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

DATELINE: NOVEMBER 24, 2025 – REDONDO BEACH, CALIFORNIA

If Fishbase.org is to be believed, which often it is not, there are 108 different rockfish species. I have 53 at the moment, so there are still a whole bunch of Sebastes running around that I haven’t caught. There are two basic strategies to catching more of them – move a few hundred miles north or south, or fish crazy deep. But the most important thing is just to keep fishing, and this blog will cover several months of assorted rockfish attempts with a few different friends.

Things started with a bizarre and unlikely catch in August of 2024, and for this, we must introduce Captain Don Giberson.

That’s Don on the upper left, on another 2024 trip with Scott Perry, Connor Spellman, and the fabled Jibril Rouag.

Don, who is neither bizarre nor unlikely, runs a charter boat called the Reel Screamer out of Half Moon Bay, near San Francisco. He’s an outstanding skipper, and I have fished with him at least a dozen times over the years, but you never get to hear about that, because I’ve caught almost all of the local rock cod species. But I love rock cod, shallow or deep, and I try to get out whenever I can during the season. It’s a chance to burn up some of the thousands of bars and plastics I have laying around my garage – but don’t worry, there will still be zillions of lures for you vultures when I pass away. As a matter of fact, ask now while I can still make you buy me a burger in exchange for the lures. Otherwise, you’ll be at the mercy of Marta.

Our second introduction is to Dave, a local businessman and lawyer I met through one of Marta’s client companies. We hit it off at a Christmas party years ago, and he has done a great job of staying in touch, especially as his two boys became experienced fishermen in their own right and were mature enough to deal with my vocabulary. Last August, Dave and kids, who I initially called Thing One and Thing Two because I am bad with names, put together schedules and got out on the water together.

This is the gang – me, Connor, Danny, and Dave.

It was a super day of fishing during which the kids caught something on about every drop.

Connor with his first rockfish – a nice copper.

Danny weighs in with one of the orange ones that I hate identifying.

Dave got into the action with a solid canary.

I initially thought this was a deacon rockfish, which I haven’t caught, but it wasn’t. I was fishing too deep. Both kids caught one. I lose sleep over stuff like this.

I was doing well myself, to the point where I began experimenting with the infrequently-used jigs in the bottom tray of my rockfish tackle box. One of them had a surprisingly small single hook – maybe a #1 – and I was too lazy to change it, but I did add a small piece of squid.

A few casts later, I retrieved the lure over the rail, and surprisingly, it had a small fish on it. Small. As in only slightly bigger than the lure – and hooked clean in the mouth. It was a scalyhead sculpin, and miraculously, I had added a species on a Half Moon Bay rock cod trip.

The kids, though polite, were somewhat bewildered by my jubilation over this and relative silence over two ling cod. This just means they are normal.

We had limits by early afternoon and headed back to Pillar Point harbor.

Connor, hopefully not right before he took a handful of my potato chips. I’m not sure what happened here, but if the bathroom was involved, Dave needs to have a serious talk with him.

I got out again with the gang a few weeks later, and it’s always a hoot to fish with kids, especially two that are well-parented, housebroken, and solid fishermen. Although I do have to point out that Danny was obsessed with the electric reel and wanted to use it even in 200 feet. That takes all the fun out of it, boy!

For you freshwater types, this is a ling cod, and while not a particularly big one, they fight well and make excellent ceviche.

Notice that Dave is in almost none of the photos – he certainly caught a few fish, but it was mostly about watching his kids have fun. That’s father of the year material in my book.

Dave hangs out in the cabin while I display a solid copper rockfish. In case any of you wonder about my garb, the Tigers were in the playoffs, and while they did not go all the way, at least they ended Houston’s season.

Danny has the gift of being able to sleep anywhere. In this case, he dozed off in the middle of one of my hockey stories.

About a month later, after several more lost nights of sleep, I decided to make a serious effort at the deacon rockfish. This more recently-described species is a close relative of the blue rockfish, and other fishermen have caught them in front of me repeatedly – several Moore family members, Luke Ovgard, Martini, Dave Stevens’ kids, and others too numerous to go through the pain of mentioning. Almost everyone who caught one said they were fishing a good bit off the bottom. I generally do not like to fish midwater, as the bottom generally has larger fish, so my efforts were cursory at best. But when The Mucus catches something I don’t have, right in front of me, something has to be done.

This is where 1000fish hero Vince stepped in. Vince (@prickly_sculpin) is a Santa Cruz-based species genius who has helped me get more than one hard-to-locate species close to my home. When he heard I didn’t have a deacon, he couldn’t believe it, and of course, he asked – “Aren’t you fishing a few cranks off the bottom?” He made it sound so simple, and he offered to take me out on his boat to one of his Deacon spots.

Late in September, we got chatting again, and we managed to find a free day that appeared to have calm conditions. I had no idea how important this would be – I knew Vince’s boat was small, but I had no idea how small. We’re talking a poly skiff here, about 14 feet, but with a solid 25hp motor. Vince is a good-sized guy. I’m around 235. There was not a lot of room for error, but as Vince had done this dozens of times, I did all the being terrified while he just drove the boat. We arrived at a specific reef perhaps 45 minutes out of the harbor. It was fairly calm, but my intestinal tract clenched and unclenched with every swell.

We set up gear much lighter than I would usually fish for rockfish – small shrimp flies, as opposed to the giant swimbaits I normally throw. And Vince counselled me to keep them well off the bottom. To prove his point, he immediately caught a deacon rockfish.

To prove my point, I immediately caught an adult widow rockfish, which Vince never has.

Then we got serious and set to fishing shrimp flies 10 cranks off the bottom, just like they taught us on the first party boats I ever went on, back in the 1970s. I weeded through a few blues, but after perhaps half an hour later, I got one with the right mouth shape and color pattern.

A deacon rockfish. I was up a species, all thanks to Vince, and I could go back to bashing the bottom.

It was a short ride in, but each small swell made me feel like I was going to go swimming. The boat is perfectly safe, I’m just not experienced with small craft in the open ocean.

I have never been so glad to see the harbor.

The year proceeded into November, when I generally limit my fishing to local bass and trout.

Apropos of nothing, we did get to see the northern lights this year. I’ve been to Alaska and Norway and never seen them, and here we were in my neighborhood in Northern California.

The iPhone saw them better than I did, but they were there.

Later in the year, the rockfish bite actually gets better, but the seas get worse. I know I’ll sound whiny to my fellow midwesterners, because many of them are shoveling snow before Thanksgiving, but in California, our big concern is wind. Wind can turn sea conditions bad in a hurry, and I am strongly anti-barf.

I was keeping in close touch with Redondo Beach species whiz Zach, who you may remember from “The Redondo Beach Boys.” We had passed on several trips because conditions got too bumpy, and we were running out of weekends, because once the turkey hits the table, I’m generally at home watching Hallmark. While I was at Safeway buying cranberry sauce (the kind with the whole berries please,) I got a text that the weather on the 24th looked relatively good. Now, when I say “relatively,” that means it looked, at that moment, like we could go out 10 miles and not die. It did not mean it was going to be pretty, and it was certainly subject to change, but it was worth taking the drive to Los Angeles. I drove six hours, got into my favorite Hilton by the harbor, and watched the weather report well into the night.

There was a rainbow on the way down. I took this as a good omen.

The Redondo Beach sign I saw on TV as a kid. I thought it was incredibly exotic, and I couldn’t imagine traveling what I thought was halfway around the world to see it in person.

By 6am, it looked snotty but doable, and so we gave it a shot.

At the harbor, we met up with John, Zach’s friend who has that winning combination of being a nice guy, being interested in weird fish, owning a boat, and having exceptional hair. Perhaps it’s just hair envy on my part, but even at 6am, he has effortless Hollywood leading man hair. I have relied on baseball caps to hide my hairline for 25 years.

John is the one who isn’t Zach.

We headed about 10 miles out, to some very deep water – 800’+ – and began the long process of getting baits to the bottom. Each drop is preceded with the fear of reeling up untouched baits, which, although it takes less time than reeling a fish up, feels much longer and gives one time to contemplate the silliness of fishing down two tenths of a mile. My main target would be a pink rockfish – a species I thought I had gotten earlier in the year, only to have science interfere with my ID. According to Zach, we also had a good shot at a stripetail rockfish, which would also be a new one.

The stripetails turned out to be small but eager – I got one on my first drop.

Yes, this made the entire trip worth it. If you think this makes me demented, species-hunting isn’t for you.

We then went hunting for the elusive pink. It didn’t help when I got a series of greenblotched rockfish, the virtual twin of the pink, but the fourth fish I got showed the requisite stubby gill rakers.

Finally, a no-doubter pink rockfish. Heck yes.

