couple of truly weird catches, like a flying gurnard, but alas, none of them were new.

Despite the name, it doesn’t fly. Sort of like United in Houston.

This happens when you have been fishing an area as often as I have, and truthfully, a good day fishing with an old friend beats a new species. (Mostly. If there had been a spearfish at stake, I might not have been so philosophical.)

When we got back inshore, fishing actually got good.

Tell me that doesn’t look full of fish.

Cris had scoped out the local mangroves for ladyfish, and we spent about an hour casting lures and getting constant strikes. Ladyfish hit hard, jump all over the place, and hunt in packs.

What’s not to love?

When we finally docked and cleaned the boat, the best part of the day was still ahead of us – a home-cooked meal. Remember, these are Brazilians, and all Brazilian food, with the exception of capybara, is really, really good. We ate and talked well into the evening, when it occurred to me that I had another predawn wakeup call coming the next day.

That next day, the plan was to fish the reefs north of Miami with Dom Porcelli. Even though I have explored this area many times, there is always something new to try for, and in my case, the Caesar grunt loomed large. This modest grunt has caused me endless pain, because everyone I have been fishing with in Florida has caught one, generally right in front of me. We’re talking Jamie Hamamoto here. Scott Perry I can forgive, because he rarely fishes and didn’t mean to catch it. Martini, I can forgive, because he is a frighteningly awesome angler and couldn’t help himself. But Jamie?

The weather had not improved, and when we motored out of the intracoastal waterway, it was sloppy. The anchor would hold, as long as we didn’t want to stand up, and as always, there were plenty of fish down there. Dom had caught plenty of Caesar grunts, generally on the Ides of March, and we had the right bait in the right areas. Naturally, I caught everything but a Caesar.

Not a grass porgy. It’s never a grass porgy.

And everything is attractive.

A puddingwife wrasse.

A normal person would be thrilled to be catching reef fish after reef fish on light tackle. Dom knew the areas rock by rock and reef by reef, but to ask for a particular grunt in an area swarming with hungry fish is more luck than skill. At least that’s what I tell myself late at night when I am justifying why I haven’t caught one.

Dozens of fish into the morning, just long enough after my Red Bull where I was getting a little fuzzy, I pulled a smallish grunt on board and was in the process of unhooking it when Dom’s eyes popped out like I had turned into Kate Upton and my top had fallen off. With great relief, I realized Dom was not staring at me – he was staring at the fish. It was a Caesar Grunt, and I might have thrown it back if he hadn’t noticed what it was. It was eight ounces of scaly joy, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who I texted first.

“Hello, Jamie. Guess what I caught?” “Hello Steve, Mine was bigger.”

The day was complete – I had gotten my 1862nd species, and an emotionally important one. Indeed, if I ever start bringing an emotional support animal on airplanes with me, it would be Jamie.

The day wasn’t complete. We were on the water, we weren’t throwing up, and there was plenty of shrimp left. So we just fished, for whatever happened to be down there, no worries about anything exotic. And usually, when you are being pure to the sport, something unexpected happens. This unexpected thing happened about an hour later, in an oddly familiar location – the end of Anglin’s Pier. (The very same place Scott Perry got his Caesar.) I had just released two nice juvenile rainbow parrotfish, and as my bait settled out of sight, I got hammered. It was an above-average reef fish, and it took a minute or two to get it near the boat. It was a relatively plain parrotfish, but I know these are often odd species, so I photographed the heck out of it. (Val Kells’ book would later show it to be a queen parrotfish, another new species, putting me at 1863.)

The day was officially epic, partly because I knew Skyline Chili awaited me for dinner.

Skyline Chili. It’s a food group.

I couldn’t thank Dom enough for taking the day out with me. The species hunting community is very closely related, and all of us have shared our secret spots with a stranger – I wouldn’t be nearly as far along on my list without a whole lot of help like this. Even from Jamie.

Steve

 

SPECIAL BONUS SECTION – THERE’S A NEW DOCTOR IN THE FAMILY

As a group with a dearth of meaningful accomplishments, my family will take any excuse to celebrate – whether it’s passing junior high school, a birthday, probation, or toilet training. (In Cousin Chuck’s case, all four happened on one magical evening in the early 90’s.) But shortly before the Florida trip, I was invited to share a truly special moment for Martini and the Arosteguis. In what had seemed like only a few months, Martini, Stanford grad and general fishing wizard, had transformed himself into Martini Arostegui, PhD. That’s Dr. Martini Arostegui, with yet another degree, this time from the University of Washington in Aquatic and Fishery Sciences. I was invited to watch him present his dissertation and then to celebrate with the family.

