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

DATELINE: OCTOBER 10, 2022 – RURAL WESTERN KENTUCKY

Running up a big species list takes sacrifices, and losing sleep is high on the list – but all-nighters are not to be taken lightly at age 59. Sure, I gave them no thought in college, whether it was finally doing the required reading the night before an exam, or a party that got out of hand and ended up with us mooing at passing cars as the sun rose. The trip described below was not designed to take place in 26 hours – it was meant for a much longer time period – but circumstances being what they were, I was glad we toughed it out.

It all began with two gracious Hoosier invitations. Steve Ramsey, who has steadfastly supported Indiana football since the leather helmet days, keeps inviting me to IU/Michigan games even though I show up in maize and blue and the Wolverines typically blast the Hoosiers like a directional school creampuff. And Ron Anderson, half of the fabled Ron and Jarrett species-hunting duo, kindly offered to take me south for a couple of days of fishing. As I continued looking at sports schedules, it turned out that the next weekend featured another Indiana game and then a Colts game, and Steve, against the advice of friends, neighbors, and the authorities, invited me for the whole week-plus. The result – two days of fishing, three football games, and nine days of Skyline Chili. If that isn’t a winner of an itinerary, I don’t know what is.

I arrived in Indianapolis on October 6, a Thursday. Steve and I promptly ate at Skyline Chili.

Skyline Chili. It’s a food group, and, about six hours later, a medical condition.

We then went over to Ron and Carol’s to watch the Colts play the Broncos. It was, I dare say, the worst NFL game I have ever seen that didn’t involve the Lions. There were botched plays, turnovers, and the constant whining of Russell Wilson. The Colts prevailed in overtime, but we were just glad to turn off the TV and be done with it.

The end of a truly awful contest. Russell Wilson is offscreen to the right, having Malcolm Butler flashbacks.

And then THIS was facing me back in Steve’s guest room.                                 

The following day, we ate dinner with my old friend Pam, at a well-known Indianapolis institution – the Rathskeller. Although both Steve and this restaurant have been in town for at least two world wars, he had somehow never eaten there previously. (To Carol’s rather loudly-expressed surprise.)

An Indianapolis classic. Carol has also made it famous in Iowa.

But all this friendship was swept aside the next day, as we headed to Bloomington for what Steve was certain would be an epic IU upset. Sometimes, I just want to smile and pat him on the head. 

A-10 flyover before the game. These things can destroy tanks almost as quickly as Michigan can destroy IU’s defense.

In a game that was close until shortly after the coin toss, Michigan prevailed, 31-10.

I kind of stood out in the IU Athletic Alum section.

But there were other UM fans there. There are two Hoosiers in the photo – see if you can guess which one had been drinking.

I was supposed to fish the next couple of days, which Ron figured could take us through some prime spots in Kentucky and Tennessee. But somewhere in the text string, a schedule misunderstanding became obvious. I had thought we were coming home Tuesday night. Ron – who has lots of adult responsibilities that I don’t, like two kids and three cats – actually needed to be home Monday night. So we made the best of it, but I recognized that this would mean very little sleep, a tall order at my age. But there were so many possibilities that I wasn’t going to let exhaustion get in my way – Red Bull can work wonders, and failing that, laxatives can keep anyone on their toes.

Our first stop was right in Bloomington. The recent longear sunfish splits had left me in a conundrum – I had caught most of them, but not photographed them because they were all just longears at the time. My photos were all of the Rio Grande version, so I needed to get the others, starting with the original, which was abundant in a local creek.

The O.G. longear sunfish.

The creeks here are gorgeous.

We then headed south. As we were trying to compress as many spots as possible into one overnighter, Ron had trimmed things down to a “run and gun” approach – hitting spots that he knew held at least one “slam dunk” species, trying to get that fish, and hitting the road again quickly. It was a long haul through Indiana to western Kentucky, and the evening would take us to a mashup of spots hopscotching between Kentucky and Tennessee. 

Conversations on these road trips range far and wide. Ron is a bit more quiet than I am – most people are – but I did get him going about a road trip he did to Arkansas with Jarrett and Cody from Ohio. These are young guys, and so road trips tend to be more compressed and budget-conscious, but this went a bit extreme. Not only did they sack out in the truck for several unwashed days, but there were some disastrous packing mishaps. Ron, who I believe sleeps in his waders, somehow forgot them. He also did not bring extensive (or possibly any) extra clothing, so not only did he get bitten up by insects and blown up with poison ivy, he also never quite got dry. This combination left Ron’s entire lower body festering with some sort of trench foot/swamp groin thing that took weeks to clear up. Cody, out of support for Ron, did all his wading in rubber deck boots, so after a few days, he had a bleeding ring chafed around each calf that I swear went down to the bone. Jarrett seems to have survived unscathed, and they did all catch a bunch of fish, which is worth facing chafing and fungus.

Our first stop netted something truly strange that I have admired in books for years – a cavefish. These creatures live in crevasses and caves, some of them never seeing daylight in their lifetime. This particular one was a spring cavefish, which lives deep in springs but ventures out at night. It took a few tries and a heartbreaking mid-air dropped hook, but I finally got one. Say what you will about spending hours on small fish, but seeing something like this fills me with wonder at the amazing diversity of the fish world. A chance to catch something like this is why I love the sport so much – only a handful of people have ever seen one of these in person.

One of the weirder fish I have gotten on my Midwestern adventures.

We then hit the road for another hour and made another the “run and gun” stop. It was a small creek rumored to have a population of Guardian darters, another one of the very localized species found throughout the midwest. They were there, they bit, and we were back on the road. It was already 11 at night.

The Guardian darter, species three of the trip and 2111 lifetime.

We then drove two more long hours, going from interstates to state highways to rural roads to dirt tracks that went miles back into the woods.

I mused how much I had come to trust Ron, because these are exactly the kinds of places where bodies are dumped in low-grade horror films that involve depraved power-tool maniacs and exceptionally stupid teenagers. At about 1am, we pulled up at a dead end with the classic “bridge out” sign, and parked the car. It took me a moment to put on my waders – but Ron will never, EVER takes his off again. The embankment was a bit dicey, but even from a distance, I could see it was darter heaven – shallow, some current, an assortment of rock sizes and structures. We got down there, set up the micro rigs, and despite the 39 degree temperature, action started quickly. The first score was a brighteye darter.

The brighteye darter, number four of the trip.

About an hour later, I got a firebelly darter, the fifth species of the evening.

And 2113 lifetime. The only disadvantage to fishing this late in the season is that the fish are not in their spawning colors, but hey, a species is a species, and they’re still beautiful.

It was another hour, pushing 4:30am, when I got another new species. This is not to say there wasn’t constant action the entire time. We caught plenty of darters – and madtoms – we had gotten previously, and we also wasted quite a bit of time trying for sand darters, which were present but do not eat food. Ever. But at some stage before the sun came up, I zeroed in on a darter that looked different than everything else I had seen and got it to bite. To even Ron’s surprise, it was a Gulf darter – very unusual this far north.