And when I say the gill rakers are stubby, I mean it. This was the photo that Dr. Milton Love needed to see to confirm it as a pink. Thank you again, Dr. Love, because damn these things are hard to tell apart.

A greenblotched and a pink. See what I mean?

Aglow with success, we moved about halfway in and started dropping in 600 feet. There are a variety of creatures in this mostly-barren environment, but many of them are small rockfish. So imagine my surprise when my first retrieve brought not one, but two short-spined combfish.

Close relative to the longspined combfish, these beasts are hard to find and I had no idea they were even in the vicinity.

Surprisingly, the combfish was not the weirdest thing to happen that afternoon. When we were moving between bottom spots, we spotted a small group of molas milling on the surface. Also known as ocean sunfish, these pelagic wanderers can grow close to a ton, and show up randomly anywhere from inshore kelp beds to the open ocean. They will only occasionally take a bait – I’ve caught one myself – but these juveniles drifted with us and Zach skillfully maneuvered baits for at least half an hour before he managed to hook one. He calmly steered it into the net, and he was up one truly bizarre species.

A triumphant Zach with a bewildered mola.

That was all for the day – three new species, which is huge in my book. I gave a big thanks to John and Zach, and headed out for something fried. We did try a brief reef finspot session that evening, but reef finspot are now my official tidepool spearfish.

I thought that would have been it for the year, but Vince, just because he is awesome, called me around a week later. He mentioned it was a good tide for rockweed gunnels, one of the tidepool beasts not yet on my list. These creatures are reclusive surge zone residents, and on the rare occasions they are seen, it’s after dark.

Central coast tidepools at sunset. It’s beautiful, until it gets cold and dark.

So here we have two adult men, wrapped up in waders, sweatshirts, and headlamps, looking like refugees from an eastern European country’s failed space program.

Luckily, there were no witnesses.

Each low tide only gets you a few hours of fishing, and it was only late in this window when we spotted a sliver of a head and two beady little eyes briefly staring out from under a rock. It was a rockweed gunnel. I made sure my bait was cleanly on the hook, took a deep breath, and lowered the rig down to where we had seen the fish. This becomes a waiting game – sometimes the fish comes back out, sometimes it doesn’t. Gunnels are especially finicky, and can take quite some time to come out after a bait, if they come out at all. I remember thinking that it already could have slithered under a different rock or even a different county and I wouldn’t have known the difference. The tide was slowly creeping up, and I was keenly aware that I had limited time.

Vince had a glass tray that made the viewing easier, but for at least 30 minutes, there was nothing to see. But finally, perhaps because the fish got used to the light, it came out again to see what was happening. My buttocked clinched involuntarily, which is especially uncomfortable in waders.

I gently eased the bait up and down – the gunnel clearly saw it, but he also saw me, and he poked his head slightly out now and again, but always retreated before biting. When it finally happened, it was not the aggressive snatch I had hoped for – he just came out an inch further than he had been, and slurped down the bait. I snapped my hand back and deflected the fish into the tray.

I had a new species, number 2344, and again, a huge thanks to Vince. And this one didn’t require a scary boat ride.

We had dinner that night at Pizza My Heart – a strongly recommended Santa Cruz establishment.

They have one of the best bathroom signs I have ever seen.

As I drove home that night, I saw a bunch of Christmas lights and knew we were finally in the Holiday season. I reflected on an excellent year that had taken me to over 2300 species and 240 records, and was content to think that December would be spent lounging around the house in my Grinch pajamas; a brief break from airports, 24 hour a day fishing, and exotic species hunts. It would be simple, festive, and relaxing.

I could not have been any more wrong.

Steve

DATELINE: OCTOBER 20, 2024 – RURAL SOUTHERN INDIANA

ALERT – IF YOU READ JUST FOR THE FISH, SCROLL 2/3 OF THE WAY DOWN. THIS ONE DEFINITELY WANDERS.

It was a dark and stormy 3am at Steve Ramsey’s house in Indianapolis. He looked at me sternly. “I know you were two states away when it happened. And I know you were with me the whole time.” Lightning flashed outside for dramatic effect. “But I know you had something to do with this.”

I put on my most innocent face and smiled wanly. It had been the perfect crime.

Steve’s living room ceiling fan has a long and storied history. It was original equipment with the house, and Steve seemed to run it every time I had a fishing rod in the house. I constantly turned it on by accident, because the switch is right next to the living room lights.

One especially bad day a few years ago, Steve returned to his home and found one of the fan blades sitting on the floor. It had simply fallen off. (Or had it? There were traces of chihuahua fur found on the broken blade, and some who believe that the vicious dog spirit of Little Bit flew by and smashed it.)

The fan being out of service didn’t stop me from hitting the switch, so Steve finally put tape over that. But he never replaced the fan.

And he seemed oddly proud of this.

This became a topic every time we had dinner with Ron and Carol, but Steve steadfastly refused to get a new fan. His excuses were many and varied, and it is his house after all. But while I don’t judge, Carol does, and it was determined to be just plain wrong that Steve had a non-working ceiling fan, and hence, we were empowered to act.

Besides, it was getting to be Halloween season, the appropriate time of the year for vicious pranks. This is one of Steve’s neighbors, sometime in mid-September.

That catches us up to October of 2024. I had been planning an overdue trip back to the Midwest to visit one of the most important shrines in my sporting universe – Little Caesar’s Arena, home of my beloved Red Wings. You may think that Indianapolis is a little far for a Detroit road trip, especially in one day, but I would question your dedication. It’s only five hours each way, and there are White Castle and Skyline restaurants conveniently spaced along the route.

Of course, we had to invite Sean Biggs, one of the few living witnesses to my first hat trick. (Spring of 1978 in a 4-1 playoff victory against Berkeley, which is a town in Michigan, not to be confused with the communist disaster in California.) Two of the goals were cleaning up rebounds from Sean’s legendary slap shot. Sean has been going through the ups and downs of Red Wing fandom longer than I have (I only became a hockey fan at age nine,) and we have seen games together at the old Olympia and Joe Louis Arena.

I flew into Indianapolis one October evening and headed straight to Skyline with Steve. The next morning, we rose at the crack of 10am and got ready for our road trip, and by 11, we were on I-69 heading north.

With a quick stop at Skyline, of course.

This departure set a chain of events in motion. Sinister forces, or Ron and Carol, I forget which, found their way into Steve’s house with a new ceiling fan and a qualified electrician. By 4pm, the damage had been done. Or repaired. Depending on your point of view. Or some Amish broke in and installed a ceiling fan. Take your pick.

Blissful in plausible deniability, I drove us north. We met Sean at Olga’s Kitchen, another beloved culinary institution from my childhood.

The Red Wings are in a rebuilding phase, but for you Sharks fans who seem to love picking on the Wings recent lack of success, I always say my favorite Sharks season was the one where the won the Stanley Cup. Oh, wait … they didn’t. This means you, Cole.

Outside the sacred site.

The Rangers had a good team, which made the night a disappointment, but it was still great to be surrounded by Red Wings hockey history. We sat next to the family of a Ranger’s rookie player, and he actually scored his first NHL goal. I pretended to be happy for them, but I’d trade the kid’s career for one more Detroit Stanley Cup.

That’s Dylan Larkin on the right, the last guy on the roster who played with members of the 2008 Stanley Cup team. And the 2009 team that was unfairly deprived of a Cup because Gary Bettman worships Cindy Crosby.

The gang sitting rinkside.

Steve and I hit the road around 9:30pm, which would put us back at his house around 3am, allowing for a White Castle stop in Anderson. The time went quickly, mostly because I was driving, but also because we were busy discussing the rest of the weekend, which included an IU and a Colts football game. The IU game would be especially important, as it would be the 50th anniversary of his graduation there, and he and other sports alums would be honored on the field at halftime.

We made good time and got home around 2:50am.

The stop at White Castle. I am pointing at the onion chips, which any decent human will share.

My strategy was to remain poker-faced and wait for the fun. Steve noticed it immediately, but he refused to say anything. This led to about 10 minutes of staring back and forth, each of us waiting for the other one to comment.

At this stage, I should probably reveal that it wasn’t just any ceiling fan that was installed. Steve is obviously a huge IU fan, and his house is a sports memorabilia shrine to his alma mater and related Indiana teams. Naturally, one would expect a fan with IU-themed blade covers. But what fun would that be? According to anonymous sources, Michigan blade covers were on sale that week, and that was what Steve spotted the moment he walked through the door.

Shocking.

After what seemed like an endless staring contest, right at 3am, he finally broke down and said it. “I know you were two states away when it happened. And I know you were with me the whole time. But I know you had something to do with this.”