Let’s see … I know what a “trout” is, but the trail goes cold from there.

You have to be good to defend a PhD. But you have to be VERY good to do it in that shirt.

When you figure this guy isn’t close to 30 yet, it’s pretty amazing, and I was humbled to be there. People ask me – “What’s this guy going to do next?” I answer “Anything he decides to.” Congratulations Martini.

How does Roberta keep getting younger?

 

 

 

Dateline: April 15, 2019 – Paducah, Kentucky

Is one day of excellent fishing enough to make up for three days of miserable fishing? Of course it is. If I could hit .250 consistently, I’d have played a lot more baseball.

My average on paddlefish is well below .250, and perhaps even lower that Dave Hogan’s career mark. (Dave used to get thank you cards from Mario Mendoza after every season.) I have been trying – and failing – for Paddlefish, off and on, for 33 years. Looking at those first few attempts in 1986, all the way to now, April of 2019, a lot has changed, mainly my hair.

This is not finesse fishing. The paddlefish is a plankton feeder, and hence won’t hit a normal lure or bait. The typical approach is to snag them, which involves casting a weight and treble hooks on big saltwater setup, and ripping these through the water until your arm falls off. Once in a while, you hit a stump and battle it tooth and nail for a few moments until someone quietly tells you it’s a stump.

My first time after Paddlefish, I was a grad student in Columbus, Ohio. I had caught all of 34 species and hadn’t sniffed a world record, but I had lots of hair. (On my head.) I went out armed with a fishing report from the Columbus Dispatch and an 8-12# class Ugly Stick, which I considered my heavy rod. I wore the Red Ball waders that were purchased with my very first tax refund. Oh, how I miss tax refunds. I cast and I cast, but only hooked one thing – a two pound freshwater drum, which I was convinced had to be a paddlefish, until I saw it was a two pound drum.

The drum. I tried to serve it for dinner. We ended up at Denny’s.

With a two-pound fish giving me quite a fight, I did the math and realized that my heavy rod wasn’t so heavy.

That’s the very rod I used to chase paddlefish. Is that me with actual abs? Marta asked where I have been hiding them.

I gave it another try or two over the next few years, but I never even saw a paddlefish, and to be honest, the project didn’t have my full attention, because I was single. Still, that was over 30 years ago, and hopefully, I learned a thing or two in the decades since.

After Ohio, the creature slipped my mind for a few years. I moved to California in 1990, and I never seemed to be back in the midwest at the right time and with the right connections. The paddlefish stayed in magazines and on my bucket list, and then, in 2009, by which time I had stopped being a grad student and somehow become a corporate executive, I got sent to Iowa for a business trip and figured out there were paddlefish nearby. I had learned a lot more about fishing in the interim, and most importantly, I wasn’t single, so Marta wanted me out of the house whenever a bathroom didn’t need painting. My magnificent hair had begun migrating from my head to my back and ears. I had over 800 species at that stage, and had started my world record quest. But I hadn’t owned a blow dryer in at least 20 years.

Despite what they tell you in “The Music Man,” Iowa is a perfectly nice place to visit. Part of the game is that you need to be there when the fish are, and the fish move according to rain and water temperature and similar dark magic, and I didn’t end up getting one. (As memorialized in “Creel of Dreams.”) I did catch some nice fish while I was there, but the checklist remained unchecked.

A beast of an Iowa silver carp. I had high hopes that this was going to be a paddlefish, but it wasn’t.

Five years later, as I was approaching the IGFA lifetime achievement award, I ended up in Texas with Martini and Kyle. Before I had a chance to let Kirk Kirkland yell at me about smallmouth buffalo or spotted gar, we saw a few paddles. I didn’t get one, and Kirk made sure that I understood this was a personal failure. I was well over 1400 species at this stage, so one would think I was a competent fisherman, but fishing, like hockey, has a way of humbling participants. I missed and I missed, and my hair wasn’t getting any better.

