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

DATELINE: APRIL 5, 2025 – THE MOST ISOLATED PART OF NEVADA IMAGINEABLE

At this stage of my career, I often find myself going long distances after a single target, usually revisiting a location I hit before and cleaned out the easier stuff. This gives me something to do when Marta is off at yoga retreats, but the disadvantage is that it’s hard to build an interesting blog (and “interesting” is a highly subjective term here) around that one species.

Therefore, to save you four single-species writeups, I have combined these trips into a single post, mostly because Marta keeps sending me editorial notes like “TLDR.”

Administratively, this one will be a little confusing, because I’m lumping in four trips, starting with one in January 2025 and finishing with one in April. The next blog in sequence, a magnificent and much more readable journey to Central America, occurs in February, so that should restore your timeline to normality and keep this from reading like a Marvel movie.

PART ONE – REDONDO BEACH, JANUARY – (Marta made me put these in because she thinks you’re easily confused by my jumping from topic to topic. Preposterous.)

It began early in 2025, when a random shot at a troublesome species led to what Marta likes to call “a terrible decision.” LA-based species whiz Zach, who you may remember from “The Redondo Beach Boys,” had developed very good intel on where to catch Coralline sculpin, a fish so maddeningly rare that Neil Diamond wrote a song about it. (“Song Sung Blue” – go see the movie right away. At least the first 45 minutes.)

It was mid-January, and Los Angeles, which is where this fish lives, was on fire. And yet I got in my car and drove there – right through the middle of the city to get to Redondo Beach. But the place is so vast that, apart from a few closed exits on 405, I never saw any evidence that 18,000+ homes were being destroyed. (Most of the damage was well to the northwest of where I went.)

I got into Redondo around noon. It was strangely peaceful afternoon – gorgeous weather, especially for January. I picked up Zach just after school, around 3pm, and we headed south, from insane real estate prices into completely insane real estate prices, and finally, to the cliffs at Palos Verdes. I had never been to Palos Verdes, and my only connection to it was an especially humbling afternoon in college when I sent roses to the best-looking woman in my dormitory, Mandy from Palos Verdes. I think her boyfriend ate them.

Back in the present day, I was beginning to realize that “the cliffs of Palos Verdes” was a lot more literal than I wanted it to be. As we peered down at the target tidepools, I looked vainly for a path, or some hint from Zach that a helicopter was coming. I finally asked him how the heck we were going to get down there. He looked over at me, thought for a moment, and said “Slowly.”

I did a lot of it on my buttocks, but we got to the water.

I headed for the closest pools, but Zach warned me that only the third set of crevices held the fish we wanted, and that we would have to gather brine shrimp for bait. “It’s a sculpin.” I claimed. “They will eat anything we put in front of them.” Zach responded quietly. “These things only eat the shrimp.” If I have learned one thing over the years, it’s to respect local knowledge. That kid spent a lot of hours not catching fish to figure out how to catch one, and my hat is off to him.

The actual process was undramatic but unjust. We netted shrimp, baited up, and went wading. I spotted a couple of regular sculpins, but Zack spotted the first coralline. I eased the bait down to it, and it pounced right away. My first fish of 2025 was a new species, the first time I have ever done that.

I sang to myself – “Sweet coralline. Bah, bah, bah.” This joke was lost on Zach, and at least 70% of you. Dated as my cultural references can be, they are my cultural references and I will stick with them.

The unjust part – it was a beautifully-marked specimen, with bright pink and orange patches and perfectly-formed circles on the lower body. Zach had caught dozens of corallines, but never a gorgeous one.

Zach at work in his native element.

My guilt subsided quickly. I splashed around the pool another half an hour, catching two more corallines that I spotted myself, and we were off to Chick-Fil-A.

A gorgeous sunset off the cliffs. That’s Catalina to the far left, scene of some amazing fishing trips with Ben Florentino.

We did a brief attempt at reef finspot that night, but that species had long since become my tidepool spearfish.

PART TWO – SAN DIEGO, FEBRUARY (As if I ever change topics with no warning.)

Our next chapter, some six weeks later, takes us 400 miles north and then 500 miles back south, to lovely San Diego, where my company had decided to hold a kickoff event. San Diego has given me 15 years of nonstop success, largely due to the patient efforts of Captain James Nelson. There isn’t a bunch left for me there, except for the random grunts that bratty kid from Indiana keeps catching the week after I leave, and, of course, the aforementioned reef finspot, a fish that has vexed me for a decade. Most of the folks I know who have caught one have caught it in San Diego, but only on big minus tides in the middle of the night.