It’s always fascinating to watch a fundamentally good person confronted by pure evil. Steve was pretty sure the fan didn’t get there by itself, but he could not bring himself to believe that so many people were involved in the conspiracy. He wants to believe that people, especially his friends, are basically good, and this shook his belief system to the core. With quiet defiance, he did mention that the Michigan fan blade covers could be removed and replaced with the IU version. I hoped out loud that whoever had put the covers on didn’t shellac them there. And that’s where we left the matter, although, for the remainder of the time I was there, he kept trying to work out how the whole thing happened.

Still, we were too busy to explore it much further. Saturday morning, we were up early to head down to IU. Steve normally likes to get to games 8-10 hours ahead of time, to “get the feel of the place,” but this was a truly big event – the 50th anniversary of his graduation, a milestone when the Lettermen are brought on the field and honored at halftime.

Steve and his credentials. He always has credentials.

The gang gets seated in the Alum section. I am not an IU grad, but I own the jersey, so they let me in.

For dramatic effect, let’s say this is when they introduced Steve.

I’m always astonished by how many people Steve knows. There he is with Tim McVay, IU defensive back in the 1970s and father of Los Angeles Rams coach Sean McVay. When I met Tim, it was a lot less stressful for Steve than when I met Lee Corso.

That’s John Cougar Mellencamp on the field. Luckily, he was not the halftime show.

The following day, we attended a Colts game, a thoroughly entertaining win against the Miami Dolphins and whatever concussion-prone QB they were trotting out that day. Not that the Colts have much better luck on injuries, but at least our guy protects his head.

A rare photo of Anthony Richardson upright.

At halftime, the Colts inducted tight end Dallas Clark into their Ring of Honor.

A great and worthy tight end – and the only Dallas that’s been in a Super Bowl for over 30 years.

Steve and Steve celebrate the victory.

You’re probably wondering why you read this far with no fish, but luckily, that’s about to change. I had been in touch with Ron Anderson of “Ron and Jarrett” fame, and he and I had plans for the evening. As soon as the Colts won, I rushed Steve home and headed south to pick up Ron and take another shot at a pirate perch, which has become something of a freshwater spearfish for me. We stopped first in a murky ditch under some freeway, and we did actually see one, but it was so buried in the weeds we couldn’t even present to it. We then drove another hour to a creek near Santa Claus, Indiana, which Ron and Jarret swear is jammed with pirate perch. This would be my third visit, and to be fair, the other two were bad weather days.

We waded up the waterway, and the place looked disturbingly sterile. The water had clearly spiked up and dropped over the past week, and every step kicked up a cloud of silt, so we headed upstream and looked at every little structure. Remember, this is the place where they have seen dozens of pirate perch out in the open, so I was a bit traumatized.

After about half an hour, as I was peering under some leaves, Ron suddenly hissed “STEVE!” He was 20 feet away, looking into another small snag, and he clearly saw something. He waved me over to his right side and quietly pointed to a small opening in an underwater leaf pile. There were two glowing eyes staring back at me. I took a breath and eased the bait down, and before I could even exhale, Ron shouted “YOU GOT HIM YOU GOT HIM YOU GOT HIM!” which, in professional fishing circles, is a subtle signal to set the hook. I lifted up, and there was a pirate perch in midair. Ron snatched it with his steady glove hand, I covered his hand with mine, and we shuffled to the bank for photos.

I had finally gotten one of the little bastards.

The triumphant anglers.

Once we were done with photos, we turned back, facing a long ride home. It was almost midnight by that stage, and, as we moved down the creek, the Fish Gods had a chuckle at my expense. Just as we got out of the water, I looked across the creek, and every little pit in the creekbed contained – a pirate perch. Dozens of them had come out, just as Ron and Jarrett said they would. So I caught a few more, just for fun.

And the REALLY good news is that scientists have now split the pirate perch into five species, so I have four more to frustrate the hell out of me on future trips.

Steve

DATELINE: SEPTEMBER 15, 2024 – KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

I admit it. Despite the disapproving glances from Marta and, indeed, almost everyone over the age of 14, I enjoy Taylor Swift’s music. But this crap with Travis Kelce has to stop. I love the game of football and it is a beloved part of my autumns and my orthopedic surgeon’s retirement, but why we have to see a pop singer eating nachos five times a game is beyond me. And this whole mess has attracted fans who were otherwise indifferent or even hostile to the sport, and if I have to explain the difference between Travis Kelce and a good tight end one more time, I’m going to scream.

I’m a hater, and I’m going to hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.

September of 2024 would put my patience to the test. It had been decided that the annual “Brew Crew” tour would be in Kansas City, and this meant a Chiefs game. The plus side – I would be in the same stadium as Taylor Swift. The plus size – 15,000 of her fans would be there, melting down at the occasional jumbotron shot of Tay-Tay and only faintly aware a football game was being played.

The group assembled on a Friday. Every city has its logistical challenges, but in KC, the stadiums are right next to each other. This is still a bit of a haul from downtown and anything else to do, but it’s handy to walk home from the games. The regular group – me, Marta, Steve Ramsey, Ron, and the sometimes evil Carol, would be joined by another couple, Jeff and Jerri.

L-R that’s Marta, me, the occasionally sinister Carol, Ron, Jeff, Jerri, and Ramsey.

Steve and I had worked with Jeff in Indianapolis back in 1990 – he was a senior VP at the top of my chain of command. Steve has been friends with him all these years, but I had not seen him in more than three decades. Back in those early days of my work history, I was terrified of the man. As I advanced in my own career and became a senior executive in my own right, I looked back on a lot of lessons I had learned from him – for example, the power of the phrase “I don’t think this is working out.” (I also learned a great deal from Ramsey, still the most organized person I have ever met.)

Kansas City is a surprisingly cool place to visit. Our first stop Saturday was the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum.

A must-visit if you’re in the area.

I am a big baseball fan, and while it is truly tragic that our national pastime was segregated for many years, it was fascinating to learn about these players and their history. Many Americans think this was a 19th century relic, but the last Negro League stopped play in the early 1960’s – in my lifetime. Many beloved players from my childhood – Willie Mays and Hank Aaron, to name two – played in the segregated leagues before they became MLB Hall of Famers. But so many other great players toiled in anonymity, careers coming and going before Jackie Robinson took that first at-bat in 1947.

Cool Papa Bell – reputedly the fastest man to ever play the game, he was already retired by the time the color barrier was broken. It was said he could turn off the light switch at his hotel room door and be under the sheets before it got dark.

A Detroit Stars jersey.

This is not a proud part of US history – I strongly believe a baseball team should be the best 25 guys they can get. Except Cleveland.

Marta insisted on the Kansas City Art Museum, which, curiously, has a shuttlecock as its symbol.

I have no idea why.

Ramsey meets his grumpy twin.

What happens in Degas stays in Degas.

We also visited a steamship wreck museum, which displayed items largely excavated from farm fields – the river has changed course so often over the years that the hulks end up miles from the modern-day path.

A menu retrieved from the SS Clara. It is very similar to a menu I saw from Ramsey’s elementary school cafeteria.

Needless to say, there was going to be fishing involved. As we were just a few miles from Kansas, there was the appeal of adding a new species there. I have caught loads of fish in Kansas, but not one of them has been new for me. There was also the appeal of a goldeye. This maddeningly elusive river fish has evaded me over days and days of midwestern attempts, but the Missouri River is supposed to be jammed with them.

I had some shore spots from Ron and Jarret, but I figured it was a better idea to find a guide who could cover more water. I hit the jackpot on my first call – Captain Olen Lehman of KC Rodbenders, who is a catfish and crappie guide by trade, but uses goldeye for bait and certainly knows where they live.

Captain Olen with a flathead he caught on fresh goldeye.

We met early Sunday at a boat ramp that faced the city skyline.

KC at dawn. It was so quiet you could still hear the echoes of George Brett yelling at the umpire.

Captain Olen clearly knew his rivers very well, and while he was surprised to meet someone who wanted to target goldeye, he became very interested in the whole species list thing and had a few ideas for me on other trips. We motored a mile or so downstream, and I set up to throw small jigs and spinners. There was a lot of activity on the surface, and I knew at least some of them had to be goldeye.

I got a huge hookup on my first cast, but it became quickly apparent that this fish was far too big to be my target. It bent out the hook after about five minutes – my bet is a silver carp. I had a few more bites from them, then missed a smaller fish that gave a much more rattly bite – likely what I was looking for. Just before 8am, less than half an hour after we left the dock, I hooked up on the right critter, and Olen gently netted it into the boat. I had my goldeye.

Species 2338. Unfortunately, we were a few hundred yards back into Missouri, so I still haven’t caught a new species in Kansas.

We fished a few more hours and landed a few more goldeye, some channel catfish, and of course, freshwater drum.

Just once, I’d like to get a ten-pounder.

Olen is the real deal, and I highly recommend him any time you’re in the area.

