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

I arrive wearing a confusing mix of football accessories. The mask was a mistake – nothing wearing a Lions logo could stop a pandemic, or even a defensive end.

This trip had a very specific purpose that lent itself to a lot of non-fishing activities, so for those of you who don’t like that stuff, the summary is: two species and a world record. For the rest of you, especially Steve Ramsey, who is going to relive some difficult moments, grab a tall glass of vodka and let’s get to it.

I chose Indiana in mid-April because that is when the blue suckers are supposed to run. I had this on very good information – the celebrated Ron and Jarrett of Bloomington – but the tough part would be predicting exactly when it would happen. It has come in early April. It has come in late April. But it’s always in that general timeframe. So I set up a lengthy stay with Steve in Indianapolis and figured we could eat Skyline Chili until the fish showed up. Due to work commitments, I couldn’t cover the end of the window, but I figured I had to catch some part of the action.

For the less erudite of my readers, the blog title is not a weak description of the trip. It’s the title of a song that Jim Nabors sung before the Indy 500 every year from 1972 to 2014.

I’m dead serious. It is little known outside Indiana that Nabors had a lovely singing voice. We own his Christmas album.

The blue sucker is a true unicorn – catchable only a few days a year, unless you’re Tyler Goodale and can land them at will. April is always an iffy weather month in the midwest, so I had to be prepared for anything from blizzards to sunburn, meaning I had an impressive amount of equipment stuffed into two large rolling duffels. Ramsey was astonished at how quickly the gear spread throughout his otherwise-tidy abode, and he dryly stated “My house looks like the gas main exploded in Dick’s Sporting Goods.”

We hit the ground running. My flight got in at 5:30pm, and we were at Skyline Chili 45 minutes later.

There is enough Skyline Chili in front of me to destroy four normal digestive systems.

Five hot dogs and a four-way later, we were on our way downtown, where we scrounged up tickets to the Pacers-76ers game.

Steve and Steve outside the fieldhouse.

My friend Pam was at the same game, but she was in the Mayor’s Suite (as she was his assistant at the time.) When I half-jokingly told her we would drop by, she firmly let me know that security would stop us.

Challenge accepted.

We watched the Pacers get clobbered by Philadelphia, and toward the 4th quarter, I decided to surprise Pam. It was fairly easy to get in – Pam was right by the door and I left Steve as a deposit with the guards.

Our wristbands for the VIP booth.

The next day, we had tickets for an Indianapolis Indians baseball game. The weather was iffy, however, and they ended up calling the game. This made Steve grumpy.

Note the grumpy look.

Uncanny.

Steve and I wandered the town a bit, stopping at the USS Indianapolis memorial. The place always gives me a knot in my throat.

The memorial.

The USS Indianapolis was a heavy cruiser that delivered parts for the Hiroshima bomb to Tinian. On the return voyage, she was sunk by a Japanese submarine. Due to mishandled distress calls, the survivors were not discovered for four days, by which time most of them had been eaten by sharks or died of exposure. Only 316 out of 1195 men survived. The incident is the subject of Robert Shaw’s famous, indeed, Quintessential, soliloquy in “Jaws.”

“I’ll never put on a lifejacket again. So, eleven hundred men went in the water, three hundred and sixteen men come out, the sharks took the rest, July the 30th, 1945. Anyway, we delivered the bomb.”

Late in the afternoon, we were reminiscing around places I used to live and misbehave in northeast Indianapolis, and trying to think of something to do for the evening. From this stage forward, my recollection and Steve’s differ somewhat, but here is my version –

Around 5:50pm, while randomly searching the internet, I discovered that there was a Fort Wayne Komets (minor league hockey) game at 7:00 that evening. In Fort Wayne, 105 miles away. I told Steve I thought we could make it and miss no more than the first few minutes. Steve is very good at math and suggested we would miss a lot more and gently advised we try it another night. I submitted again that I felt we could do it. I describe what followed as a “buddies road trip.” Steve describes it as “a hostage situation.” Whatever it was, we were going too fast for him to jump out of the car. I obtained tickets online while I was driving, which also did not thrill Steve, and we made the close of the first period.

Steve and Steve at Allen County War Memorial Coliseum.

Steve with an especially kind souvenir vendor. They were out of shirts that said “Fort Wayne,” so she sold me the one she was wearing.

We figured we could just stop at a Denny’s on the way home, but another messed up thing Covid gave us is 24-hour restaurants that close at 10pm. We ended up getting White Castle carryout at 1am.

Steve got onion chips – I had forgotten to, but he shared his with me. Can you imagine a person awful enough not to do this? Carol??

In sending the Hoosier information to my sister, we jointly discovered that the hockey arena is less than one mile from the house my parents lived when I was born.

I was as surprised as you not to see this on the national register of historic places.

The next day, we got to see an Indians baseball game, in the Mayor’s box, courtesy of Pam, who had forgiven me for the thing at the Pacers game.

