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

DATELINE: SEPTEMBER 28, 2025 – ROME, GEORGIA

Despite the past few posts, the summer of 2025 was not all fun and games. While I was in the Midwest, my great friend Scott Perry called me and let me know his Mom had passed away. Scott has been there for me during every loss in my family, providing a steak dinner and a short-lived bottle of excellent scotch the night my Uncle Ted died, and I wanted to return the favor. Scott’s family is in Texas, and while I was trying to extricate myself from a load of commitments to head down there, he let me know that he would need me more when he got back to California. The family nature of this blog prevents me from describing that night in full, but let’s just say we sent her off in style. Scottish style.

But on July 26, when I was overseas, even worse news came. My cousin Susie, the youngest daughter of my Dad’s brother Richard, passed away suddenly at age 56. That side of the family is all in Georgia, and there was no way I could make it back in time for the service. The celebration of life, appropriately for a woman who was a noted high school drama and music teacher, had a dress code requiring bright colors, sequins optional. She was the life of the party as far back as I can remember, and it was shocking that she, the youngest of my generation, was gone.

One of those unfortunate family photos, circa 1981, right after we had all apparently been to the same hairstylist. From the left, that’s me, my cousin Mary, my sister Laura, and Susie, smiling sweetly because she probably just did something bad that I would be blamed for later.

It had been years since I had seen Susie. Way too many. I certainly keep in touch with Uncle Richard and Aunt Cookie, but there just never seemed to be the right time to catch up with everyone. There always seemed to be infinite time to worry about that. There isn’t.

I like that there was a playbill instead of a funeral notice. She would have loved that.

I felt awful about missing the gathering, and Marta suggested that I take my first free week and go see the family. So that’s what I did. I flew into Atlanta one September evening, rented a car, and got over to Rome by around 8pm. The whole family was there, and it was stunning how many of them there were and how few of them I knew. I have to do better at this. Because they had all eaten earlier, I ate my plate of local barbeque and answered questions from the panel at the same time. It hit me that I was meeting Susan’s husband and kids for the first time, and as shattered as they all were, everyone was wonderfully hospitable.

As things wound down, I got to spend time with just Rich and Cookie, and we chatted well into the night. Despite the overwhelming sadness that must come to parents who lose a child, this was one of the rare and memorable evenings that we really got to go through all the paintings on the family cave wall. Out came the photos – everything from great-grandparents I never met, to photos of my parents wedding, to pictures of all of us as kids. I looked back at myself circa 1974, dressed in plaid Granimals, and thinking of all the stuff I would tell that kid if I could meet him today. Mostly not to wear the Granimals, although Cousin Chuck wishes they came in adult sizes.

This would be from around 1968, within a year of when I caught my first fish. My sister is smiling because she hadn’t discovered the bug I put in her hair.

I also got to see the flag that was on my Grandfather’s coffin before he was laid to rest in the US Military Cemetery in Margraten, Holland. A casualty in the closing days of the war, his passing carried generations of consequences for my family.

I know that my Grandmother accepted the flag calmly, but I can’t imagine anyone not crying when the officer says “On behalf of the President of the United States, The United States Army, and a grateful nation …” Because for that one moment, she hopefully felt the entire country grieving with her.

This is my parents wedding. They look so very young and full of hope, and damn my Mom was beautiful.

My grandparents get married, circa 1940. Five years later, my grandmother would be a widow with two young sons. My sister and I always think of her as a doting grandmother, constantly refilling plates with homemade Polish food, but here she is as a young woman that we never knew, starting out her life in a world on the brink of war.

The conversation went well into the night, and I hoped it would never end. And I wished for just an evening where all these people who formed our shared history were still here, so someone could explain who the lady in the pink dress who keeps showing up at family events actually was. No one seems to know.

I finally went to sleep and dreamed of all of those people who came before me, some amazing, some troubled, all real and all fading into black-and-white memory. In the morning, I shifted back to present day and headed out to some local creeks for a shot at the elusive greenbreast darter. I saw a few, but they were skittish and the creek was slippery enough to make maneuvering difficult.