Shortly after noon, I was back at the hotel and preparing for the football game. KC was playing Cincinatti, and being that Ramsey is a Bengals fan, Marta and I wore Bengals garb, even though Taylor might throw nachos at us. Ramsey chickened out and sported Chiefs garb.

The gang outside of Arrowhead.

Amusingly, Marta’s “Ocho Cinco” jersey – purchased because it was the least expensive piece of Bengals gear on Amazon – was a huge hit. She got her photo with several other similarly budget-conscious fans, and posted to her twitter under “Representing for the two best receivers in NFL history.”

She was re-tweeted by Chad Ochocinco himself, and got over 71,000 views. We are doomed as a society.

A pre-game flyover, or Taylor Swift arriving, I’m not sure.

The game itself was a mixed bag. The KC fans had no problem with the Bengals gear – they were quite an affable bunch – but there were so many “Swifties” that any gags about Kelce drew dirty looks and could easily have started a brawl.

Perfectly safe in a very well-behaved crowd. Of course, with the refereeing they get, they never have much to be upset about.

There was an eruption of high-pitched squealing every time they showed her on the jumbotron, yet the same group was largely indifferent when Mahomes threw a touchdown pass. KC ended up winning on a last-second field goal, largely because Taylor sits in the review booth.

And there she is, eating nachos and reversing a first down for the Bengals.

We had some excellent meals during the weekend, and the gang was great fun – Jeff and Jerri were a great addition. Jeff, a master diplomat, somehow got us into a steakhouse that was booked out for the whole week – my hat is off to you, sir. Somewhere in the middle of dinner, it hit me that Jeff was treating me like just one of the gang, and I had a chuckle to myself about how intimidated I was all those decades ago. At age 61, I’m probably just getting to be as smart as I thought I was at age 27. (Marta is dubious.)

Monday was more tourism, and then an evening baseball game. But this would not be just any Royals game – they would be playing my beloved Detroit Tigers. The Tigers, per usual, were having a disappointing season but were on the mathematical fringes of the expanded playoffs.

Ramsey has home and away garb for almost MLB team.

Now that’s a cool t-shirt. If you’re too young to remember it, search it on YouTube. It’s truly one of the greatest meltdowns ever in any professional sport.

It didn’t help when KC jumped out to a four-run lead on a Bobby Witt grand slam. But I loudly kept my faith, and the Tigers chipped away at the lead until they finally went ahead in the 6th.

Parker Meadows bats for Detroit. When he was playing for Toledo last year, he hit a home run that is still the only batted ball I have ever gotten as a spectator in a professional park.

Yes, I outraced a nine year-old for this. I have no shame about this whatsoever.

The Tigers held on to triumph 7-6, starting an unlikely winning tear that saw them slip into the playoffs and come a game away from the ALDS.

Marta made sure that we ended the trip at a soft-serve ice cream place, as it should.

We all headed home on Monday, already planning for next year’s Brew Crew tour, knowing that we would now need seven tickets instead of five. The Crew had two new members.

Steve

DATELINE: SEPTEMBER 1, 2024 – COOPER HOSPITAL REGIONAL TRAUMA CENTER, CAMDEN, NEW JERSEY

Dear Nadia,

This story, as all of mine do, starts and ends with a fish. But as you know, nothing that happened in between these two particular fish was any fun.

Your Mother is one of my best friends, and I have known you and your older brother since birth. Jibril, always a suspicious-smelling toddler, grew into a great fishing buddy and has been made fun of in this very blog several times over the years.

You were always far more cultured and kept your distance from things fish-related, generally communicating through eye-rolls and the occasional sigh. Marta and I still enjoyed watching you grow up, from an adorable but stubborn toddler to an adorable but stubborn teenager to a talented (but stubborn) young woman entering college.

Your singing voice and humor always brought us great joy, although my favorite young Nadia story is when you were traveling with friends in France and missed your Mom so much you sent her a video of yourself crying to prove how much you missed her.

It was a year ago when we almost lost you.

This was supposed to be a blog about stingray fishing with your brother and cousin, but events overtook that, and being that you missed a lot of what happened, I decided I would write it all down. Please forgive any artistic liberties I have taken, especially regarding Ari and the plumbing. 

All our love,

Steve and Marta

Jibril, at arm’s length. They always thought it was funny to hand him to me when his diaper was about to fail.

Nadia celebrates acceptance at UC Irvine, home of the Anteaters.

As our story begins, Jibril (and Nadia) were in college, so I didn’t get the chance to take Jibril out fishing as much as I would like. (Oh, and Jibril has a girlfriend, so that may have something to do with it, although if they split up, we would keep Juliette.)

Last summer, in early August, it happened that Jibril and his New Jersey-based cousin Zach were together in San Francisco and wanted to hit the water with me.

Jibril and I have fished together for years. He’s actually a good-looking kid, but he never seems to photograph well around me.

It was a good tide for bat rays, and there is nothing more fun than taking two overconfident young men out to Tiburon and watching them try to land 50 pounds of angry stingray.

We started on the pier. I swear Jibril is normal-looking. He’s just never ready for photos.

Individually, I am certain the three of us are reasonably smart, but it is a proven scientific fact that men, when gathered in groups of two or more, become idiots. It was an epic night, filled with juvenile humor, pizza, plenty of fish, and more juvenile humor. This is what I live for.

The exhausted boys with one of their rays.

A month later, Danielle and family were off in New Jersey, visiting her parents and assorted relatives, including Zach, his father David, and Zach’s dog Gus, who is also an idiot, even by himself.

Gus, wearing the Cone of Shame. He had probably eaten something he shouldn’t have, like a printer.

It was shaping up to be an uneventful late-summer family visit. It certainly wouldn’t compare to their Easter trip, when Nadia’s boyfriend, Ari, entered the wrong bathroom at the wrong time and was blamed (unjustly?) for one of the more ghastly plumbing failures to ever strike South Jersey. It’s one thing when a plumber won’t come back and finish a job; it’s another thing entirely when he runs screaming into the night and joins the priesthood.

Ari is the blond kid at upper right. The rest of the group, L-R, is Jibril, Juliette, Ziad (Danielle’s husband & Jibril and Nadia’s Dad,) and Nadia.

The boys did some fishing in New Jersey. I can’t wait to see their facial expressions when they catch an adult bass.

Nadia caught her own fish, and she managed to not look like an ill-planned Tik-Tok performance.

But life can change in an instant. I awoke September 1 to a string of texts from Danielle, which included a news article about a traffic collision. I didn’t piece it together immediately, so I called.

She could hardly speak. There had been a terrible car accident. Jibril, Nadia and Zach were heading home from fishing, of all things. Just a couple of miles from home, some jackass in a stolen car blew a red light at over 100 miles an hour and blasted the front end off their car. Zach’s arm was badly broken, and Jibril had serious internal damage. Nadia, in the back seat, had grave head injuries, and was taken from the scene not expected to live. The collision was close to Danielle’s family home, so she was on the scene as the ambulances arrived, and no mother should ever have to see what she saw. All three kids were taken to a top regional trauma center, Cooper in Camden, and that’s where Danielle was calling me from. When I sit down to try to describe a mother’s anguish, I still have no words.

I was on the next plane to Philadelphia. Danielle needed help wrangling visitors, running errands, and just generally being there. This is what friends do for each other, and because I know someone is going to ask, no, I did not even pack a fishing rod.

When I showed up at Cooper Hospital’s Regional Trauma Center, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

My home for a few days.

I had never seen Danielle this upset, and believe me, I’ve tried. Ziad, like me, was outwardly calm and had internalized a great deal of sorrow and anger. Someone had made an irresponsible decision and changed their whole family’s life, possibly forever. Danielle, a woman of great intelligence and communication, had only tears.

I visited Zach first. His upper arm had been snapped in half, and while that was miraculously the extent of his injuries, he was on serious painkillers. So he was a joy to talk to, although not much he said made any sense, which is pretty normal. So far so good.

He doesn’t remember this photo, or, for that matter, much of the week.

Jibril was next. It wasn’t good. He had been in surgery, losing, among other things, a section of intestine. (So Skyline Chili was out of the question.) He was sort of awake but obviously in a lot of pain. He recognized me, but I also think that my traveling there drove home the seriousness of the situation. People on opioids are an ideal conversational partner for me, because I can tell the fishing stories uninterrupted, but the real joy of this visit was seeing Juliette.

She was there from the moment he checked in and would not leave his side – I can’t imagine how comforting that was to him.

I met Juliette at my 60th birthday party. That’s her next to Jibril – you may not recognize him because the photo is halfway decent.

She was positive and unflappable in that room, although when she got outside to the waiting area where we spent so much time talking, waiting for test results, and waiting for any updates, she could cry like the rest of us. But Jibril, even though he looked like he was run over by a tank, was probably going to be OK.