Again, not the most colorful specimen, but that’s six for the day.

As the first light was beginning to show, I reached the limit of my endurance, and luckily, so did all my headlamps, so I had an excuse to leave and find a local hotel for a quick nap. I think Ron would have been ok with me leaving him there, but he reluctantly came along when I mentioned that I thought I saw some guy wandering through the woods with a chainsaw. 

I don’t remember taking this picture.

After a couple of hours of shuteye in some off-brand place in rural Kentucky or Tennessee, I forget which, we saddled up again and drove off to hit a couple of spots Ron knew on the way home. I was so wiped out I made a memorable hygiene mistake.

Oh, like you wouldn’t have missed this too.

Wading through a few small creeks buoyed by Red Bull and hope, I was likely not at my best. (But neither was Peyton Manning when he won his second Super Bowl, and I always take inspiration from that. And we both knew that if we dropped something, Cam Newton wouldn’t try to pick it up.)

I missed at least two slough darters because I pretty much stepped on them, but just as we were ready to head elsewhere, I found one that clearly was not as smart as the other slough darters. It stayed cooperatively in the open and snapped at every bait I presented, allowing itself to be hooked and dropped twice before I landed it and added number seven of the trip.

And number 2115 overall. Life was very good, despite the fact that my bladder wrote me an official letter of protest after the sixth Red Bull.

At the next creek, we, and by “we,” I mean “Ron,” had a terrifying close call. Part of looking for darters is flipping over rocks and poking under banks. This should be done with great caution, as some of these same hidey holes contain unpleasant wildlife, like snapping turtles and snakes. 

For example, this is me inadvisably poking around prime serpent territory.

I was perhaps 150 feet upstream of Ron, who (thank goodness) had started using a stick to explore the undercut shoreline. I heard a noise – let’s call it a manly grunt of alarm, because I wouldn’t want to call it the high-pitched stream of bad words it really was. I turned around to see Ron in full Wile E. Coyote mode, feet spinning backwards in place on top of the water with a large, irritated cottonmouth in hot pursuit. Luckily, he got away, but it was a sobering reminder to be careful out there.

Safe due to his excellent reflexes, Ron breathes a sigh of relief. I would have wet my waders.

We made one more stop on the way home, chasing what Ron described as an outside shot at a bandfin darter. I entered the water with low confidence, clinical exhaustion, and snake awareness, and I nearly stepped on a darter. Ron eased up next to me and verified it was the right one, and it bit immediately. 

The beast.

The triumphant anglers. I was ready for a nap, but we had five hours of driving ahead of us.

So that was it for the catching on this trip – eight species in less than 24 hours of fishing. That doesn’t happen for me very often. I can’t thank Ron enough for going with me, and Ron and Jarrett for their incredible knowledge of the area.

But notice I said the catching was over, but not the fishing. Because I had such a long stretch in the Midwest, and because Steve likely reached the limits of his hostly patience when a batch of redworms escaped in his immaculate refrigerator, I decided to head for Columbus, Ohio. Cody Cromer, who is one of my lifetime heroes because he helped me get a bluebreast darter, was kind enough to meet me in central Ohio and give it a try for variegate darters. 

Success has many parents, but I was the single mother of failure that day. Cody must have shown me at least six variegates, and I managed to spook or miss them all.

The river was absolutely gorgeous. And full of variegate darters.

Steve and Cody, as he tries his level best not to burst into laughter at my inability to hook a variegate.

That night, I had dinner in Columbus with two very dear old friends – Scott “K-Man” Kisslinger, one of the greatest wiffleball pitchers in history, except for one notable meltdown, and Sue Niezgoda, who is probably better at wiffleball than either one of us.

Yes, I wear Michigan stuff at restaurants in the middle of Columbus.

I headed back to Indianapolis Thursday evening for another Skyline dinner. Marta took the redeye into Indianapolis on Friday morning, went straight to the art museum to let Steve and I sleep in, and then joined us for a weekend of sports and fried food. Although she had been through Indianapolis before, this was her first stop for any length of time. 

Marta irrationally hates John Elway, so Steve prepared her a special pillowcase.

At the circle in the center of downtown Indianapolis. I used to work – and met Steve Ramsey – in a building just out of the shot to the left.

Saturday was a return trip to Bloomington to watch the Hoosiers get blasted by Maryland. It was still a beautiful fall day, and Steve gave Marta a better tour of campus than he ever gave me. What the heck.

Steve and Marta in some alum building I had never seen before.

A tribute to “Breaking Away,” one of Marta’s favorite movies.

Before kickoff, so the game was still close.

As things got out of hand, a group of IU supporters decided it was a good idea to take their shirts off and wave them around. Unfortunately, they were all men, and unfortunately for them, it had gotten rather cold. They didn’t seem to care.

I’m guessing beer was involved, but you have to respect their commitment.

They even made ESPN. Note that the Michigan score happens to be on screen.

Sunday was the big event. Ron and Carol, Steve’s best friends from college, were hosting a large group of family at a Colts game and generously invited us, mostly because Carol likes Marta.

Lucas Oil Stadium – “The House That Peyton Built.”

Speaking of Peyton Manning.

We got to watch a thrilling Colts victory over Jacksonville, and even though I think it was the last game they won that season, it was still a great experience. 

The whole gang poses for a photo post-game. A big thanks to Ron and Carol for putting it all together and including us.

After the game, we wandered the downtown area, taking in more sights and mocking the fact that Trevor Lawrence has better hair than Taylor Swift. Dinner could not have been better – we managed seats at St. Elmo’s steakhouse, an Indianapolis landmark that I first experienced in 1989.

It was founded the year before my grandfather was born. 

St. Elmo’s is also famous as the favorite steakhouse of Parks and Recreation’s Ron Swanson.

We are standing in the exact spot where they filmed dinner in the “Two Parties” episode. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please take the week off work and binge-watch the whole thing. It will make your life better.

Marta and I flew home the next evening, but not before I gave the elusive goldeye a shot in a river south of Indianapolis. I failed, again, but I did catch something memorably unexpected.

A shovelnose sturgeon, first caught by me in Nebraska with Martini in 2015.

And so we were back in California, putting up the Halloween lights and preparing to watch such terrifying fare as “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” There would be one more major fishing trip before the weather and the holidays set in, and if I had known how badly it was going to turn out, I would have … oh who am I kidding. I still would have gone.