Although I now seem to be able to catch bluebreast darters at will. Go figure.

I got back to Rome in time for dinner, and ate with a smaller group of Rich, Cookie, my cousin Mary, and her husband Andrew. I have spent a lot more time with Mary than I did with Susie – Mary and I both lived in Indianapolis at the same time, and no, she never beat me at tennis. It was a pleasant dinner in a charming town, but there was still a strong undercurrent of crushing sadness. The only thing missing from the evening was Susie, and there was nothing any of us could do about that now.

We have all made sure to keep in closer touch in the time we all have left, and they made me promise to bring Marta next time. People always make me promise to bring Marta.

Early the next day, I was off on a few days of roaming Georgia and Tennessee, looking to find a few species and especially to up my darter total. I had excellent intel from very good sources, and the water levels looked decent, but things were slow all day. It was late in the afternoon, about the time I was thinking about finding a Cracker Barrel and calling it a night, that I saw a small school of fish racing back and forth between me and the bank. They looked distinctly spotted, and after a few tries, I got one to bite. To my great delight, it was a blotched chub, a new species.

As you all know, it’s a close relative to the streamline and gravel chubs.

That was a great way to close things out for the evening, and I went to sleep that night knowing the next day held a pilgrimage in store. I would be going to the fabled “Snorkel Hole” on the Georgia/Tennessee border, a place tough to reach but legendary for darter variety.

The next morning, my only comfort on that 20 mile-long dirt road was that I wasn’t driving my car. But when I and at least part of my spleen pulled into the parking lot, I could see why the place is so famous. It was fairly wide but looked wadable in most places, and the water was crystal clear. It was like my first time at Disneyland – I had no idea what to do first.

There was a fish under almost every rock, and the place went for at least a mile.

I started wading up a shallower set of riffles, and after missing a few bites, I got my greenbreast darter.

Darter number 91, and the way the place looked, I felt like I could hit 100 in a few hours.

I caught dozens of darters and shiners in the few hours after that – all repeat customers but nonstop action. I took some time out in the middle of the day to bass fish – the local bass are pure redeyes, and it’s always nice to get a fish in its native range.

In the middle of the afternoon, I experienced a Dickens-level coincidence – something so unlikely to happen that it was bound to happen to me. As I was walking up to my car, two young men were walking down toward the river. Both were carrying microfishing gear, so I had to ask.

In definite Canadian accents, they explained that they were hunting species, and went through the whole spiel we have to give when encountering normal people, about looking for smaller stuff we hadn’t caught before, etc. etc.. I asked them how many species they had – one of them, Bradley, was over 1000, and I instantly knew he had to be Bradley Rasmussen, a well-known Canadian life-lister. His buddy, Darian, had around 600, which is also a hell of a list.

Bradley asked me how many I had, and I figured it was time to let 2403 cats out of the bag. I introduced myself, and we all got a good chuckle out of it. Bradley said “I thought that was you! I heard you were down here, but what are the odds?”

From left to right, that’s me, Darian, and Bradley. Great dudes.

We talked fishing off and on through the rest of the day – these guys are amazingly knowledgeable, and in the middle of a 6000-mile, eight-state road mission. They were filming the whole thing, and I’ve put the trailer below.

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They write SO well – the dialogue is a spot-on summary of the obsession that drives people to do the seemingly insane things necessary to catch a bunch of species. My therapist found this very useful.

We fished well into the evening, and shortly after dark, they pointed out a bridled darter, which I promptly caught.

Species three for the trip and darter #92.

I spent the next day on a fruitless hunt for Chattahoochee bass, and just as I was pulling up in the evening to try a darter spot Brad had recommended, the rain that I had avoided for a few days found me.

At least I caught a couple of nice shoal bass.

I decided to call it a trip with three species, yet there was still quite a bit of excitement to come, because, the next day, the “Brew Crew” gang would be arriving in Atlanta so we could watch a Braves and a Falcons game over the weekend.