In the waiting area, I met the last of the main group – Ari, Nadia’s boyfriend. Tall, quiet, and apparently very patient, he stood by stoically. They are a young couple but are a great match, and I don’t see how he kept it together as amazingly as he did. I tried to keep things as light as possible, because I don’t do well with feelings. As a matter of fact, when we shook hands, I blurted out the most inappropriate thing I could think of. “So, are you two staying together? Hell, if my college girlfriend went into a coma, I’d dump her over text.”

As you can imagine, he wasn’t expecting this. And there was that uncomfortable split-second, which felt like a week, where I wasn’t sure if he understood my sense of humor. But then, he actually laughed. I found out later it was the first time he had laughed in 48 hours. He still thinks it’s funny to this very day. So no, people, I am not a monster.

Later that afternoon, I got a chance to see Nadia. She was up on the intensive care floor, near our waiting-room base. I had time between Zach and Jibril visits, so I took a deep breath and walked into the ward. I went down five doors to the left, and there she was. Nadia – intelligent, beautiful, difficult Nadia, surrounded by machines, a pressure valve and brace drilled into her head, on a ventilator, IVs and sensor pads everywhere, face bruised and swollen beyond comprehension. It was dead silent except for the beeps and chirps of the equipment, just me and her. And I was so angry I could barely contain it. Some lowlife, someone I had never met and never will, had made choices that resulted in this. This was all avoidable, and every time I thought of that, I experienced nothing but pure rage. But no rage from me or anyone else was going to help her recover, and I decided then and there that I was only going to focus on whatever it took to bring her back from the brink, and that her family would get nothing but positivity from me, even when it was a total act. This doesn’t mean I’ll forgive the moron – I never will. I hope he lives a long life in a state prison. But I knew I wanted to know a fully-recovered Nadia the rest of my life and to never even learn the name of the man who hit her. I stepped to the corner of the room that couldn’t be seen from the door, and for the one time on the entire trip, completely broke down. I know the nurse heard me, but she was kind enough to let me compose myself. I walked out and resumed being whatever support anyone needed, but I will never forget that moment.

I bounced between Zach (always right after his pain meds,) and Jibril for a few days, and managed to get all the ambulatory folks out for Ari’s second Philly cheese steak. (His first had been at Easter. Do the math.)

By the time I flew home a few days later, Zach had been discharged, they were making plans to get Jibril out in a few days, and Nadia was in a coma.

Jibril rolls out of Cooper. Nice socks.

Nadia would be in that coma for five weeks. There were some good signs – a finger moved, better brain activity – whatever. And there were bad signs. But one day, when they went to change a dressing, Nadia put up a pretty good fight. I knew right then and there that her profound stubbornness, a quality I value in myself and yet question in others, would be the very thing that would get her through this.

I checked with Danielle almost every day. It would always be the same answer. “Stable.” The plan, and/or prayer, was for her to eventually get out of the coma to at least some degree and start rehabilitation in a nearby center, Jefferson, that specializes in that field. The range of possible outcomes was agonizing – there was some slight chance she would regain her pre-accident form, but much more of a chance of permanent and significant damage. This is what her parents had to live through, one minute, day, and week at a time. About four weeks later, Cooper finally cleared her for the short drive to the rehab facility.

As we got into October, Danielle and Ziad had fundamentally moved to Philadelphia to be near her for what was expected to be at least nine hard months. The first couple of weeks were especially rough, but Nadia finally started coming around. There were a series of firsts that no parent wants to ever have with a 19 year-old. First words. First steps. First eye roll. But after five weeks, she was so far ahead of expected that the medical staff was running out of stuff to do for her. She was speaking again – in two languages. She was asking for her dog. She was cautioning the hospital staff not to let Ari use the restroom on her floor.

Nadia and the gang at Jefferson. At this stage, she was so eager to leave she was trying to call Ubers.

On November 7, it was decided she would come home and finish rehabilitation there. If someone could get an “A+” in rehab, it would be Nadia – nothing short of a miracle. The way the nurses had explained it to me, if 20 young women had come in with the same injuries, 19 of them would have been dead or permanently brain-injured, and the other one of them would have been … Nadia. Every time I smiled with joy at Nadia’s progress, it was tempered with sobering thoughts of the other 19 women and their families.

They may have wheeled her in, but she walked the hell out.

The whole family, especially Nadia, was profoundly grateful to the incredible staff at Cooper and Jefferson, and the EMTs who pulled her from the wreck. These people saved Nadia against some very stacked odds, and as she goes on to live a full and amazing life, she will never forget them.

Nadia with EMTs Nick Furman and Wayne Alexander. These are the men who cut her out of the car and the first of a long list of people who saved her life.

Time wandered into the holiday season, and I was delighted when Danielle’s entire family RSVP’d for the Christmas party Marta and I hold at a premier local Italian restaurant, Mangia Mi. (Ask for Stephanie.) It would be the first time I would see Nadia since she got home, and honestly, I didn’t know what to expect.

With the exception of my outfit, it was a great party.

Marta has the same pants. (You may recognize the Andreoskys – Cooper has just graduated high school and is heading to college. The blonde woman is the Mayor of Danville.)

Nadia chatted with us – we had a long talk about how she was doing at school and rehab. Perhaps two minutes into the conversation, I said something stupid, and she rolled her eyes at me. I nearly cried. The things that made her Nadia were still there. There would be a long way to go, but she, through sheer force of will and a pinch of good luck, was beating the odds.

There she is. A lot can happen in three months.

A couple of weeks later, our families celebrated Christmas together. There was a lot to celebrate.

On December 30, schedules aligned for me to take Jibril and Ari fishing. Again, three reasonably intelligent men, and again, we regressed to idiots. Ari was still chuckling about the “dump her over text” joke. So I am not a monster, people.

Jibril has a neck. I swear it.

And yes, I caught the biggest perch.

We caught a few fish, had pizza, and went about our holiday season. Nadia had threatened to attend, but bailed out when I explained it would be eight hours on a cold pier. It felt like things had come at least some of the way back to normal.

As I write, Jibril and Nadia are back at their respective universities. There are still good days and bad days – not a month can pass without finding something that needs to be touched up – knees, ribs, etc. Nadia will have a longer haul, but the fact she’s back to a solid course load at a major college tells me things are going pretty well. Jibril, Zach, and Gus are still idiots. Ari is generally not an idiot, but don’t let him use the bathroom you just painted.

I have struggled for months to put some positive spin or lesson on this, and although I keep coming back to anger at the moron who hit them, I’m much more overwhelmed with gratitude that all three kids are still here. And I make sure to take time to see them whenever I can, because the one thing I lost in this whole mess was the innocence of believing that they are all guaranteed to be here forever.

And that, Nadia, brings us up to today. I thought you should have this, as perhaps a reminder to be grateful on some of the bad days, and to give you our story of what happened; who was around you, and who prayed for you every single day – while you were sleeping.

Steve

DATELINE: JULY 15, 2024 – SURREY, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

You would think I’d have fished Canada more, but the sad truth is I have made one dedicated angling journey there, a 1990s jaunt to Ontario’s famous Lake of the Woods, with old if misguided buddy Bob Reine. (He’s a Twins fan, and as we all know, the Twins cheated in the 1987 ALCS.) It was a great trip, a week of nonstop “cabin by the lake” summer fun, although Benjamin threw his diaper at us. But despite catching plenty of northern pike and walleye, I did not collect a new species on that adventure.

Normal children do not throw diapers, Benjamin.

I’ve been to Canada on a number of business trips since, but a fishing excursion never seemed to be in the cards – either the trip was too short, the weather was bad, or I had to deal with a sociopathic sales VP.

So, when a midsummer business trip to Vancouver showed up on my schedule, I left myself an extra day, carefully checked the weather, and made sure that I wouldn’t have to deal with any sociopaths. As a matter of fact, the sales VP who invited me up there, Troy, is actually an old friend from my last employer. He’s a great guy, a fisherman, and most importantly, not a sociopath.

Troy with a typical Vancouver salmon. He is also, sadly, a Canucks fan, so I bring up the 2002 playoffs against my beloved Red Wings whenever I can. (Dan Cloutier is still looking for the puck.)

I couldn’t find a great shot of it, but here is Cloutier the moment after he turned what should have been icing into a critical goal for Detroit.

And here he is later in the series.

Troy generously offered to take me salmon fishing, but I, of course, wanted to try to find a new species. This was no easy task. Basically, if it lives in Vancouver, it also lives in Seattle and probably Northern California. I spent some weeks on this, and got a lucky break when local species genius Vince (@prickly_sculpin) introduced me to Jordan, a fellow species hunter in British Columbia. Jordan and I spoke a few times, and we finally stumbled onto the idea of the coastal cutthroat trout – the last of the cutthroat splits I hadn’t captured.

That’s Jordan (@b.c._angler) with a solid spiny dogfish. It took me years to get one this big.

