DATELINE: AUGUST 11, 2023 – DEFEATED CAMP, TENNESSEE
It had been an eventful summer. June was taken up with the cross-country Mucus Marathon. July had two major events – my unretirement and return to the working world, which occurred on July 10, which also happened to be my (gulp) 60th birthday.
Marta set up a large group dinner at a local steakhouse, but there was a power failure 25 minutes before the reservation time. (Because PG&E is a third-world utility, although the executives have first-world salaries.) Utterly unflappable, Marta got on the phone and started looking for decent restaurants who had power and could sit 20-odd people on short notice. Miraculously, Danny, the head waiter at our local high-end Chinese place, Peony Garden in Walnut Creek, told us to bring the group, and the event was saved.
Danny, the greatest waiter ever – the man who saved my birthday party.
Part of the gang behind the bar. Several of them were found there the next morning.
It was moving to have so many people show up, although the open bar may have had something to do with it. It wasn’t the same experience as a 50th birthday – 60 feels SO much older. With the exception of Thor and Danielle, the guests were much kinder, and it didn’t turn into a complete roast. It was sobering to think that we would have another big one like this in 10 years, and a lot can happen over 10 years. But the moment was perfect, and the same things that were important to me 10 years ago – Marta, fishing, family, and friends – are the same priorities I have now, although they are not necessarily in that order. I had retired from hockey a few years back, at the insistence of my dentist, orthopedic surgeon, and our goalie.
August kicked off with a business trip to Chicago, which meant that I got to eat dinner with the fabled Cousin Chuck.
He’s actually somewhat normal by our family standards.
The plan was then to continue on to Indianapolis for a few days of fishing and Skyline Chili, which I thought was an excellent plan.
Any visit to this region means I’m going to call the fabled darter duo, Ron and Jarrett. Ron happened to be available, but it would have to be one of those leave Wednesday afternoon and be back Thursday afternoon things, because although Ron who loves to fish, he has adult responsibilities. At least I had a week to emotionally prepare for an all-nighter, but in truth, it didn’t seem like it would be too brutal, because we were going to stay in Indiana and not have to drive more than a few hours. There were plenty of targets for me, including the dreaded pirate perch, and this itinerary would even allow for a few hours of sleep.
I landed at Indianapolis in a light rain, but this didn’t concern me. The forecast showed a few showers near Indy that night, but nothing much further south. I met up with Steve Ramsey and we headed immediately to Skyline Chili, with few cares in the world except making sure we had Tums and fiber capsules.
Note that Mr. Ramsey is wearing a Tigers shirt, bought on his birthday last year.
I tried on my new waders in Steve’s living room. Note the Isaiah Thomas jerseys – since Isaiah played for IU and Detroit, he is one of the sports figures we can agree on.
By the time we got home from Skyline, it was pouring. I told myself it was fine – there were supposed to be a few showers right around town. Around midnight, Ron texted something like “Uh-oh.” I opened the weather app and my jaw fell into my lap hard enough to hurt my testicles. The light rain had somehow morphed into a monster storm that would drop inches of rain on everything from Chicago south to the Tennessee/Alabama line. How, I ask, can meteorologists be so wrong so often and still keep their jobs? If my tax guy messed up that badly even once, we’d both be in jail.
But it was what it was, and we had the day free, so we just got in the car and started driving south. Very south. To the point where we were looking at spots in Alabama kind of south – it might have only allowed a couple hours of fishing, but it would be better than nothing. The weather was now clear and gorgeous, but millions of gallons of rain were working their way through every river and creek we could reach. We just crossed our fingers and hoped we could find something high enough in its system that it wasn’t completely blown out.
The conversation in the car is always great. Ron has a phenomenal knowledge of freshwater fish, especially those found within 20 hours of Bloomington. Stuff that is just an odd curiosity in Peterson’s Guide, like pygmy sunfish, are all possibilities in Ron and Jarrett’s world. It usually involves driving 12 hours and tramping through a swamp in the middle of the night, which is exactly where I begin to question my level of commitment.
We were well into Tennessee when we made our first stop to look at a creek, in some sort of local park/campground/halfway house. The parking lot was flooded.
This type of water is not conducive to sight fishing.
We continued, south and east through Tennessee, and everything we crossed was high, muddy, and full of debris. It was midafternoon by the time we got to some smaller, higher waterways that looked at least marginally improved. At around 3pm, some seven hours of driving from Bloomington, we finally found a place that looked worth a stop. It was a lovely little stream, gin clear and full of structure, and I thought we at least had a chance.
Finally, clear water and gravel.
Of course, the Fish Gods have a sense of humor that borders on the sadistic, and the first three things I caught were a rainbow, a fantail, and another rainbow.
Another %$#^ fantail. I keep hearing rumors of splits. If anyone knows anything definite, please contact me. At least this was a colorful one.
I was glad to be catching fish, and I was amazed that Ron could even find clear water, but it seemed morally unfair to go all that way and be catching the two most universal darters.
Ron gets to work as I photograph the fantail.
We kept at it, and Ron thought he spotted an orangethroat split known as a Buffalo darter. I had to work around creek chubs, shiners, and more rainbow darters, but I finally got one to eat, and upon close inspection in the photo tank, it was clearly a new species.