I then moved into the Poplar Bluff phase of my life. This small town in southeastern Missouri, “the gateway to the Ozarks,” has plenty of paddlefish at the right time of year, and with the help of ace local guide Tyler Goodale, I finally managed to hook one. Actually, two. But it ended better for them than me, and by this stage, I was taking it pretty personally. I had the right gear – a travel surf rod and Shimano Stella 8000 that cost more than my first car – and I still messed it up. What was it going to take? And during the five years I have been going there, my hair has pretty much abandoned my scalp. Baseball caps have gone from outdoor wear to all-occasion.

This spring, I decided, against all species-hunting math logic, to devote a trip solely to catching paddlefish. One of the great centers of this universe is Southwestern Missouri/Northeastern Oklahoma, and after a bunch of research, I found guide Tracy Frenzel on Table Rock Lake and booked a day with him in the height of the paddlefish run. It had to work.

United Airlines, however, tried to rain on my parade. Because United sells tickets for 9 zillion flights a day from San Francisco, and does not have enough gates to support these flights, things often go wrong. My St. Louis flight was badly delayed, and I took a flyer, pun intended, on changing to a Chicago flight connecting to Springfield, with a quick drive to Branson. It worked, but just barely. I met Tracy in town the next morning – I may be the only person who has stayed in Branson and not seen a show, but as awesome as Neil Sedaka might be, there were fish to catch. Remember, I caught a fish in Paris before I saw the inside of the Louvre.

Guide Tracy Frenzel. You can reach him on Fishingbranson.com or at 417-699-2277.

We headed off into a crisp spring morning, and I must say the whole area is beautiful.

Table Rock scenery.

We set up shop, rigging my popping rod with a big lead and some intimidating trebles, and setting up his rods with a mix of casting leads and Dipsy-diver trolling disks. I helped Tracy put out a Dipsy rod, and after I set it in the holder but before I could pick up my rod, it absolutely slammed down. We’re talking 60 pound-class saltwater stuff bent over double, screaming 80 pound braid off the drag. I wrestled it out of the holder and started reeling, and as the boat slowed, I started gaining line. Whatever it was, it was not a two pound drum, and I played it as delicately as I could because I was terrified that I would lose it. I had been trying to catch a spoonbill for 33 years, and I was closer than I ever had been. But things can go terribly wrong when your goal is so close you can taste it – just ask Cousin Chuck about his junior prom. The fight went on for 10 more hard-pulling minutes, and then the fish surfaced, paddle first. This is when I really started sweating, but Tracy handled it calmly and professionally, and moments later, he netted my first paddlefish. It weighed just under 40 pounds.

Finally.

I didn’t know Tracy that well, so I kept my clothing on, but it was still time to celebrate. Having never seen a spoonbill up close, I took a few minutes to marvel at the creature, as improbable as it is ancient. (Like sharks, rays, and sturgeon, paddlefish have a cartilaginous skeleton.)

The bill is speckled with electro-receptors that detect plankton.

The maw – they gulp in plankton-filled water, then strain out lunch in the gill rakers you see here.

The pattern of rosettes is unique in each fish.

We set up another pass, and just a few minutes later, I hooked into another fish. This one was a reel screamer – it took a much longer initial run and stayed tighter to the bottom than the first fish. When we landed it, we could see why. It was over 60 pounds.

I was ecstatic, and we weren’t done.

We drifted the lake for another couple of hours, and got two more – a full limit – before we called it a morning.

One of the others – around 50 pounds. I reeled in just under 200 pounds of fish before 11am. If you find yourself in the area in springtime, I can’t recommend Tracy highly enough.

I was beside myself with joy – a 33 year quest had come to successful end. And all it had cost was endless air miles, lots of sore shoulders, constant failure, and my hair.

Before anyone goes all PETA on me, these things are very good to eat and were on the grill that evening.

The fishing day wasn’t over. (Five words that Marta hates.) The Paddle was the 1855th species on my list, but I had my eyes on 1856 as well. Old friends Ben and Patrick had steered me toward a stream not too far away that held a population of Ozark darters. It was just warm enough for wet wading, and I rushed over to a small Missouri town and set to it.

I never get tired of wading creeks like this.