These were apparently quite common near where Troy keeps his boat, and so that became the plan. I packed two spinning rods and a wide assortment of spoons with single, barbless hooks. (Always check local regulations.)

United Airlines is aways the big variable on trips where I try to fish the day I land, but they were well-behaved and got me there on time. A quick Uber ride later, I was at the harbor and shaking hands with Troy.

The scenery on the way from the airport got phenomenal quickly. The train reminded me of “Canadian Railroad Trilogy” by Gordon Lightfoot, the second-greatest Canadian of all time. (Right behind Gordie Howe.)

Troy’s boat, the HMS No Stanley Cups.

We have worked together for the better part of two decades, although he has never aged. I fished the harbor area for a few minutes while we waited for Lauren, another co-worker, to join us for what she would hopefully view as a pleasant boat ride.

I kept a steady text string up with Jordan, and he had me locked down to a specific stretch of shoreline where he had gotten the trout before. We also discussed a couple of off-brand bottom fish that might bite, so I thought I would try those first with some small shrimp baits.

We motored out into the afternoon, and in between tying up rigs, I managed to look up and see what a beautiful place it was.

It hit me I had never been through the area in nice weather. That’s Mount Baker there, which is in Washington, so … the most majestic sight of the day was actually in the USA.

We tried a few spots that Jordan mentioned, and as he warned, the Pacific staghorn sculpins were out in force. They hit bait, and, unexpectedly, they also hit all kinds of lures.

The savage Pacific staghorn sculpin.

We moved off that area and into his hot spot. We anchored a few hundred yards off shore, and proceeded to catch more sculpins. I did notice a few fish jumping very close to shore, and as Troy proceeded to grill some brilliant steaks, I pleaded with him to move his expensive boat into a shallow, rocky area full of obstacles that could tear off his propeller. But those splashes had to be trout, because sculpin don’t jump.

He was a good sport, and got me within casting distance of the shoreline. I use some very long Shimano telescopic travel rods, so I could throw a half-ounce spoon quite some distance. I got hit on my first toss, and landed a fish on the second. It looked very pale compared to the illustrations I had seen, and I was briefly worried that I was catching juvenile salmon. But Jordan put me straight almost immediately, and the fish (I caught five trout in all) were verified as coastal cutthroat.

Species 2322.

The coastal cutthroat gets its closeup.

My collection was complete, bringing a 25-year journey to a close. I had caught a Lahontan cutthroat at Pyramid Lake back in the 1990s, then the Westslope on a brutal Idaho hike in 2004, and the Rocky Mountain, with The Mucus, in 2020.

The Lahontans are the largest of the group. This one was caught in Pyramid Lake in 2008, on a trip with expert angler and all-around good guy Jim Tolonen. (World record holder on the sand sole.)

A rocky mountain cutthroat, courtesy of old fishing buddy Mike Rapoport, October 2004.

And my westslope cutthroat, during my 2020 Unabomber phase. Photo taken by The Mucus.

Troy got us back to port than evening, and we headed into Vancouver for a few days of meetings.

Troy, Lauren, and Steve.

The sun sets on a perfect evening.

I was glad to have Canada on the “Countries with new species” list – of the 94 countries where I have caught a fish, I had gotten a new species in 74 of them. I also knew that if I could get more time up here in good weather, that there were some exotic rockfish to be captured, ideally while wearing my Steve Yzerman jersey. The road version, so it wouldn’t show blood.

Steve

SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE – ARMCHAIR CARP

Cyprinidae is the family thank keeps on giving, but this was an unexpected gift. In a journey that was prompted in 2020 by Danish species whiz Thorke Ostergaard, then re-prompted by several of my local fishing buddies, I finally figured out that the koi carp I had captured (in assorted hotel fountains and decorative ponds worldwide) were actually Amur carp (Cyprinus rubrofuscus) – a different species than the common carp (Cyprinus carpio) I had assumed they were.

The first one I could find in my photo records, January 10, 2004, in Saigon, Vietnam.

The Vietnam fishing trip was a last-minute adventure between a frantic business meeting and some important tourism involving the United States’ rather unfortunate presence in this country for over two decades. Nguyen Dam, a friend of the always-connected Jean-Francois Helias, generously took me fishing for a day and drove me by some assorted war relics. Flying in from the west, you can still see miles of land dotted with bomb craters.

Steve and Nguyen. I actually won the fishing contest for the day, but they wouldn’t give me the trophy because they feared I would not return it.

DATELINE: JUNE 25, 2024 – CENTRAL OKLAHOMA

The following morning, which opened our ninth day on the road, was emotionally complex. I added half a species but had a near-emergency room experience. We started the session at some steaming South Carolina swamp, searching for strange sunfish. I managed to catch an unmistakable, no-doubt-about-it bluespotted, ending four years of internal anguish over whether my original IDs were correct. They were.

But now I was sure, and had an excellent photo upgrade.

All the excitement must have triggered my digestive tract, because I suddenly became aware that the Holiday Inn breakfast was going to make an exit. I trotted into the woods for some privacy, and just as I began to crouch, something caught my eye. It was a copperhead. Beautiful, to be sure, but venomous just the same. It seemed rather nonplussed, but if the takeaway from this trip had been me being bitten on the rear by a poisonous snake, I would never have lived it down.

Or not, but I am certain that no one would have sucked out the venom.

We spent the rest of that day hunting the very back of another swamp. Although there were no new fish to report, Carson was stalked by an alligator.

Things were a bit thin for me for a couple of days, although I did add a rosyface chub somewhere in South Carolina.

The rosyface chub.

The following day, along the North Carolina/Tennessee border, we made a stop I had been looking forward to for the whole trip. Our target was the greenfin darter, a relative rarity that is both attractive and has a reputation for being indifferent to bait.

It was anticlimactic. We all got one in five minutes. Big score.

We wandered back into Tennessee, where we had been the week before. When getting fishing licenses for road trips, I always take the annual option to avoid buying a series of day permits. It ends up cheaper and gives you peace of mind.

As we continued west, we revisited some spots from prior years, and found many of them still blown out, even a month after my visit with Ron and Gerry.

I caught this sauger in a spillway that had been completely flooded in May. It was so flooded you couldn’t tell it was a spillway.

As we struggled to find clear water, we looked for dams and smaller creeks, and not far from there I had failed in May, I pulled up a Caney Fork darter.

Take that, Gerry! (Honestly, Gerry would have gladly let me catch his Caney Fork if he had known I was going to lose this much sleep over it.)

A few hours later, in a creek that was an audible of an audible, we stumbled into more of the barcheek complex, and we all added corrugated darters to our lists.

Oh hell yes.

We spent the afternoon at a familiar location, the place I had caught and badly photographed a headwater darter in May. The guys got one quickly, and Carson’s photos were much better than mine. Chris actually passed up on a good one so Carson could get his first – Chris is a great Dad and always puts his kids first, and I always admire that. Just when I said “Father of the Year,” Carson responded “Semi-finalist.” Wow.

This is about as lit up as they get.

The moon rose just as we finished dinner at the same Subway we ate at the month before. This time, I didn’t leave muddy footprints all over their floor.

Our evening was spent looking for another small sucker in an especially slippery creek.

The place was loaded with these awful water spiders. I haven’t seen anything like this outside of Mirkwood.

We didn’t see any suckers, but I did catch one darter that looked different. I was busy texting Jarrett trying to lock down an ID, but he went Socratic on me and would just give me hints. I guessed and guessed, but I wasn’t doing well. He kept telling me I’d made a “splendid” guess and that it was a “splendid” photo. It still took me 45 minutes to figure out that I’d caught a splendid darter.

Another of the snubnose complex, completing a darter hat trick. This passes for epic in my book.

It was on this evening that something sinister bit Chris on the ankle. We didn’t think much of it at first – we all got zapped by bugs – but while our welts slowly faded after a liberal application of Caladryl and gasoline, this one continually grew and was quickly showing signs of infection.

This was on the following morning. Note the inside of the ankle. Chris’ career as a foot model was in danger.

Even then, he had trouble putting weight on it.

Once we got back toward the west, fishing spots became farther and farther between, and the evening drive to the hotel is always a long one. Standup comedy helped us through a lot of these hauls – Anthony Jessilnik became my new favorite. (“My Father taught himself CPR by throwing me in the pool.”) But sometimes, we are reduced to conversation, and when three men have been in a car together for two weeks, some amusing random stories are likely to come out.