Steve

DATELINE: SEPTEMBER 22, 2022 – DULUTH, MINNESOTA

Covid had seemed to wreak havoc on almost everything – everything from toilet paper to Taco Bell was suddenly much harder. Even simple gatherings with friends took on an element of risk unseen since the 1350s. One of our most beloved rituals lost in the pandemic was our annual “Deja Bru” trip. For the uninitiated, these are an annual autumn excursion Marta and I make with two great friends from Indianapolis – Steve Ramsey, and his college friends Ron and Carol “The Facebuster” Feeney. The idea is to pick a town that has a baseball and football game on the same weekend, and then experience the local culture in the meantime. We’ve been to places as varied as Milwaukee and Detroit, and the rescheduled target would be Minneapolis. As a Detroit fan, I am bitter toward the Twins, especially their ill-gotten 1987 ALCS win, but I would try to get over it for a few days at least.

An actual Wheaties box with the 87 “champs.” It has its own museum, and is the single most sacred thing in the state. It’s even more sacred than Fran Tarkenton’s Super Bowl ring because, well, there isn’t one.   

Some of you have actually asked “Steve, do you ever take a vacation that doesn’t involve fishing?” This blog has been going on for 13 years, and if you don’t know the answer, you must be a new reader. Welcome! Sure, I can pretend I’m going someplace for a cultural experience, but I’m going to find a way to try for a species, even if it’s a longshot.

Fishing on this trip was fairly straightforward – I flew in a couple of days early, rented a car, and headed for western Wisconsin. Species-hunting genius Tim Aldridge generously forwarded a few prime spots, and I also had some great info from old friend Mike Channing. There were perhaps seven solid targets, more than enough to fill up a day and a half, then head back to Minneapolis to meet the gang. 

United was somehow on time, and I was soon in a rental car heading east through a perfect, warm evening. My first target, the central mudminnow, is a nocturnal creature, so I had plenty of time to hit Walmart for worms and I actually found a Culver’s for dinner. (Oddly enough, it was the only indoor dining I found. Everything else had gone carryout – lame.)

Culver’s is awesome. This is the best thing Mike Channing introduced me to, just ahead of the lake sturgeon.

Well after dark, I pulled up to a random culvert that Mike had suggested for mudminnow. I rigged up a tenkara rod and explored a series of weedy pools. I got a few nice shiners, but alas, that was all that would bite. Even though I was on public property, the local farmer was certain I was up to no good and kept driving by me, slowly, with a spotlight array reminiscent of WWII nighttime air defenses. As a thunderstorm moved in, I decided it was time to get some sleep. 

The fishing was near the intersection of “NO.” You think I would have gotten the hint.

I stopped in Neillsville, Wisconsin, a quiet farming town near a bunch of Tim’s spots. I went to sleep dreaming of dace species and an outside shot at a blackside darter. This is when the Fish Gods decided things should be more challenging. Temperatures plummeted, going from a solid 85 to a low around 38. I suppose I should have looked this up, but I was going to try it either way, so I just let myself be surprised. 

The spots were all medium-sized creeks, easy to access and beautifully clear. The first two produced nothing but creek chubs, which seem oblivious to weather. The other species seemed to have shut off, but I had all day and I am nothing if not stubborn. 

The classic creek chub, the first fish species I ever caught by myself.

The third creek was gorgeous.

This gives me wet wading dreams.

I inspected it from a low bridge, and could see several redhorse feeding their way up deeper seams. Even though I have gotten the species before, this was too much to pass up.

I caught three – nice fights and sight fishing is always a thrill.

I then tried the micros. I put on a small sabiki because there was a rocky side pocket that had some interesting fish flitting in and out of the structure. I caught a couple of nondescript Notropis, but something darker kept dashing out of the rocks. I cast again, and the fish finally came out and got hooked. It was a darter, and likely something I hadn’t caught before, so, heart in my throat, I tried to gently ease it out of the water and up onto the bridge. At the same moment, the sabiki weight got stuck in the rocks, leaving the fish splashing on the surface. Sweating profusely, I assessed my options, which didn’t seem good. There was no shore access – it was steep and overgrown – and trying to yank it out would likely break off the fish. I finally tried to put steady pressure on the weight, which left the fishing hanging about eight inches above the water. Just as I thought the line would break, the weight suddenly came free and the whole rig came hurtling directly at my head. I ducked, and some of the stray hooks embedded in my shirt. I looked down, and, against all reason, there was the darter.

It was a blackside darter, a new one, and the whole trip was worth it.

There were supposed to be several other species here, and I love wading around creeks, so I spent much of the day poking around riffles and seams, and while I did get the occasional fantail darter, it was mostly creek chubs the rest of the day.

I will hate fantails until the day they finally split them. I know there is a Carolina – I have that one – but I hear rumors of a Chesapeake Fantail. If anyone can find a reliable source on this, I’ll buy them dinner.

The weather was clear but windy, and much colder than the day before, so stuff was off. But I still had a species in the bag. 

A country road in Western Wisconsin.

I decided to drive a few hours north to set up for a dace spot in the morning. The scenery was beautiful midwestern farmland, glorious in the setting sun. I passed a number of streams and ponds, and the central mudminnow kept crossing my mind. Mike had told me they live in the stillest, weediest backwaters, and just at dusk, I spotted a random weed-choked little side channel and decided to stop.

This place just screamed “Central Mudminnow!”

Using a micro-sabiki loaded with bits of redworm, I carefully eased the baits into a break in the weed mat. There was a tiny bite. Then another. And another. I lifted gently and pulled up two central mudminnows. Mike’s advice has been perfect. I stayed and caught seven more, but darkness and hunger eventually took me away.

That was two species for the day, taking me to 2107.

Then I drove off into the night. I couldn’t find another Culver’s, so dinner ended being Red Bull and cheese curds, which is (barely) not as bad as it sounds.

I recommend taking a lot of fiber with these.

I found a hotel near a possible Iowa darter spot from Mike, so I could give that a go in the morning.

Dawn was clear, windy, and cold. The darter spot looked great, but the temperature change had clearly shut things down. I’ll be back there, but in the meantime, I had a few more hours to get to Amnicon State Park, up toward Duluth. There were supposed to be a couple of different dace species here, but often, having a mark on a map and actually finding your way to it are two different things. After wasting an hour crashing through a poison ivy-laden swamp, I drove around to the main park entrance and a kind-hearted ranger directed me to the pond in question.

It was a gorgeous walk – a place I could hiked all day except that I had about 30 minutes to catch the fish and race back to Minneapolis for dinner.

It was a beautiful spot.

When I found the pond, my heart sank. Access looked cliffy and terrifying – the kind of place only Luke Ovgard would try.

It’s steeper than it looks.

I finally found a way down to the water, and the fish were thankfully cooperative.

They turned out to be Northern Pearlscale Dace, species 2108.

I tried the creek on the way out, but it was jammed with creek chubs, which is always a sign to leave. I had a long drive ahead of me to Minneapolis, where Marta was already shopping, and the rest of the gang – Steve, Ron, and Carol – would soon be arriving.

I got to race a train on the way back.