The darters were everywhere, but as often happens, they wouldn’t bite. It took an hour or two to get one, but once I landed that one, the rest all seemed to get going. I caught about 10 more, just for the fun of it.

The Ozark darter.

To give you some idea of how massive it is.

I was up two species for the day, a good haul by my standards, but it was getting late, and I needed to drive across most of the state to Van Buren. I knew there was a big storm coming the next afternoon, and I was hoping to get in a few hours in the Current River, chasing the dreaded black redhorse before it started pouring.

A country road heading across the state.

The next day, I awoke to ominous clouds and a cold wind. Time would be limited. I had a few darters in mind, but the moment I got down to the river, I saw a pod of black redhorse just a few feet off shore and I wasted the rest of the day being ignored by them.

I did catch a gorgeous stoneroller in spawning colors, but this was scant consolation for not getting a redhorse again. Black redhorse swim by and laugh at you. It’s obnoxious.

Stonerollers are slippery.

When the rain arrived, it was biblical – the weather stations were warning about floods, so I headed into Poplar Bluff. Some of the big roads were already awash by the time I checked into the Holiday Inn, and I grumbled at the fact that I had been here four times and had heavy rain all four times. I got a decent meal and some sleep, hoping that ace guide Tyler Goodale could pull off some sort of miracle in the morning.

The storm that had come through was exactly what I had come to expect every time I come to Poplar Bluff. It blew out EVERYTHING, and the shots at exotic springtime darters were out the window. But I was in Poplar Bluff, and that means that old friend Tyler Goodale is on the case. (As immortalized in “The Thing in Ben’s Leg“) Tyler was not going to let a torrential downpour ruin things, and he had one idea, albeit a longshot. We would go to Kentucky, a few hours away, and try for skipjack herring, a relatively common river fish that had thus far eluded me.

The drive was grim – dark skies and pouring rain most of the way – but Tyler’s enthusiasm (and three Red Bulls) kept me focused. He bemoaned the weather, knowing that if conditions were better, we could get all kinds of stuff. When we got to the dam, I was impressed by the sheer scale of the thing, more impressed by Tyler’s knowledge of every nook and cranny at every water level, but less impressed by the freezing rain. When we got to the water, people above and below us both caught skipjack, so I was relatively confident. The Fish Gods sensed this and punished me. Every jig I cast got bashed by a white bass. Every spinner I threw got hit by a silver carp. And I’m talking chased down and hit – by silver carp. This is not how they used to act when they first came here. I was witnessing evolution, and of all the places, I was witnessing it in Kentucky.

Tyler battles a silver carp on four-pound line.

Oh yes he did.

Hours passed, and I still had no skipjack, even though I saw several dozen caught. I was frustrated and cold, but determined not to leave. I finally tried a medium-sized sabiki, and to no one’s surprise, the white bass loved it. I caught about a dozen of them before I got a bigger hit that broke the rig off – likely a silver carp. But I tied on another one, and on the first cast, I got a hard bite and saw a silvery, slender fish jump out of the water. I held my breath and reeled. Tyler saw it was a skipjack before I did, and he moved in quickly with the net. Against all common sense, I had knocked off a species.

Mild hypothermia is no concern when it comes to fishing.

The triumphant anglers. Tyler’s thumb may have been frozen in that position.

Encouraged, I started casting again right away, but no more skipjack would hit for me. Just as I was with the Twaite shad in Wales, I am likely the only person to catch exactly one skipjack in a day.

The drive home from Kentucky was gorgeous. The storm was moving past, and long, yellow rays of sunshine cut under the cloud bank and lit up the countryside. I had to be happy with the new species, but yes, I always do wonder if I will EVER get to Poplar Bluff when water levels are reasonable.

The next morning, we gave the Wappapello spillway an honest effort, but the water was roaring out so fast it was like fishing in a blender. We gave up and poked around a few smaller streams, looking for black redhorse, which has now become just as vile as a dogtooth tuna or a spearfish. We saw a few, I spent hours casting to them, and, of course, they wouldn’t bite. But that’s the game. As I packed up to drive to St. Louis and fly home, I wasn’t thinking about the redhorse. I was smiling about those paddlefish, and how much time had passed since my first try at them, and how much I had learned in those 33 years, and also how much I had likely forgotten. The redhorse would have its time.

Steve