Late one night, somewhere between gas station burritos and a Red Roof Inn, I reminded everyone that they should never pee and sneeze at the same time. This is something all men figure out the hard way. As we chuckled, Chris suddenly blurted out “Never feed a cat ham and chocolate milk.” Carson and I demanded that he unpack that one further, and it turns out that Chris’ college dorm RA had a cat. The cat somehow got out, and the RA was not to be found, so Chris and his buddies figured they would at least feed the poor feline. The refrigerator had sliced ham and chocolate milk. These both seem reasonable to me. It’s dairy. It’s meat. The cat seemed happy with the situation. When the RA got back, they gave him the cat, and all seemed well until the early hours when screaming awoke them all. The meal had not agreed with the cat, and the animal also decided it didn’t agree with the litter box. To quote Chris, “The wall looked like Jackson Pollock painted it with jello pudding.” Calm down – the cat was fine, the RA eventually got over it, and the room stopped smelling once they tore the building down.

The following morning, we had our inevitable brush with the law. As we fished for darters in a secluded stream, a warden drove in and waved us over. You figure most people have never seen microfishing, but as soon as we explained it all to him, he checked out licenses and was on his way.

Officer Fox of Kentucky Fish and Wildlife. Very nice guy – and remember folks, get your licenses early, while you still have cell signal.

The rest of the day was one big photo upgrade. The weather was perfect, and we enjoyed the midwestern scenery as we stopped at half a dozen random streams.

I always yell “Hay!” whenever we pass a field like this. It never gets old.

We stopped at half a dozen random streams, and each one seemed to be stuffed with darters. Although I didn’t end up with anything new, I got some of my better photos.

A nice shot of a rainbow, which was my very first darter species, in 2015 with Martini and Ben.

AFF – Another Darn Fantail, but this is a handsome one.

A far prettier rosyside dace than my 2023 effort.

But the scarlet shiners truly outdid everything.

My first scarlet shiner was substantially duller than this one.

But Carson outdid us all.

And then took a nap.

One Red Roof Inn breakfast later, Carson tracked down a spot that was supposed to have silverjaw minnows. (The closest relative of the longjaw minnow I had caught in Florida.) It was an awkward access – a steep scramble down a rocky bank – which would have been fine except Chris’ foot had gotten positively gross.

Just two days later. I swear it was glowing in the dark.

He had trouble walking on it, but he wanted the species bad and he did the climb without complaint. What a mensch.

The silverjaws were mixed in with some assorted other fish, and the first of these I got, a creek chub, was my 1000th fish caught in 2024. (This is not the earliest in the year I had reached 1000 – that would have been May, back in 2006, the year I caught over 3000 fish, most of them sardines.)

Carson has sharp eyes, and after he caught his silverjaw, he helped me and Chris spot ours without making too much fun of us.

Number 20 of the trip and 2318 lifetime.

The next morning found us working our way through Missouri, visiting a few familiar spots I had fished over the years. While I didn’t get anything new there, the guys kept chipping away with a couple here and there, and Chris’ ankle officially became a full-on medical experiment. It started to smell. He couldn’t put weight on it without yelping in pain, and this is a tough guy we’re talking about.

We could hear it throbbing.

I took a look at it, and wished I hadn’t. Chris had grown a nipple on his ankle. Indeed, this blog was nearly called “The Ankle Nipple,” except for the obvious problems of getting a title like “The Ankle Nipple” past Marta. Oh wait – this blog IS called “The Ankle Nipple,” and now I’ve managed to say “nipple” five times in one paragraph. The twelve year-old in me is strong and makes many of my creative decisions.

Tell me I’m wrong. And yes, it did eventually heal.

After a comical hour or two trying to reach a health insurance person who could give accurate advice, we stopped at an urgent care so that some nurse practitioner could poke at it and say “Eeeeeew.” At least he got started on antibiotics, which provided hope that he could save the foot, but didn’t make him feel any better right away.

We caught a lot of fish the next two days, but nothing of note until the afternoon of the 24th, when we walked (or limped) down to a creek in Arkansas. We were looking for a couple of darter species, but I only saw some suspiciously slender shiners. Chris, between gasps of pain, suggested they might be silversides, and it didn’t take me long to figure this meant they were likely brook silversides, a species I had thought I caught for years but hadn’t.

They bit enthusiastically, and the day was worthwhile.

The final full day of the trip for me was a long haul through Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Texas. Somewhere in the middle of the day, as I was musing that Oklahoma is awesome because it is the birthplace of Chuck Norris AND Brad Pitt, we stopped in Oklahoma to look for a darter species that had been recently split from the extensive orangebelly family – the blue river darter.

This was species 22 of the trip, and 2320 lifetime.

The blue river darter was also my 88th lifetime darter, which, although it isn’t a Ron and Jarrett level, is reasonably respectable considering I was under 30 in 2021. I still want to reach 100, and now that doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous.

We ended the evening in Amarillo, Texas, with an outstanding meal at Panda Express, which, for the avoidance of doubt, does not serve Panda and is not all that fast. With 14 hours remaining to Phoenix, and scant targets along the way, I decided to fly from Amarillo early the next morning and get home. I’m hoping that Chris let Carson sit in the front seat on the way to Phoenix, and I smiled to myself as I remembered that when we hopefully do the same trip in 2025, The Mucus will still be in Ecuador. That should give me plenty of time to start missing him, and give Chris’ foot plenty of time to heal.

Steve

Postscript – Chris’ foot modeling career update. (As of press time, almost a year later, he’s got a nasty scar, but let’s face it, his feet were a niche market in the first place.)

Chris’ foot, Puerto Penasco, April 2021. This is why you try on the Crocs before you buy them.

DATELINE: JUNE 16, 2024 – RURAL NORTH CAROLINA

It had been six months since The Mucus headed off on his mission to Ecuador, but I hadn’t really gotten the chance to truly appreciate his absence, because I hadn’t gone fishing without him yet. That was all about to change.

Aaaaaaand there he is. My living reminder than not having kids was a good decision. (Perspective from Marta: As a teenager, Steve was likely just like The Mucus.)

Luckily, his Father was not in Ecuador, and wanted to go fishing. Chris and his red Dodge pickup have become a tradition for sleep-deprived, maniacal road trips across the US in search of species. The 2024 edition would be the first time I had been out with just Chris and Carson, but I think I’m still supposed to say something kind about The Mucus here.

(Crickets.)

I got into Phoenix late on a Friday, had dinner with friends, then tried to get some sleep because it would be an early morning and a lengthy drive. Getting from Arizona to available species gets longer and longer, but figure we spent at least 12 hours in the truck, which thankfully is comfortable and, as far as I’m concerned, impervious to stains.

The gang hits the road. Despite his denial that Bill Laimbeer is the greatest basketball player of all time, Carson is a great guy. He’s working and in classes now, so he’s on track to be an NBA executive by 30.

This trip was not going to be a wide-open bonanza for me. I’ve done a lot of fishing. But there were some rarer species that called to me. Besides, it was a chance to spend two and a half weeks with great friends, eating fast food, seeing the country, and not fishing with The Mucus. I was certain I would eventually miss him.

Not sure what we hit here. We definitely got the better of it.

That first day had one minor triumph, somewhere in the wilds of New Mexico, where I caught the Upper Pecos version of the roundnose minnow.

This species has been determined to be genetically distinct from other roundnose minnows, but has not been given an official species name, so it goes into ID purgatory to wait for a scientist to finish the work.

I have no explanation for this.

The roundnose had to sustain me for two days, because while Chris and Carson started running up some numbers, I was busy catching nondescript shiners and assorted panfish.

Albeit in some beautiful places.

Carson somehow hooked a very unfriendly snake.

It’s not like I was missing any obvious targets – I was hoping for some uncommon stuff, and the chips didn’t fall my way. Luckily, there was plenty of fast food.

In this case, special orders actually did upset them.

By day four, we were already into Mississippi.

Where we ate charming local cuisine.

I was getting a bit petulant – I was only on the board for half a species, and by this stage, I had expected to do better. Our morning destination was a repeat location – a small creek in Columbus, MS where I had gone on the advice of Dom Porcelli. I thought I had gotten everything there was in the place, but I also remembered that it was fun fishing, so I approached it with an open mind and good memories of Dom. Besides, there’s nothing I love more than splashing around a creek looking for fish.

McCrary Creek, Columbus, MS.

The place was teeming with life. While Chris and Carson got some rarities, like blacktail redhorse, I stayed busy with shiners, and got one that stood out. It looked sort of like one of the ubiquitous blacktails that had haunted us further west, but much skinnier. There had been rumors of a split. When we got back in the car, I did intensive research, or called Jarret, I forget which, and this fish was, indeed, a new species.

The slender blacktail. I was ecstatic. And I was even more ecstatic that this was a milestone fish – species 2300.

Moments later, I caught a shiner with bright orange fins – the aptly-named orangefin shiner, and I was up two for the day. I always encourage newer species hunters to visit locations multiple times – depending on season and conditions, places can produce entirely different stuff on any given day.

I had completely forgotten the last three days.

The following morning, somewhere in Tennessee, I added a highland shiner, sprinkled in with dozens of less-interesting Notropis nondescriptus.