I got to Minneapolis late afternoon, got rid of the rental car, and headed downtown to start the cultural stuff. Marta had already been all over town, and had discovered a book – Bunnicula.

I have no idea how this never became a movie.

Downtown Minneapolis was surprisingly vibrant – a lot of restaurants, theaters, and shopping. Our main concern was to keep Carol from “accidentally” punching Steve, so we sat them on opposite sides of the table and enjoyed a great dinner. Walking back to our hotels, passed the Mary Tyler Moore statue.

This is another cultural reference lost on my younger readers, but the MTM show, a Saturday night staple in the 70’s, was both groundbreaking and hilarious, especially the “Chuckles the Clown” episode, which we went home and found on YouTube. Still the funniest funeral ever.

We played tourist on Saturday – the Mill City Museum was especially interesting, especially the Washburn portion, which blew up in 1878. (Who knew flour dust is flammable?)

Tribute to some local musician.

We also visited the Mall of the Americas, which is built on the site of old Metropolitan Stadium.

This marks the 5o yard line of the football field. I made a little history – I was wearing a Lions jersey, so I am the only thing in Lions gear to ever cross midfield in that stadium.

Marta and Steve call out Kirk Gibson at home plate.

Toward evening, we walked to Target Field, to see the Twins play the Angels.

Pre-game rituals.

I had been to one other Twins game, in 1990, but that was a different stadium, so this would count as a new one. (Ramsey and I hope to see a game at every current MLB stadium before we die.) We were joined by old fishing buddy Bob Reine and his wife Shari.

From left, that’s Marta, Steve, Steve, Bob, Shari, Carol, and Ron.

I’ve been fishing with Bob off and on for the past 30 years, and we’ve shared some amazing trips, including my first (and only) three muskies.

We gritted out a Twins loss in light drizzle. Dinner that night was steak, always a favorite, and as we get late in these evenings, there always seems to be a new Ron/Carol/Steve college story, which typically begins with Carol getting Steve in trouble and ends with Little Bit biting someone.

The five of us after dinner. Carol is waiting for us to all look away so she can elbow Steve in the cheek.

The next day, we had tickets to watch my beloved Lions play Minnesota. The first NFL game I ever attended was also the Lions losing to the Vikings, on a miserable, sleeting day at Tiger Stadium with my father in the mid-1970s. And yes, even though the Vikings venue was amazing, the result was the same – the Lions wrenched a defeat out of the jaws of victory, which made Bob happy.

The field. It’s one of the best venues in the league, except that the Viking play there.

I’m still a bit annoyed at Ramsey for outfitting everyone with Vikings gear. Fun fact – everyone in this photo has won just as many Super Bowls as Fran Tarkenton, and, unlike Jim Marshall, we left the stadium heading the right direction.

Post-game, Steve, Ron, and Carol hit the road for the long drive back to Indianapolis, and Marta and I had dinner with Bob and Shari. It was great to relive some of the old fishing trips with Bob and our Macromedia days together. Marta and I flew out early the next day, taking off about the same time that there was an incident at a restaurant in a small town in central Iowa, that involved Ron, Steve, and Carol, mostly Carol. Until the lawyers can straighten out all the facts, I won’t report details, but suffice to say that the Ottumwa Ladies Prayer Brunch will never be the same.

Once we got home, my main task was to repack with clean underwear and new football jerseys, because another midwestern sports-oriented trip was coming up in less than two weeks. Of course, if I was going to travel, I was going to fish – but there was quite a logistical surprise waiting for me. Stay tuned.

Steve

SPECIAL HOLIDAY NOTE – 

As this one is being published just before Christmas, I wanted to put in a good word for a local organization that does amazing work with foster children – https://www.fosteringwishes.org/. As difficult as families can be on occasion, imagine being without one at the Holidays. Any donations are always greatly appreciated.

DATELINE: SEPTEMBER 15, 2022 – DESTIN, FLORIDA

Statement from the Editor: Don’t worry, you’re not the only one who’s confused. You are never the only one who is confused, because I’m here. Yes, the blog jumps from May to September, for the three of you who pay attention. This is because I took two deep water trips to the Gulf of Mexico in 2022, one in May, right after the Freud blog, and another in September. I thought they would naturally fit together. This is my sad attempt to be organized. There are two summer 2022 blogs coming up that happened between the deep drop trips, and these will be up next.

I think we’re all better off now that we know this.

This post is about science and romance. (And, of course, fishing.) If you are not interested in science or romance – and Cousin Chuck has violated the laws of both – please skip to the end. 

And so, Marta set up a weekend in New Orleans. Yes, it is perfectly normal for a couple to go on vacation to New Orleans, but Marta had a higher purpose than jazz and etouffee. She was there for … science.

Yes, my cultural references are dated. Deal with it.

This is not as far-fetched as it sounds. One of the companies she works for, Seatrec, is a game-changer in the Ocean Science world. They manufacture sustainably-powered open-ocean floats that dive and measure a variety of data – temperature, salinity, depth, bathymetry, etc. – which can give us groundbreaking insights on everything from storm prediction to seafloor mapping to whale behavior. The power systems on these floats harvest energy from ocean temperature differences, so they run far longer than outmoded battery-based models. (Resulting in longer missions and significantly more data capture.) The equipment needs to be launched in depths often 100 miles offshore, and Marta hit on the genius idea of partnering with fast fishing charters to accomplish this. The cool part is, if there was time remaining after all the science had been done, I could fish. And this wasn’t just any fishing – the charter, Fish Heads of Cocodrie, Louisiana, specializes in Gulf deep drop stuff that makes me positively drool. Dom had gone with them previously and landed a bunch of amazing species – notably a big marbled grouper.

Oh, how I want this species.       

We pick the story back up on a Thursday, when I was driving from Florida to New Orleans. It was a pleasant journey, except for the massive traffic jam outside Mobile, which is anything but. It was a route filled with memories – the reverse of our course in the fabled 2014 “Bird Flu” episode, except that no one had Bird Flu this time.

I arrived in New Orleans around 7pm, and checked into the hotel that Marta had reserved. After somehow getting all the worms out of the rental car, I settled down to a late jambalaya dinner. Marta was already on the redeye to meet me the next morning.

I randomly walked by the actual scene of the “Bird Flu” incident. We are likely still unwelcome there.

Flying redeye may be hard on Marta, but it’s harder on me. She got to the hotel at 7:20am, which is generally when I am snoring the loudest, but there was no chance for further sleep. She wanted to go, go, go – beignets for breakfast, walking around French quarter just as it was going to bed from the night before, exploring the Faulkner House Bookstore, and then off for museums and other cultural stuff.

French Quarter, 9am. These people have style.

We had been together 18 years (19 now, for those of you in the betting pool,) and never made this pilgrimage. The music, the food, and the culture are all unique and memorable. It had been eight years since I visited, and 12 years since I had been there with my Mom. It’s a marvelous city to walk – or stumble – around.

Jackson Square.