Victory Field, home of the Indians – they are Pittsburgh’s AAA team, although some would argue that Pittsburgh is a AAA team.

From R-L, that’s Pam (our host,) the ever-patient Ron Feeney, his wife Carol who won’t share onion chips, me, Steve, and Ron’s son Brian.

Pam routinely catches foul balls at the games. I have never gotten a foul ball at a baseball game, and she doesn’t let me forget this.

But Steve and I weren’t done. There was an Indianapolis Fuel (same league as the Komets) game that night – mercifully in town. This is not the first time we have done two sporting events in a day.

Yes, we were that close to the ice. I could smell the referee.

What’s hockey without some blood on the ice?

They just let me in the penalty box. Like I belonged there.

Of course, when we got home, the specter of Little Bit was waiting for me.

Every day, I checked in with the guys, and every day, they said that the water was still low and the fish hadn’t started appearing. So Steve and I visited the US Air Force Museum in Dayton.

In front of the Memphis Belle, one of the first, and certainly the most famous, of the B-17 bombers to survive 25 missions over occupied Europe. Note the Fort Wayne Komets hat.

Moments later, there was a fire alarm and the museum was evacuated. I diverted to the bathroom while Steve ended up outside, in the freezing rain, with no jacket, and without the car keys, and no way to let me know where he was. I blame him because he did not have a cell phone.

At the time of this trip, Steve had the last corded phone in the tri-state area. Some of you kids may not recognize this equipment – ask your grandparents.

Now that there were only a few days to go before my flight home, I called Ron and Jarrett, and we jointly decided to go fishing and hope the run started while we were there. (I didn’t say this was a good plan.)

So I drove south and met up with the guys. It was great to see them both, and as a special bonus, Gerry Hansell joined us, all the way from Chicago. (And he’s caught a blue before.)

That’s Gerry and Ron from a gar fishing trip last year.

The first day was unfortunately what we expected – no blues. We got plenty of silver carp and some other assorted spillway critters, but the big run hadn’t started.

Like most of the midwest, the place was jammed with silver carp. While these invasives certainly pull hard, they have changed fisheries throughout the region.

One of my carp had a lamprey attached – would any of you count this as a species catch? I did not, but I thought about it. Let me know your thoughts in comments.

We did see a few blue suckers jump, so we knew there was at least a chance, but generally, the bite isn’t good unless the river is running a lot higher.

This is the river in typical blue sucker conditions. This photo was taken only a few days after I was there.

Instead, conditions looked more like this. In a few days, where are standing in this photo would be under 10 feet of water.

As it got late, Gerry and I asked if there were any other species to try nearby, just to get something on the scoreboard. This led to an interesting but very long evening.

Ron and Jarrett mentioned a creek a couple hours away that had a good shot at some darters and possibly a pirate perch. We got there around 9pm, parked, and donned our waders. (Except for Ron, who already had his waders because he hasn’t taken them off in at least three years.) In no more than five minutes, it became obvious the place was pretty much lifeless. It was just too cold. We gave it a try, but it was not going to happen there that night.

Steve and Ron doing the “darter crouch” – a recent Taylor Swift dance sensation.

We huddled near the car, trying not to shiver in front of each other, and Gerry and I, ever the optimists, looked at Ron and Jarrett imploringly to see if there was anything else we could try. Mind you, these men will act modest and not say anything, but, in my opinion, they are the two premier darter fishermen in the world. Jarrett broke the previously unthinkable 100 barrier a while back and is currently over 120. Ron has 102. These guys are experts, and all I can say is “We’re not worthy.”

They looked at each other uncomfortably. Jarrett reluctantly volunteered that there was another spot, 90 more minutes away, that held spotted darters. These are a rare and difficult species, and even though it meant getting home in the wee hours and getting very little sleep, we were good to go.

Sometime around 11:30, we pulled up at a small, beautifully clear creek somewhere between Evansville and Mexico. It was memorably cold, and our breath made large clouds as we walked down to inspect the water. The current was fast, even in the shallower areas, but the place was lousy with darters and even I found one fairly quickly.

I don’t remember the exhaustion or the cold – I just remember the triumph of getting this fish.

I also caught a nicely-colored male a few minutes later.

We were started to wrap up so we could get home and catch at least a few hours of sleep before we would have to be at the dam again, but I did something stupid. I saw a darter that looked a bit different. I caught it. Jarrett was right there and was the first to recognize it – “That’s a bluebreast!” he said. While I have caught a bluebreast, Gerry had not, and once he saw the fish, he justifiably wasn’t going anywhere. So we kept fishing.

A stubborn if exhausted crew, sometime around 2:30am – from L-R, Steve. Ron, Gerry, and Jarrett.

Unfortunately, Gerry did not succeed, but it was worth the try. We got back to the hotel just before dawn. I caught a quick nap, then headed back to the spillway – you need to arrive early as it can get crowded by mid-morning.