The first one – apparently the blue on the lower body is a key ID element.
My second one was a much more colorful male.
The trip had now turned into a success. Everything from here would be a bonus. Call it too much fishing, call it low standards, call it what you will, but the drive and anxiety had paid off with at least one addition to the list.
After spending half an hour trying to extricate ourselves from a conversation with a farmer who could not believe we were actually fishing for darters, Ron and I headed off into the evening. We checked a few other spots, which were variably fishable depending on size and proximity to heavy runoff, and we didn’t find anything new.
Except some places that could use renaming.
Ron had a secret spot about an hour away that he thought could hold a rare darter or two, so we made the decision to head directly for that to catch the last bit of daylight. We headed deep into the countryside, gorgeous rolling woodland, and soon, we were following a stream. Moments later, we parked and headed down through what looked like a commercial poison ivy farm. The creek was exquisite – slow, protected, rocky, and just deep enough to hold all kinds of fish but still see them. I thought I saw a fantail, but Ron explained that everything here would likely be new for me.
The darters were a little finicky, but I got one to bite after a while. It took some serious ID work, mostly by Jarrett, but this one turned out to be a lollypop darter, one of the many species that are difficult to figure out unless you get a breeding male.
I need to take photography lessons from Ben Cantrell, but let’s face it, there’s not much to work with here.
And you never get a breeding male, and the fact that I am discussing my desire for a breeding male right now makes me uncomfortable and I just need to stop.
Ron assumes the darter crouch as he hunts the creek for new species.
There were definitely some other darter species in the spot, so we kept going, even pulling out the headlamps to cut through the twilight. One of the fish we kept seeing was some kind of snubnose, which I think are just a cool-looking fish, so I kept after it even though I’d caught them before in Alabama. It took a while, and a few mouthfuls of gnats, but I got one to come out from under the rock and attack. I put it in the photo tank just for fun – not easy in humid weather because the thing clouds up. It was during the photos I got the surprise of the evening – the fish was not a snubnose. It was a blackside snubnose, the very same fish The Mucus had whined me out of catching back in June.
Improbably, I had my third darter species of the day, taking me to 71 lifetime.
I still stand by my goal of 100 lifetime. And The Mucus still doesn’t have a river redhorse. If you think this sounds like I’m being immature and spiteful toward a teenager, you might be disconcerted but you certainly aren’t surprised.
We spent the rest of the evening hopscotching around Tennessee, including a stop at the same Buffalo River boat ramp where I fished in June on that glorious day when The Mucus broke off not one, but two river redhorse. This is a bigger river, and the recent rains had raised it just a few inches, but those few inches really messed it up. We saw some absolutely enormous spiders, but alas, no new darters.
As it got well past midnight, the difference my age and Ron’s got more apparent. Despite consuming close to a crate of Red Bull, I was ready to fall asleep on the steering wheel, but Ron kept me motivated with spots for unusual species that all seemed to be just less than an hour away. Unfortunately, as we got back into the lowlands and bigger bodies of water, everything we looked at was high and muddy, including one of the convenience store clerks.
This was our food for the evening.
It was about 4:30am when Ron finally threw in the towel, and we found some sort of motel with noticeably sticky furniture. The address was, and you can’t make this sort of stuff up, on Barren Hollow Road. We got a few hours of sleep at most, because Indianapolis was seven hours away, but after a quick breakfast from the Loretta Lynn’s kitchen gift shop, we were on our way.
They are actually better than Waffle House.
Ron had a few stops to break up the long drive, and at one of these, I was busily catching some sort of nondescript Notropis when I got something that just looked different. So I took photos. I’m glad I did, because the fish turned out to be a rosyside dace, a new one for me.
That’s species 4 of the trip and 2230 lifetime.
I also get to report that it was caught in Bucksnort Creek. It might not be Booger Hollow, but it was definitely a trip of memorable names, and I have to take my hat off to Ron (and Jarrett, who provided remote technical support,) because they made a worthwhile trip out of what had looked like a meteorological disaster. Thanks again, guys. It’s always a pleasure to fish with professionals.
I got back to Indianapolis early that evening, just in time to meet Steve Ramsey at Indiana’s famous Squealer’s BBQ in Mooresville.
Mooresville is the birthplace of the Indiana state flag, by the way.
The following day, we met Ron and Carol for dinner and then an Indianapolis Indians game.
Dinner was at the fabulous Iron Skillet, an iconic family-style Indianapolis restaurant that may even predate Ramsey. Tragically, it has since closed.
Steve, Ron, Carol, and Steve.
Victory Field was just a few minutes away. Not only had we been introduced a few times to Bruce Schumacher, the team owner, we have also gotten to be friends with his brother Mark Schumacher, Director of Merchandising.
I guarantee you I have the best collection of Indians gear in California.
It’s a phenomenal field, right in the middle of downtown. Steve and I worked together in 1990 in the tower in the background.
Oh, and Carol was mean to me.
The next day, I flew out, but my joy at escaping Carol was tempered by the fact that I would be seeing her again in just five weeks. Although she didn’t know it at the time, that trip would also, against most odds and all common sense, involve a fish.
Steve
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