One of our company events was held at the Petco Park. As they Padres have never won a World Series, they have tributes to the two years they at least made it to the Fall Classic, and I stumbled upon a relic of one the best weeks in my life – when my beloved Tigers destroyed the Padres in 5 games to claim the 1984 championship.

Goose Gossage still regrets throwing that pitch to Kirk Gibson. I don’t think the ball has landed yet.

The moment I found out I was heading south, the first thing I did was look at the tide charts. To my delight, there was a nice -1.4 tide the day after the business ended – at 2:45am. Many of you are sitting at your computer saying “Awwww, too bad it was too late to go fishing.” Anyone who says that lacks dedication. I thought it was perfect. That gave me the chance to finish up work, check into a new hotel near the finspot, and head out for the day with Captain James (and a special guest, Zach of coralline sculpin fame.)

It’s always fun to get out onto San Diego Bay and toss around some lures. We caught loads of barracuda, quite a few bay bass, and assorted croakers, but alas, nothing new. We also soaked plenty of squid, and awkwardly, I caught a diamond ray right in front of Zach, who hasn’t gotten that one yet.

The gang and a nice spotted bay bass. If you’re ever in San Diego, you gotta get out with James – you can contact him by clicking HERE.

I headed back to the Hyatt, had a burger in the bar, and got some shuteye until 1:45am, when 3 different alarms went off. My tanago gear was rigged and ready, and I just had to walk down to the back of the property, pass one very bewildered security guard, and nose around the lowest exposed rocks on the shoreline. In deference to my 61 year-old eyesight, I use a very, very bright headlamp. This creates what I call “The Cryptic Fish Paradox.” You can’t catch them unless you see them, but if they see light, they spook and take off. Basically, my strategy becomes to find the one badass finspot who will stare me down and bite anyway. Or burn their corneas out. I’m good either way.

As I peered into the shallow, clear water, I started seeing little pairs of eyes reflecting back at me. Some of these will be shrimp, which have caused more false micro-fish alarms than any other creature. But several of them were definitely fish. It was a windless, mild night, and trying to keep my industrial headlamp off to the side as much as I could, I lowered the bait in front of the tiny shadow below me. It scurried off. Same with the next few. But about five fish into the session, one bit. I lifted back hard on my 11′ tenkara rod and swung a small fish through the air into my left hand. My heart skipped a beat as I opened my hand, but alas, it was a bay blenny, a fish I had caught with Ben Cantrell not too far from here.

20 minutes later, a got another blenny. But I knew the finspots were there. I had seen them. Straining my head to keep as little light as possible on a promising set of glowing miniature eyes, I saw a fish dart out of a crevice and attack my bait. I swung it out of the water, and could see there was a reef finspot on the end of my line. It took perhaps 1.5 seconds to swing it up onto the walkway, but it seemed like an hour. I had, at long last, and well after everyone I know, caught the reef finspot. I yelled in triumph, attracting the security guard yet again.

This is what passes for my ecstatic look at 3am.

And of course this one gets a closeup. This fish cost me a lot of hours of sleep.

I also saw this sticker on a boat. This is what happens when men name stuff without adult supervision, and while I love it, you have to think there’s some family dysfunction lurking in the background. Imagine if the owner actually has a daughter – or ever worse – if he has two.

PART THREE – TAMPA BAY, MARCH

Three weeks later, I found myself enroute to Tampa, Florida, to fish with old buddy Ryan Crutchfield – the man who helped organize my 2000th species.

We decided to spend serious time hunting gulf flounder and grass porgy, both creatures being caught in the area fairly often by children, so how hard could it be?

A pelican kept me company while I didn’t catch a grass porgy. Coincidentally, this is the exact spot where the Great Road Trip of 2014 wrapped up.

We spent one day fishing jetties and another from a rental boat, and while we caught dozens of great speckled trout and other assorted bay residents, the target species never did show. So, to be clear, it was great fishing, just not the right fish.

Ladyfish on light tackle are one of the better fights you can find. They jump like tarpon, pull hard, and most importantly, aren’t fussy about what they eat.

Ryan is a wizard with jigs.

The gulf flounder is becoming a real pain in the ass.

But Tampa does have Skyline Chili, so all was not lost.

On our last day, we luckily had a good old-fashioned slam dunk – the diamond killifish. This beast was a bit emotional for me, because The Mucus caught one out of the blue a few years ago right in front of me. I have two words for you, Mucus – River Redhorse. Ryan and I arrived at a particular swamp around 11am, and I could see dozens of little fish gliding around the surface. “Which ones are diamond killis?” I asked. He responded “All of them.” It took one cast.

Oh, if they could all be this easy.

And I think my specimen was far beastlier than The Mucus’.

Yes, one species is more than enough of an excuse to fly 5000 miles. Besides, it’s always great to get on the water with Ryan, and then have pizza with his family. They’re awesome.