A date with Destiny at Mr. B’s. Highly recommended.

Marta explained that the song is actually about a train.

My undoubted favorite is the National World War Two Museum.

Hanging with FDR.

A Higgins boat, used for landing troops. These were built in New Orleans, and my Uncle Ted, 98 years old and going strong, rode one onto Omaha beach to start his war.

Time passed quickly, a blur of jambalaya, art galleries, and jazz lounges. To Marta’s great annoyance, I paid off one of the piano players to do a Taylor Swift song.

On day two, we visited the New Orleans aquarium, where we found one of the most shameless but unintentionally funny ads I have ever seen.

None of you, especially BP, are fooling anyone. This is like an ammunition company sponsoring an emergency room.

Marta makes friends easily.

We had lunch with Marta’s friend Scott MacKenzie, who runs a highly-regarded podcast called “Industrial Talk” that has covered Seatrec. The dude is awesome and I want to take him fishing. That’s his wife Susie on the left. She is equally awesome.

We also randomly saw this. It must be the best radio station ever. Non-stop REM, U2, and ABBA.

Forty-eight hours went quickly, and then we had to face …

You either get this joke, or you’re under 50.

My relationship with science is complex. I spent the better part of my academic career avoiding it, because you actually have to memorize stuff. I preferred the humanities, where a good essay could always fix things. And yet, as I have aged, my fish obsession has led me more and more toward a basic knowledge of biology, meteorology, and oceanography. And abnormal psychology.

Marta, apart from just being a better person than I am, has always been fascinated with ocean science. Her degree – a BA in Classics – is arguably more useless than my double BA in English and History, but she never avoided the heavy lifting like I did. Many of her jobs (as a consultant in venture capital,) have been heavily technical, and she throws herself into the hard stuff with a reckless abandon that I sometimes resent when it interferes with us binge-watching “Justified.” (FYI: Harlan, Kentucky has replaced Cabot Cove, Maine as the violent crime capital of prime-time television.)

The downside, of course, is that my fishing would not be the main purpose for the day. I would only be able to sneak in an hour or two once all the technical stuff was done. But there were fish species out there I couldn’t get any other way. 

On Sunday evening, we drove to Cocodrie – not far as the crow flies, but a long time on small roads and causeways.

We arrive. Those trees were damaged by Hurricane Ida in 2021 – the area is still recovering.

We stopped and got boat provisions, a process which always points out how different Marta and I are on nutritional paradigms.

I view this as a perfectly valid lunch.

I attempted some shore fishing around the motel. There are a couple of micros there I’m still missing – but I was run off by an incredibly organized group of mosquitoes. I did see a manatee.

Manatees are awesome.

We caught up with the Seatrec group for dinner. I had met some of them in San Diego last year, but this was the first time I had been there for a launch, and the excitement was palpable. The founder of the company, Dr. Yi Chao, was there, although he would not be joining us on the boat. Pioneering Oceanographer though he might be, he gets profoundly seasick, so he calls himself “The Armchair Oceanographer.”

A San Diego fishing outing sponsored by Seatrec, June 2021. Dr. Chao is on the right in the black and red hat. Michael, who is mentioned below, is front row center in the blue shirt.

We were also joined by engineers Michael and Miles. Michael, Seatrec’s VP of Engineering, hails from Germany. Miles, a Texas native, is a Mechatronics engineer. They are both terrifyingly smart but low-key, and they are both passionate surfers. I learned from Michael that humans have been surfing for over 5000 years. 

This is not a Tommy Hilfiger ad. That’s actually Miles on the left and Michael on the right. They were very polite to me and even asked some fishing questions so I could understand some of the conversation.

They were all excited but worried about the launch. They had prepared for every possibly eventuality, but now they would get to see if it all worked in real life. They had done this before, but every expedition carries its own risks. I politely tried to figure out how much running time and launch time we would need, but every time I got close, Marta would cut it off and tell me that they would take however long they needed to take, and remind me that the trip was about science, not me. Sigh.     

Sunset over the bayou.

There were alligators everywhere.

Marta braved the mosquitoes to get this nighttime photo.

Morning came quickly. We met Captain Todd Black, a noted deep-drop expert, who would be running the boat, and mates Lenny Bishop and Branson Marks, great guys and knowledgeable fishermen. We talked a lot about what we could catch out in the deep water of the continental shelf, but first, there was science to be done.

That’s the boat, ready to at some ungodly hour of morning.

Yi and Captain Todd make a few last-minute adjustments.

There is no fun way to describe a very long boat ride. The Fish Heads craft is super fast and the water was calm, but we’re talking 120 miles out and this is a boat made for running, not lounging. We set some bean bags in the back and just stuck it out.

My buttocks will never forget that beanbag.

About four hours later, they pulled back on the throttle and Michael and Miles started their work day. Every time I asked about how long things would take, Marta cut me off and told me it would take however long it would take. Sigh. 

Lenny holds the float while the guys get ready.

Michael (left) and Miles (right) do scientific stuff.

There were a few complications, so we were probably there a couple of hours. I was, of course, apoplectic and dying to know how long things would take, but Marta would not permit this. However long it took, they did finally wrap up and we watched the float descend into the clear, blue water and start its mission. You could see pride and worry etched into each of their faces – this was their project, their baby, and after all the countless hours of engineering and planning, now they had to let it run and hope it all worked. What I didn’t know at the time, as we watched the float go out of sight, is that they would actually need to wait another eight hours for the thing to surface and send its first data back. So they didn’t know it worked for sure until late that evening, but they both looked perfectly calm to me. 

The picture of calmness, although they ate all the cookies in about four minutes. Interestingly, they chose the most nautical of all cookie brands.

It was a couple more hours to reach the water that Todd wanted to fish, but we finally, finally got there. We had about two hours, before we had to make a four-hour run back to the dock. (And keep in mind that Marta had insisted on booking an early flight the next day, AND that we would still have to drive back up to New Orleans AND have dinner with the group that same night.) 

To say I was overeager would be the greatest understatement since Dennis Eckersley said “My, that fly ball is carrying a bit.” I dropped a bait before the boat even finished sliding, and hit the bottom some 850 feet later. The fish didn’t wait long – I got a big bite and hooked something substantial. I had hopes for a grouper, but it didn’t feel like one. Twenty minutes later, a nice golden tilefish surfaced.

I got this species with the Arosteguis in 2014, but it was still a thrill to catch this one.

I managed a couple of other assorted deep reef creatures – nothing new yet, but a lot of action.

For example, a wenchman. I have no idea how they got named.

We moved to progressively shallower reefs, and on one of these, Marta hooked and landed the biggest queen triggerfish I have ever seen – in excess of 10 pounds.

Truly the fish of the trip.

I kept at it, and a couple of stops later, I got a definite grouper on the line – not huge, but a very distinctive, bottom-digging fight. As we got it close, I could see yellow tinges, and as soon as it hit the deck, it was clearly a yellowmouth grouper – a new and unusual species. What long boat ride? Science is amazing!