It was actually nice to see Marta – with our travel schedules, we hadn’t been under the same roof in two weeks. The gang was all doing well, and we had a new addition for the first night’s dinner – Don, who had worked with Steve and Jeff way back in their General Electric days. Don, despite being a Yankees fan, is a true character with an excellent sense of humor, part of a diminishing breed – an old-school, common-sense person who doesn’t get his feelings hurt in every conversation. The whole gang is that way, and that may be the main reason I treasure hanging out with them so much.

Don’s on the left, between me and Steve. The staff at this steakhouse treated us like Don owned the place. On the other side of the table, from rear, that’s Jeff, Jerri, the inscrutable Carol, and Ron.

We set up shop at the Marriott by the baseball stadium, a fine place except that they didn’t have enough wheat toast at the breakfast buffet, which irked Mr. Ramsey.

Steve gives the Marriott staff what for about the breakfast bar. He ended up with a free toaster and loaf of Publix enriched wheat bread.

We played a bit of tourist downtown, visiting the aquarium and, most importantly, the Coca-Cola museum. Although I’m more of a Pepsi man, there’s no denying that Coke is an all-American icon.

The full gang and the polar bear.

Ramsey can do the Grumpy Cat face at will.

We then got to watch the Braves beat the Pirates, luckily without relying on a badly missed call at home plate. (Sid Bream was SO out, despite a terrible throw by Barry Bonds. Marta, a lifetime Pirates fan, has never gotten over this, and Dave Hogan is still bitter as well.) It was still great fun at a fine ballpark – a place Ramsey and I had visited previously.

Truist Park. Fulton County Stadium was burned down, possibly by the Union Army, to get out the stink of the 1992 NLCS.

Ramsey has gear for any team on short notice, but you’ll notice that Marta and I are also honoring Henry Aaron. Those are Indianapolis Clowns jerseys – a Negro League team that Aaron played for in 1952. That’s segregated baseball, in my parents’ lifetimes. Not a good look for America.

The Falcons game on Sunday was also a home win. Mercedes-Benz Stadium is a first-class facility that is absolutely spotless. They even managed to clean up after the terrible Duck massacre that occurred there on January 9, 2026.

Part of the gang at the football game. Jeff was probably off somewhere signing autographs.

Marta and I flew home on Monday. It had been a whirlwind of a week, but a great one. The new fish were nice to have, but reconnecting with relatives and spending time with close friends, and Carol, was even (slightly) better. But it still carries something of a sad memory for me, because no matter what else happened, I would never see my cousin again, and oh, what I would give to be blamed for something I didn’t do just one more time.

Steve

DATELINE: AUGUST 25, 2025 – LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

The Fish Gods work closely with the Weather Gods, generally against me. If even one of these deities gives a bad signal, smart people give it a miss, and when both are portending poorly, it’s time to binge-watch Last Man Standing. And yet, because I am stubborn and often have nothing better to do, I rarely cancel trips despite obvious signs that frustration is the only thing on the menu. Some call this determined. Some call this stupid. You be the judge.

This adventure started through the web of internet connections stemming from Martini and Ben Cantrell, leading to the Moore family, eventually leading me to Mark in New Jersey. Mark is a very well-regarded species hunter based in the Garden State, and he has figured out almost everything that lives in the area, salt and freshwater. The main fish I wanted were big ocean species – various rays and especially a sand tiger shark – but there were also more than a dozen excellent freshwater targets.

In good weather.

This is where I just didn’t get the hint. The weather turned FOUL. A hurricane worked its way up the east coast, and while NJ didn’t get a direct hit, there was plenty of wind and rain.

This is a giant sign to stay home.

Did that stop me? Of course not. But it did stop the fish. I had a day of micros come to naught because of the rain, and then a saltwater pier jaunt that netted exactly one small sharpnose shark because the wind was blowing 30+ all damn day.

The beast.

The coastal flooding should have been a big hint.

By the time Mark was free to fish with me, I was one big ball of frustration. I had been at it for two long days with nary a species to show for it, and conditions were still unsettled. To top it all off, one of the pitching aces from my beloved 1972 Tigers, Joe Coleman, passed away.