The spillway is accessed via a steep, slippery, and unstable metal ramp. We call it “the ski jump.”

There were clearly more blue suckers – we saw 20 or more jump – but this was still not the main run. So we patiently soaked baits and cast small jigs and hoped. There were more silver carp and something big, likely a sturgeon, that nearly spooled me and broke off, but no blues.

The guys, all waiting for the right bite.

Midafternoon, Gerry decided that he would start back to Illinois, and Jarrett and Ron headed off for some of their assorted responsibilities. A few hours later, with no ill intent, I was casting a jig and worm along a slack seam and got a couple of hits. On the third try, I hooked up, and to my great surprise, landed a spotted sucker. I cast right back and got another one.

I’ll be darned.

I texted out the news. I had previously caught a spotted sucker, but both Gerry and Jarrett hadn’t. This was more than grounds for Gerry to drive four hours back to fish the next morning.

I also, bizarrely, caught a log perch on a #4 hook.

Sunset on the way home. It’s a beautiful state, even if no one knows what a Hoosier actually is.

Needless to say, there were no more spotted suckers the next day. (Although Jarrett got his a week later.) But I respected Gerry for making the trip – irrational effort is also one of my main strategies. In the meantime, there were now dozens of blue suckers jumping, but no bites. I knew that the main group of blues would arrive any moment now, but I was running out of time. As the day went on, we did get to meet a few important people, like Jarrett’s girlfriend Phoebe, and also Brant Fisher, an Indiana biologist who is remarkably helpful on fish IDs and locations.

Phoebe took the photo. Which is a shame, because she is much better-looking than anyone in the shot. From L-R, that’s Gerry, Steve, Brant, Jarrett, and Ron.

Somewhere in there, Jarrett caught a beautiful shorthead redhorse.

I’ve never gotten one this big.

Gerry hit the road around 3:30 and asked me to not to text him for at least a day if I caught anything good, and Ron left shortly afterward to spend time with his family.

You’ll all feel better to know that Gerry got his first sevengill shark in San Francisco a few weeks later. He caught it on Captain Don Franklin’s Sole Man Sportfishing – highly recommended if you’re in the area.

That left just me and Jarrett staring at the rod tips. I was due for dinner up in Indianapolis shortly, and if I wanted time to shower, I would need to leave in about half an hour. 4:00pm came and went, and there were so many blue suckers jumping I just knew one would bite any second. (There is such a fine line between optimism and stupidity.)

At 4:50, when I was facing going directly to the restaurant in my fishing clothes, I got a bite. It was a quick rattle, so I picked up the rod and waited, and when the fish rattled again, I reeled into it and the fight was on. It felt different than anything I had hooked over the past few days, but I didn’t dare say anything out loud. Jarrett grabbed the net and waited for whatever it was to surface. Pagan or not, all fishermen get religion at these moments, and I was praying blue sucker prayers and trying to steer the fish to Jarrett. “IT’S A BLUE!” he yelled, half-excited, half-astonished, and he made short work of it with the net.

We jumped up and down and hugged and I whooped like I had just won the Stanley Cup, causing some fishermen up by the dam to come down and make sure I wasn’t having a seizure. Note the Fort Wayne “Man Ants” hat – a gift from Ramsey which brough me good luck. The Ants are an NBA G League team, and are NOT named after the insect. They are named after General “Mad Anthony” Wayne, who Fort Wayne is named after.

Steve, Jarrett, and the fish. They have a tiny mouth and live in heavy current, so they among the hardest of the sucker species to catch.

At 2.75 pounds, the fish was more than big enough to fill the open record on the species. (But they get bigger, so hopefully one of the guys gets one soon.) We did the weighing and measuring, safely released him back into river, and I was on my way to Skyline Chili, arriving with just enough time to wipe my hands on my pants and dig into six chili dogs.

I had waited a long time to add one of these rare and beautiful fish to my list, and I can’t thank Ron and Jarrett enough for all of their time, patience, and kindness with me. These guys are experts in their craft and have astonishing local knowledge and I look forward to fishing with them again soon. And of course I have to thank Steve Ramsey, who put up with me as a roommate for something like 10 days, while helping me gain much more of a sense of where I’m from. He is the one who truly suffered the most here.

Steve

SPECIAL BONUS SECTION

A week after the Indiana trip, Chris Moore, The Mucus, and Luke Ovgard all met up on the central coast for a day of rockfishing that was memorable only for the brutal conditions.

The gang after Luke and Mucus stopped barfing. Interestingly, thanks to Scopolomine, Chris did not go rail bunny.

But The Mucus caught the only ling cod. Of course.

Gratuitous Mucus photo.

The next day, we were fishing with local species genius Vince (@prickly_sculpin). Thanks to his spot and tactics, I managed another solid Sacramento blackfish, which would go in the books as world record number 220.

Which is still less than half of Marty Arostegui’s total.