Species 2076.

The ride back flew by like 240 minutes, but we finally made the dock. The team had succeeded. We got organized, I ate the rest of the devilled eggs, and we headed north. Marta was ecstatic about the launch, I was ecstatic about the fish, and we were all good.

The group back at port. From left to right, that’s deckhands Lenny and Branson (both awesome,) then Michael and Miles from Seatrec, my waistline, me, and Captain Todd. 

Yi hosted a magnificent dinner at the Hilton back up in New Orleans, and somewhere in there, the first transmission came back in from the float. It had worked – and indeed, 15 months later, it is still working and has profiled over 500 times. I have to call that a big win, but I also caught myself imagining how good it would be if I got to fish the whole day. Marta overhead these thoughts, and quietly told me “You were a guest and a token fisherman. You’re lucky you got to fish at all.” Harrumph.

In early September, the process repeated itself, except this time in Destin, Florida. (Scene of the fabled “Editor-in-Chief” episode. Fish Heads moves their operation to Florida for part of the year.) This time, I flew in a day early and could explore a bit of the local shore fishing. In a small harbor just east of town, I managed to scrape up one new species – the longnose killifish.

We jump to species 2104. I told you I had a busy summer.

At dinner, Marta again cut off all conversation that had to do with how much fishing time I would get. Sigh. The group was great, and this time, they would be launching TWO floats. (I unsuccessfully tried to find out if this would take twice as long.) I knew there would be a bit less fishing time, but I wasn’t going to miss deep water in the gulf, even if it was only for a couple of hours. At least I had plenty of Red Bull and two dozen more devilled eggs.

Sunrise over Destin.

The boat heads out to sea.

At least I knew what to expect – about four hours of sitting in a beanbag chair while we raced 100 miles+ out into the gulf. In any normal boat, this would be an impossible day trip, so I’m willing to trade a bit of comfort for a shot at weird fish any day.

Miles is all smiles as the sun comes up.

The water was a touch bumpier than it had been in May, but we still made good progress and got to the launch site mid-morning.

Captain Todd keeps up on track.

The guys did their thing, and I did my best to not look desperately impatient. I was not allowed to ask any questions about how long anything would take.

I did get a few ocean triggerfish while the engineers did their thing. This species seems to materialize whenever a boat stops in the middle of nowhere.

As the launches were wrapping up and I was figuring out rigs for my first few deep drops, there was bad news. It was scientific in nature and I don’t pretend to understand what happened, but we needed to drive a couple of hours not toward the fish to do something related to another project. I started doing the math. Marta told me to stop any calculating and reminded me this was first and foremost a science trip. Captain Todd quietly told me he would find me at least a little window to fish, although the breeze did seem to be picking up.

Mind you, it never got really rough, but when a boat goes over 50mph, every little bump and splash is magnified. We got thoroughly sprayed, although that wasn’t too bad in the sun. I passed the time drinking Red Bull and quietly eating all of the devilled eggs, knowing this would give me terrible revenge on Marta by midnight.

We finally got wherever we needed to and did whatever we needed to. Captain Todd closely examined a map and the weather report. It didn’t look good, but he had one spot we could try for scamp grouper on the way back. That was about two hours away, then it would be three more to Destin. I counted the bumps, splashes, and minutes, and yes, it seemed like a heck of a long time. 

When they finally cut the throttle, I jumped up to fish. I had lost track of the conditions while we were running, and it had actually laid down quite a bit. Todd explained that there were plenty of scamp in this spot, but also plenty of bull sharks, and that I would have to reel up anything I hooked as hard and fast as I could. 

I wasn’t fast enough. I hooked a big fish on my first drop, and reeled as hard as I possibly could. I even got to see deep color – it was a big scamp, at least 15 pounds. But the bull shark that took it was at least 300 pounds, and I was left with a set of grouper lips. This did not please me.

(Perspectives from Marta – Do you remember the Heatmeiser from “The Year Without a Santa Claus?” Steve looked like that.)

She always thinks this is funny. But it isn’t.

I rigged and dropped again quickly, and hooked a much smaller fish. I blazed it to the surface – it was a red snapper, always welcome but not a new species.

I’m always glad to catch these, but I wanted something new. From the left, that’s Miles, Michael, me, and Captain Todd.

I dropped again, understanding that I only had a couple chances left. I hooked up, and again, I cranked for all I was worth. Moments later, I could see a small scamp under the boat, being chased by the same big bull shark. I ripped it out of the water a split second ahead of Bruce, and I had put one on the board. 

My scamp. Species 2105.

Needless to say, I don’t remember any of the delays, the bumps, or the spray. I only remember getting a new fish. The day was a triumph for me, and doubly so for the Seatrec guys. They had launched two floats. Data that could help change our world for the better would be delivered in a few short hours.

So we were all happy – me, the crew, the Seatrec guys, and even Marta, at least until the devilled eggs manifested.

Relaxing on the dock after a successful day.

Destin is known for seafood, and we celebrated that night with an excellent dinner, even though the restaurant seemed to have been decorated specifically to annoy me. It was like some sort of weird “Fish Steve Hasn’t Caught Hall of Fame.”

A gulf flounder?

And a spearfish? This is not a coincidence.

The locals were friendly at least. The guy on the right actually recognized me from a fishing magazine. I have never let Marta forget this.

A later photo with the Seatrec gang – L-R – Miles, Yi. me, Josh (another one of the really smart engineering types,) and Michael.

That same evening, data began coming back from the floats, leading to a sense of triumph and relief. Again, they had gotten everything right, and these scientists – people who had been willing to take classes with no essays – had made the world a better place. 

A month or so after this launch, one of the floats had a mechanical problem. (It was an older, non-Seatrec model. The power system was fine – something non-Seatrec had gone wrong. Seatrec has since developed their own line of equipment, the infiniTE™ float, which seem to be vastly better than previous technology.) The guys hired Fish Heads to rescue it for repair, and on this venture, which went quickly and allowed for plenty of fishing time, they got to do some of deep dropping. They got two bites.

This was the second one. Yes, I’ve caught a swordfish, but not anywhere close to this big. That’s Miles and Josh with the fish of a lifetime. Good on them. I wonder if I would be so thrilled if they had gotten a marbled grouper.

So science and fishing aren’t mutually exclusive, but of course, the patience I lack is important in both. I can’t thank Dr. Yi Chao and Seatrec enough for the opportunity to be there for their accomplishments and to share their boat, and I look forward to future adventures with them. Hopefully ones where we can launch close to shore and have loads of time left over to fish. Just saying. 