THE FOURTH AND FINAL PART – RURAL NEVADA, APRIL

And finally, trip four – where we save the stupidest for last. Marta was gone for the weekend at some work thing, so I figured I would road trip and track down some geographically inadvisably creature. I was picturing something up the north coast, but Chris Moore, bless his heart, talked me into driving all the way to Las Vegas. There were, according to him, some aquarium escapees that had taken up lodgings at some hot springs in parts of Nevada that are rarely visited. He had seemed to catch them with relative ease a few months ago, and that information was good enough for me.

It is a very long way to Vegas, and I don’t enjoy Vegas all that much. So, after a desolate all-day drive, I took up modest lodgings on the outskirts of town, ate at Denny’s, and got to sleep before I could think too hard about heading down to the Bellagio and putting my life saving on the Lions to win the Super Bowl.

But you do have to respect Frank and Dean.

The next morning found me exploring Rogers Hot Springs. It’s always loaded with mollies and mutant Texas cichlids, but once in a while, something cool will show up, like a freshwater angelfish for Carson. This was not to be my day, so I found more Red Bull and drove all the way up to the Ely area, where a particular hot spring is supposed to be loaded with, and I don’t make these names up, the false yellowjacket cichlid. What the hell are they, and why can’t we import real ones?

These are long, flat drives, and there are only so many times you can tell yourself that’s beautiful, sparse scenery and just face the fact it’s a desolate hellscape. There’s a reason they tested atom bombs here.

Honestly, can you tell if this has been nuked or not?

Still, the spring was a lovely little patch in the middle of nowhere.

And the local ranch was cleverly named. Again, this is what happens when you let men name things by themselves.

My buddy Chris Moore (alleged Father of The Mucus) had indicated these fish were quite aggressive, so I went in pretty confident. I saw cichlids. They seemed rather cooperative, and after a few false starts, I got one. Just like that. But, as a college girlfriend, Lauren, used to say to me quite often – “Not so fast, bubblehead.” As I compared my catch to some online photos of my target, I became concerned that I had the wrong critter.

After texting with Chris, it became clear – I had the wrong fish. Even worse, what I was catching was one of those dreadful, hard-to-identify things that was probably an offshoot of something I had gotten before.

If any of you have any idea what the hell this is, please contact me on S_Wozniak10@Yahoo.com. If you get me a definite ID, you win a pizza with me. If you get a definite ID and it’s a new species, you get a pizza with Marta.

What I was looking for was more of an off-brand Jaguar Guapote, with a longer body and much more powerful jaws. This meant it was late in the day and I hadn’t caught anything new. Walking around the spring and examining the dense weeds, now and then I would see a larger shape gliding around, generally near the surface. I started chumming some bread into the water. Moments later, something exploded on top and grabbed one of the floating pieces. I reasoned that a surface presentation would be my best bet.

Using the floating bread flake technique I learned from Roger Barnes in England, I pitched a piece of bread out to the other bank and watched it slowly waterlog. Just as I was questioning whether I should have changed my four-pound leader, the fish answered the question for me. I got another big blowup, a hard run, and an unmistakable, sickening snap. It would have taken me less than a minute to tie on a more appropriate leader, like 12 pound fluoro, and it might have cost me a species.

I rerigged and got hit again right away, but I missed the hookset. Noting that the light was starting to fade, I recognized the utter silliness of driving what would end up 1100 miles and ending up with one or two casts to get my fish. But good fishermen, like good punters and bad mathematicians, have short memories. I just made sure the bait was perfect and that I landed my cast, and this time, when he ran off with it, I counted to three and leaned into him. He was on, well-hooked and giving a solid fight – all of these cichlids seem to be spunky. It took me a moment to get him over to the bank, and I got my new Merrell low hikers soaking wet making sure I got him firmly in hand. I had added a species, without long to spare, and I had that to comfort me on the 550 miles home the next day that I drove in socks because my shoes were drying.

The beast, in my new photo tank that’s too big for darters and too small for false yellowjacket cichlids.

Note the jaw and teeth.

So over those four creatures you have now suffered through, we’re talking an investment of 1700 miles of driving and about 7000 flight miles. Roughly fifty hours of travel, and we’re talking about less than a pound of new fish. Those of you who didn’t stop reading after the finspot are questioning how it could be worth it, and all I can say is that it just is. Whatever number I’ll finish at, I’m four more closer to it, and each one holds great memories of what I had to go through to make the catch; the friends I saw, the Skyline Chili, and of course, the fact that Marta would be waiting at home for me, knowing she would have to look at least faintly eager to see a photo of whatever it was that I caught.

Steve

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