I still own this exact baseball card. At least we still have Mickey Lolich.

Mark and I tried a few freshwater ideas, but we didn’t find pirate perch or mudminnow. As it approached midnight, we decided to move from something difficult to something nearly impossible – the eastern creek chubsucker. These satanic little fish are a close cousin to the reviled western creek chubsucker, a creature noted for almost never biting. What the hell, I figured – let’s really put me over the edge emotionally.

Mark led me into a full-on smelly swamp, where each footstep gooshed ankle-deep into sulfuric muck, and I expected to see some part of Jimmy Hoffa float to the surface. Fifteen minutes into our search, we spotted the fish, much, much bigger than the western I had caught. “Holy #$%@” I said. “That’s a big chubsucker.” Mark let me know they actually get much larger. There is actually a world record on them – one and a half pounds by Anthony Russo II of Pennsylvania. He is my new hero.

I upsized my bait and eased it toward the fish. It didn’t seem very light shy, and I figured it didn’t have to be because it probably didn’t see us as a threat because it had no plans to eat. To my great surprise, it ate immediately. I was in no way ready for it, and before either of us could grab the fish, it popped off the hook.

Mark tried to take the blame, but I was the one holding the rod. As I started breathing again and tried to deal with my crushing disappointment, I noticed that the fish had settled right back into the same little break in the weeds and was staring at us mockingly. I put on a fresh bait and went right back at him. Nothing happened. The fish would look at the worm and ease an inch to the left, then ease back, all the while giving me the furry eyeball. Still, nothing happened, for 45 minutes.

But I stayed there 46 minutes. And in that 46th minute, the fish, while looking directly into my tortured soul, slurped in the bait. I reacted instantly, and the fight that followed, which was maybe five seconds, seemed like an hour, all of which was spent keenly aware it could unbutton at any second. But it didn’t. Mark scooped it up, and I was on the scoreboard.

Oh hell yes.

My yowls of joy echoed through the swamp, frightening off some homeless people and the Jersey Devil. (Which scared the hell out of me as a kid. We won’t even talk about the hockey team, because they cheated my beloved Red Wings out of a Stanley Cup in 1995.) I now had all the chubsuckers except the sharpfin, and I’m not even sure that’s a real fish.

The next morning was spent napping – separately – and then eating at Cracker Barrel, because we had another long night ahead of us.

Hurray for chicken-fried steak.

We were driving to Delaware, to shore fish for sand tiger sharks near Lewes, where I had fished in 2003 and added a summer flounder and tautog to my list. We would be meeting up with a good friend of Mark’s – Kevin “Catterman” Van Vlijmen, a local shore-based guide who specializes in big sharks from the beach.

Steve, Mark, and Kevin.

We were joined by his buddy John, who is also a keen surf angler. We all met up late afternoon and began schlepping the gear about a mile down the beach. There are huge backpacks and wagons involved, because this type of fishing involves everything from big-game trolling rods to kayaks. The shark baits were impressive – whole dogfish, skate wings, and similarly large, meaty offerings. In the meantime, while we waited for it to get good and dark, we cast out surf rigs to see what might be roaming around. No, I did not catch a northern kingfish. I never catch a northern kingfish.

But it was a gorgeous day.

We managed to get a few assorted sharpnose sharks and skates, which added to the bait pile, and we met an assortment of beach walkers, even well after dark. Kevin was irrepressibly confident and upbeat, explaining that the really good action would be more toward midnight. He does a lot of this and knows his stuff, and I had nothing but time and Red Bull. It was a pleasant, warm evening, and we could kick back on the beach and listen for the clickers to go off.