Steve

DATELINE: MAY 12, 2022 – DEFUNIAK SPRINGS, FLORIDA

Most trips have at least a few successes, although there are exceptions to this. But oftentimes, I remember just as well the things we didn’t catch. (Especially the ones that were supposed to be slam dunks.) Marta tells me that I obsess about these fish, and that I stay up late at night plotting “revenge” trips to catch them. It’s how my mind works, and if we get a therapist involved, they might be able to explain that while this outlook motivates accomplishment, it can be a dark place to live.

My constant fishing companion, Freud believed that obsessional neuroses is a defense mechanism against unconscious conflicts. But what the heck would he know?

In looking at the 2021 “Schrödinger’s Collie” trip, I was thrilled at how many species Dom and I had gotten … but I was also keenly aware we missed plenty. The brown darter was still out there – and we had seen a few of those. So was the bronze darter, and a host of others. We got talking about a second round, to get after these points of diminishing return, but the schedule Gods were not favoring us. We both work full time, after all.

We eventually agreed that I would fly to Miami and fish a couple of days with Dom. I would then drive myself back through the panhandle, Alabama, and Mississippi, then meet Marta in New Orleans for a few days. That part of the trip will be the next blog, and it will involve science and romance, so stay tuned.

Dom is fond of saying “Steve, you’re a hard guy to buy a gift for.” In the fishing world, he’s right. It’s tough to find anywhere I have a big batch of uncaught species, especially in Florida. So we will ignore the aforementioned law of diminishing returns, and point out that there are still a few creatures near Dom’s house that have eluded me. Dom generously took two days off, and we did some very selective targeting – and just hoped for a bit of luck.

The first day was on Dom’s boat, which should be named “Proof of Tracy’s Patience.”

I also discovered that Dom owns a dog. Her name is Phoebe. You can take it from there.

The weather report looked great, but those people LIE. The first few hours were nice, and we gave it an honest shot for a deepwater scorpionfish, which were unfortunately outcompeted by blackbelly rosefish.

The saltwater equivalent of creek chubs. I will come back for the scorpionfish – see a pattern here?

As we headed back inshore to try for some shallower critters, it got windy. Really windy. Not quite Wizard of Oz, but enough to push up a sloppy chop. 

I’m usually immune to throwing up on boats, because I fear that some terrible person will take pictures of me and post them on social media. I knew this particular afternoon would be challenging, not the least because it was hard to actually fish and hold on at the same time. (And you can imagine how difficult this made bathroom trips. It’s a feat of athleticism to hit a target while you and it are both moving, especially if you’re facing the other way with your pants around your ankles.) 

It was late in the afternoon, just when I was ready to throw up the towel, that we had our first success. We got onto a group of striped grunts – a species Dom explained he had only caught on this one patch. That’s what local experience will do for you.

Species 2063.

The water continued to worsen. The big sandwich I brought was out of the question, but I got by on Red Bull and chips. Dom cheered me on and told me if we could make it past dark we had shots at a couple of other species, so I hung in there. His enthusiasm is boundless and inspiring.

As the light faded, we moved over to a couple of small reefs, quite close to shore, and rigged up tiny sabikis.

Those are fires off in the Everglades. Note the south wind. No, it never looks as rough as it really was, but trust me, it was icky out there.

We made a few chaotic drifts, then tried to tie up, which was even bouncier. Thankfully, somewhere in there, a small squirrelfish climbed on the hook. It was a dusky squirrelfish, we had our second species of the day, and, thank goodness, we could go home. But there was a whitespotted filefish still out there for me someplace. Dr. Freud would be concerned that my main takeaway was missing a fish neither me nor Dom had even seen, but there’s only so much time to do this. I’m not Jung any more.

The dusky squirrel, which would also be a good name for a drink. Or a bar.

We were up early the next morning to pursue another “grudge fish” – the sand drum. EVERYONE I know has caught dozens of these shallow-water croakers on their first try. I just never seemed to find the right day. We did everything right this time – we went to Hobe Sound, we used light rigs and shrimp, we cast in very thin water just off the beach.

Dom works the shoreline.

And I caught … mojarras. And more mojarras. I moved the bait, I let it sit, I tried big and small pieces. I dealt with a local who demanded I stop fishing because “the hooks might hurt my dog.” Johnny Cash should have written a song about “A Man Named Karen.”

An hour later, I had a better bite and saw elongate, non-mojarral silver flashes at the end of my line. I said a quick anti-Atlantic croaker prayer and lifted the fish up. The sand drum has vertical bars – I didn’t see them immediately, but after the fish was out of the water just a moment, the stripes became evident. I had done it, with a huge assist from a very patient Dom, who was now getting an earful from the same male Karen. Folks, it’s legal to fish on this beach and we are always fastidious about litter and equipment. Lighten up. (With all apologies to anyone really named Karen.)

Species 2065.

We then headed down to Phil Foster Park, on the intercoastal in Riviera Beach. This place is a gem, but get there early – people are many and parking is scarce. Dom generously dropped me off, parked back across the bridge, and walked back. 

The place was jammed with screaming picnic raves, but there were a number of species in evidence. My new one for the day was the savage eyed flounder, taking me to 2066.

I am always thrilled with a flatfish that can be identified. I have at least six in my “mystery” file.

I also got some other cool stuff, like a trunkfish and a rosy razorfish, but alas, these are already on the list. Of course, I missed the dusky jawfish and the orangespotted filefish. But I’ll be back.

These things fight like crazy.

If I had to pick one shore spot in this part of Florida, it would be here. As long as you can find parking.

Redtail parrotfish with some of the other pier anglers. These were the locals, here to catch dinner, and they were the most savvy and fun group on the pier.

Dom and I parted ways, and early the next morning, I headed north. Well, not very far north, because I just had to make a brief stop at one of Ben’s mountain mullet spots. How hard could it be? Sigh. They were hard to find, but I eventually found a culvert stuffed with them. And that’s how I spent the rest of my day – watching those awful fish half-heartedly examine my bread offering until a Mayan cichlid or bluegill raced in and ate it.

To top it all off, I forgot my phone in the car and thought it had fallen out of my pocket – there is no panic like lost phone panic. (Freud would have a field day with modern society and the cell phone.)

The next morning, old friend Ben Cantrell generously took me for a morning session of shark fishing, with an eye on finetooth. (Be aware that Florida requires a special shore-based shark fishing license, which requires an online course, which I ended up doing in the middle of the night.)

Ben Cantrell, world-class species hunter and all-around good guy.

We ended up with two fish, both blacknoses. There are very few things as exciting as a shark strike on surf gear.

My first blacknose was in 2012 with Martini, and was about as close to losing a fish I will ever get without losing it. But I still didn’t have a finetooth.

This news was greeted with great joy in Ben’s house. His girlfriend Ally, also a species hunter, had never caught a blacknose and was eager to get out after one. She got hers the following weekend – and she also got a finetooth the same season. Dr. Freud would tell me to take joy in her accomplishment.

There’s Ally’s blacknose.