Species number 2303.

A bluehead chub – beautiful photo by Carson.

We had something of an ambitious plan that night. There were supposed to be two sucker species inhabiting a creek in very Southern Virginia, so we got hotel rooms nearby and headed out to hunt some rarities. It turns out most of the rarities were in our hotel sheets, and our meteorological research missed that there had been heavy rain the week before. The water was unacceptably cloudy in the creek, and the shower. We gave it a game try well after midnight, but finally threw in the towel, which quickly disappeared, because the water was so murky.

Speaking of towels, this is an honest-to-God, unretouched photo of the towel they gave me, before I handled it. I dried off with a t-shirt.

Unaware of the desperate conditions in the guest rooms, the manager’s cat was sweet and playful.

The following day, we bounced around a few locations, but our main goal was night fishing for the elusive torrent sucker. We got to our spot late afternoon, and we saw a few suckers, but they showed no interest. No stranger to sucker fishing, I realized it was likely to be long night, so I took careful stock of the available Red Bull and Cheez-Its.

Carson and Chris both got theirs within an hour of sundown, and they encouraged me to come up to the pool they were fishing. I stubbornly spent a couple of hours trying to get one particular fish to bite, which it wouldn’t. It was almost time for the late news when I made the common-sense decision and moved up where the guys had both caught theirs.

I faced the “nocturnal fish paradox.” If it’s dark, you can’t see the fish without light, but if the fish is nocturnal, it doesn’t like light. So, you can not scare the fish but have low odds of catching it, or you can spook the fish but at least see what you’re presenting to. This is also known as “The Pirate Perch Effect.”

I suffered with this for another hour. I would see one, but it would freak out because of my headlamp and flee or not bite. I tried my best to use a dim setting and take direct light off any fish I spotted, but if you figure there were five different fish in that pool, I had annoyed them all. But persistence is a powerful thing, even when it ranges into stupidity, and I eventually got one to sit still and sniff my offering. As I held my breath and squinted into the dim depths, the fish moved up a little, then took off with my bait. I lifted back hard, and the fish, likely rather surprised, sailed through the air and landed on my tackle bag.

I had added another sucker – my 41st from the group.

The next day, we explored the Roanoke River in Virginia, the scene of some previous adventures with the fabled “Uncle Pat.” We picked random riffles to explore, and Chris and Carson caught riverweed darters instantly, while I did not. It took some going over their run, but I finally did add the darter and get on the board.

The savage riverweed darter.

We also visited another area of the river to address a years-old fish ID issue. The chubs in this region, especially if they aren’t large male specimens, can be difficult to pin down. I had likely caught bull chubs before, but could not make a positive ID. We had both good information on where the fish were and very detailed ID elements to look for, and I am pleased to report I can finally count one.

The beast, species eight of the trip.

That night, we made a poor decision, based pretty much on hope and ignoring all science and common sense. We went back to Southern Virginia and took another shot at the suckers. The main creek was still a mess, so we gave up on that quickly. It was late, and we still could have gotten some sleep, but we were so obsessed that we rolled the dice and went to a tiny tributary that we reasoned might be clearer. It was, but access was horrific, and only one person at a time could drop down to a tiny ledge below a rickety one-lane bridge. I drew the short straw, so Carson went first. We definitely saw a few suckers, which got our attention for the evening. I fished from the bridge, but it was a longshot to try to present to occasional fish looking straight down on them with a headlamp.

An hour or two into the ritual, Carson whooped as he hooked up and somehow managed to keep a fish on the line despite swinging it all over the river before Chris grabbed it out of midair. It was a rustyside sucker, and we were committed for as long as it would take us. Chris gingerly traded places with Carson, and kept getting occasional shots at fish.

Carson’s rustyside. Well done, dude.

It got very late, and we all acknowledged that we were strangers in very rural country. Chris made the first “Deliverance” joke. Just then, a 1970’s vintage car, with original paint and original oil, came roaring onto our little side street, stopped just in front of us, and rolled the window down. We couldn’t see the driver because of the single bright headlight, but he yelled “Do you believe in Bigfoot?” I quickly responded “You know my stepmother?” The driver yelled “Bigfoot is real!” and drove off into the night. We were stunned, slightly frightened, and amused. I imagine he felt the same.

We decided it was time to leave.

In the morning, we were off to the south again, hopscotching through river systems on a day that would end with two species and a heavy dose of humility.

After a number of false starts, I ended up with a Pinewoods shiner.

Again, I managed to catch the most dully-colored specimen in the entire spot. Some of the fish were practically glowing, and I got this.

Each day had a few gorgeous spillways like this. I could spend all day at each of them, which would make the trips a lot longer.

Randomly on the sidewalk nearby. She did some beautiful music.

It was then time for some overdue revenge. I had unsuccessfully pursued speckled killifish several times, including that epic day where some local thought we were terrorists. This time, I actually saw them. (The killifish, not the terrorists.) This time, they stayed more or less in one place, until some drunk teenager stumbled through my spot and delayed the process an hour.

But I finally got one, and before anyone starts making fun of the size, this is actually a huge speckled killifish – only 14.5 ounces shy of a world record.

The humility came shortly afterward. One of the trophies in the area is a Roanoke bass, a rock bass relative that has a fairly small range. Carson was obsessed with catching one, while I was obsessed with going for a pizza. I had fished this spot previously, and had never seen a Roanoke anything there, so I strongly encouraged the boy to leave. He was not to be dissuaded, and he disappeared up to the spillway, where he remained missing for around an hour. Chris and I both texted and called him repeatedly, but he was unresponsive, and started to make me long for The Mucus.

Just then, the boy showed up with the largest Roanoke Bass I have ever seen.

Well played, Carson.

I briefly thought this meant we could go for pizza, but Chris hadn’t caught a Roanoke either. He too was hungry, but he looked at the fish imploringly, then looked at me even more imploringly, and off he went. It didn’t take long.

Both fish were close to a pound. Who knew.

When you’re on the road for three weeks, you have to be budget conscious and there may not be that many choices. Still, our lodgings in Rockingham, NC stood out. The sink had hot and cold running rust and the pool was “closed for maintenance” but was most likely “closed until new forms of life develop.”

It smelled just like you would expect it to.

Who even thinks of putting up a sign like this? I would never, ever go near a pool with this sign, unless, of course, I had diarrhea, because the pool was still nicer than the bathroom.

We headed south again in the morning. We took a crack at some darters in a rural creek, but a local ran us off on the odd theory that he owned the creek and all the parking anywhere near the creek. Species hunting often calls for us to get in creeks that may, at some stage, run through private property. Generally, most US waterways are public, as long as they are “navigable,” but this is not a good argument to have with someone who is heavily armed. We try to let common sense and courtesy be our guide. While the dude was not openly hostile, and the road and access were clearly public, he was carrying at least four firearms, so we were on our way.

We then caught up with local species hunting guru Tim Aldridge. He’s good guy who has encyclopedic knowledge of the regional fish, especially the ones that live in dense swamps filled with snakes and spiders. He had given me previous advice on places as far afield as Wisconsin, and it was great to meet him in person.

We drove to a small, fast-slowing creek and got to it. Within moments, I added a darter – the Southern Tesselated.

I felt myself longing for Southwestern England, because if I caught this fish there, I could have called the blog “Tesselated of the D’Ubervilles.” Who says that English Lit class with Professor Dale never paid off?

I also tacked on two shiners at the same spot.

The comely shiner.

The highfin shiner. These took me to 13 for the trip, which made me feel pretty good about things so far.

Our evening didn’t go as well. We slogged so far back into a swamp I expected to see Yoda training Luke.

The name alone should have made us reconsider.

It looked full of possibilities, so we forgot about having our legs covered with foul-smelling muck and nearly losing Carson on one of the crossings. Alas, the nighttime beasts did not come out for us, so we parted ways with Tim, and our group headed further south before sacking out for the night after multiple showers. With Brillo.

Carson was always ready to fish until 3am, because, like his brother, he napped all day.

This was as far from home as we got, and the rest of the way – eight more days – would be gradually working our way back west. I was ahead 13, and had put a few major species onto the list. But the back end of the trip would end up with a few truly epic surprises, the foremost of which would involve Chris’ left ankle.

Steve

DATELINE: MAY 23, 2024 – INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA

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

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

Welcome to Indianapolis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My first home, present day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next day was fairly epic as sports days go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t have to love that spider.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No relation to Steve. Damn it was good.

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

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

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

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

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

Gerry chases a logperch. This place is pure magic.

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

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

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

Species 2293, and my first of the barcheek darters.

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

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

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

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

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

The first non-darter new species of the trip.

The water conditions – definitely fishable.

The same spot in 2023. Not fishable.

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

The Shawnee darter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sean, Steve, and Steve at the ballpark.

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

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

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

Steve