And a shore-caught spinner. Just because it’s an awesome photo.

I kept heading north. Florida is a big state, and it can be hours and hours between spots. I tried one lake for redface topminnows. I caught plenty of fish, just not the right ones, and wading with snakes and alligators made me slightly nervous. But I would still come back and try again. I already see a “Revenge on the Revenge Tour” in my future.

Look at all the hiding places for dangerous wildlife.

Topminnows are so cool, even though they are sometimes hard to differentiate from killifish. This is a lined topminnow, a species I also added with Martini.

After my third snake sighting, I got out of the water and headed for the main event – a rematch with the brown darter, this time at Rum Island Springs. 

One of Florida’s most beautiful places, until dusk, when it turns into a mosquito-infested hellhole.

Browns are a tricky darter. They like heavy vegetation close to shore, and when they spook, they tend to spook right back into the heavy vegetation. It took a couple of hours to prod one out where I could see it, and then, of course, I botched the presentation and it spooked right back into the heavy vegetation. As the light grew crepuscular, (Marta taught me that word,) I finally got a shot at one more. The bait laid down perfectly, the fish pounced on it, and I swung it up onto the shore before the hook could fall out.

This was a big deal. And the fifth species of the trip. Another big thanks to Dr. Alvin Diamond of Troy University – he coached me and Dom in the behavior of this species, or I would still be looking for one.

The next morning started in Northern Florida, where I opened up with a fully confirmed metallic shiner. This replaced the Pteronotropis from last year’s trip on my species list, for you fellow fish nerds. That fish was likely an Apalachee by location, but my photos were bad enough where I couldn’t ID it on meristics, so it goes in the mystery file. And on the list for the next tour. Sigmund would be shaking his head sadly.

Photo tanks sure do help. My pics aren’t Ben or Eli-level, but these are still a gorgeous species.

It was then back in the car for several hours and at least one stop at Arby’s. The destination – a small creek in Southeastern Alabama, which was supposed to have several darter species (especially the bronze.) I got there midafternoon, and it was truly a special location. 

A la Estillfork, there were darters showing on every step. That seam on the left still makes me drool.

I got a few speckled darters, then a mystery one I couldn’t immediately identify, then a Tallapoosa. 

The speckled. My first one was also in Alabama, and I never get tired of photographing them.

The mystery darter. It turned out to be a bronze. If I had known that at the time, it would have saved me a lot of driving.

The Tallapoosa, species number eight of the trip.

A local couple came down to the creek with gold dredging equipment, which could have clouded up the water and ended my day, but they very courteously asked what I was doing and offered to move downstream.

Disaster averted. Very nice people.

While we spoke, they asked what I was targeting. I told them, and they both lit up – “Another guy came by last year doing the same thing. Nice fellow, from Chicago, and he was wearing some kind of wetsuit-Cosmonaut thing.” These people had met Gerry Hansell.

My favorite snorkel-fishing picture of Gerry, because, despite distractions, he remains focused on the fish.

As it got toward evening, I kept missing big bronze darters, but I also had a spot about 20 miles away reputed to have rare shiners, so I reluctantly drove over there. I fished that for about an hour and got some lovely shiners, although I was losing quite a few at the surface.

I could walk around creeks like this every day for the rest of my life, unless the Red Wings are in the playoffs. And I have to come back here, because there are Tallapoosa shiners that I missed. Some of you might say my glass is always half-empty, but I say it has enough water to hold a fish.

I finally figured out that the point of my micro-hook had broken off. Duh. That’s why I was losing all the darters back at the other spot. Throwing schedule to the winds, I drove back to the original creek, arriving just as it got dark. Checking my hookpoint and headlamp, I waded in and immediately caught several beautiful bronze darters.

Now that you mention it, I shouldn’t have missed the ID in the first place. I was still thrilled with the bigger specimens.

My evening ended when I somehow buried a hook in my nostril and had to dig it out with pliers and the selfie view on my iPhone. Kids, beware the tenago – they are sharp and difficult to extract. And I had to do this while I considered that I hadn’t caught the muscadine darter. Somewhere, Dr. Freud is smiling patiently.

The following day had a travel plan so stupid only I could have concocted it. I had a spot in Mississippi, but I needed to end up back in the Florida panhandle. A smart person would have waited for another trip, but I drove three hours one way, fished three hours, and then five hours back to the panhandle. (All without passing a single Cracker Barrel, which is where I had wanted to eat all darn day.)

The creek was a gem, perfect for wading. It produced quite a few darters and an assortment of shiners.

Another perfect back country creek, although this one was actually in the middle of a decent-sized town.

Example darter – a blackstripe, which I had added in Alabama last year.

In sorting through the photos, it was determined that only one of the fish was a new one – the aptly named pretty shiner, but this alone made the day worth it. Even though I could have gotten a couple of others.

The ninth species of the trip.

In the midst of all this driving, I bought Marta a souvenir. She hasn’t worn it yet – she swears she is waiting for the right outfit to match it.

Late that evening, I pulled into DeFuniak Springs, Florida, and got some rest. The next day would be the last fishing of this episode, but I had some very big plans.

At a reasonable hour of morning, after several plates of Holiday Inn eggs and sausage, I headed out to a local creek to flesh out my Pteronotropis list. This shiner family are gorgeous if difficult to differentiate, but I had some excellent intel and a well-worn Peterson’s Guide. First, I added the flagfin – the easiest of the group to identify.

They do make a nice photo.

An hour later, I got what ended up being a sailfin. I can’t thank Dom – and all the other folks who passed along these spots – enough.

This fish would not pose in the photo tank.

There was one more place to go that afternoon, and a very old score to settle. 

The Dixie chub can be an aggravating creature. It looks enough like a creek chub to make you doubt yourself, and its range is always 100 miles south of where you are. I thought I had one several times, only to find out the scale count was wrong and that I was 100 miles north of their range. This spot – a small creek winding through a country neighborhood – was definitely in range and also may be the one place in the universe that doesn’t have creek chubs. 

It wasn’t dramatic – these are chubs. I got one on my first cast, counted and recounted the scales, and just like that, I had added what I thought was the 12th and last species of a very successful trip.

Finally.

But I always have a second look, and after a few more chubs, I noticed there was a long, slender fish keeping to itself at the top of a riffle. It looked and behaved like a darter, so I gave it a shot. It bit, and it wasn’t a darter at all – it was a longjaw minnow, an unusual member of the overall shiner/minnow complex I had only seen in books.

That was 13 for the trip, taking me to 2075. I was thrilled, momentarily.

I put away the fishing gear, pulled out a Red Bull, and set the map for New Orleans. I had avenged myself on several species, but there were still a good few I hadn’t gotten. (Of course I thought of this immediately. Sigmund would have an explanation, but I’ll just keep fishing and leave the analysis to the professionals.)

There would be more fishing in a few days, but not before at least 72 hours of romance … and science.

Steve