There was at least one false alarm from a good-sized sandbar shark around 11, and as that day turned into the next, Kevin started watching the rods much more intently. It wasn’t much after midnight when one of the rigs started paying out line on short, loud bursts. I raced down to the sand spike, grabbed the setup, and slowly reeled out the slack. Something was moving off with the bait. I waited until it pulled the line as tight as I dared, and started reeling hard into the big circle hook. Whatever was on the other end was not pleased, and started ripping drag off a 30-size trolling reel. The game was afoot. This was a big shark. I thought through fighting a big fish – keep up the pressure, be ready for runs either direction, and back off a little when we get it close. What I hadn’t considered was the actual landing process. Kevin’s photos made all look so easy. I figured the fish was around a hundred pounds, and three of us could fairly easily maneuver it for photos without too much trouble.

I walked up and down 200 feet of beach to keep the fish in front of me, and I started gaining line, but remember we are starting out at least 250 yards. I kept hard pressure on the fish, and after 30 minutes or so, I had it close to the beach. We saw some splashes beyond the wave line, and Kevin cautioned us all to have all phones, wallets, and keys out of our pockets. It occurred to me that he expected someone was getting wet, namely, me. In the meantime, I now had the fish right outside the (small) breakers – it was a sand tiger, not South Africa size but a solid fish pushing seven feet long.

As it turns out, the sharks can’t be removed from the water for conservation purposes. It’s not a bad rule, it’s just one I didn’t expect. Kevin briefly explained that he would take the leader while Mark and I would get behind the fish and take the tail and pectoral fins. The guide’s role was critical – these are an unusually limber shark, and if he lost his grip, the fish could easily turn around and bite one of the other guys. As I waded in behind the shark, I briefly wondered what in the hell I was thinking.

At least one of us was perfectly calm while handling the shark.

Yes, that is a look of pure terror on my face.

The waves looked quite tame to the casual observer, but when you are facing away from them, in the dark, trying to hold on to an angry 100 pound animal and smile for photos, it feels like the North Shore surfing pipeline.

This was unsettling to say the least.

Just as we tried to pose, a wave would hit me in the back and make me lose enough grip on the fish to be worrying. Then I would try to smile and get hit again. At least a pound of sand made its way into my underwear, and this makes things more chafy than optimal. We all did our jobs, and while the shots look more like Robert Capa’s D-Day photos than my regular fishing pictures, at the least we got it on film and walked away with all the fingers and toes we started with.

I had my sand tiger shark, and the trip was now officially epic. The only thing that could have made it better is if we had used my eastern creek chubsucker for bait, but perhaps another time.

I was far too amped up to leave right then, so we stayed and waited for another bite so John could get one. It only took about 20 minutes before another rod went off, and he was on with another big fish. He made efficient work of it, but again, without really thinking about it, I volunteered for the landing party, and we were right back in the water with an angry shark.

John and his fish.

This is what had me so worried.

The photos went as well as could be expected, and with that, we started the long, slow process of packing everything up and heading way back down the beach to the parking lot, where I said my goodbyes to everyone. If you are ever in this area, you gotta give this guy a call. He’s a damn good guide, and a lot of fun besides. Look him up here: The Catterman Adventures, learn about Cape May and Delaware Fishing Charters

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT – The beach we fished is a public park, but just off the beach are large private homes. Although Kevin and crew are quiet, respectful, and never leave a mess, someone, and we can only guess who, has attempted to manipulate Delaware’s Department of Natural Resources (DENREC) into banning shore fishing for sharks, under the frankly bizarre theory that the long lines endanger swimmers. Please show me the idiot who swims in shark infested waters at night – a sober person hasn’t done that since “Jaws” premiered. This would make the beaches basically private after dark, and that just shouldn’t be. Please join me in being irritated by this – there are plenty of ways to share the beach safely and cooperatively without banning fishing.

I think I got to sleep around 4am, and at some stage late the next morning, Mark and I were off back to New Jersey to take a shot at some of the alleged “low hanging fruit” that the weather had denied me. We hopped from harbor to harbor, but conditions were still roiled enough to make things difficult. Somewhere in there, we stumbled onto a striped anchovy.

Not exactly a trophy, but a species nonetheless.

It was a beautiful day, just not a beautiful ocean, and the stuff Mark counted on as “gimmes” just weren’t showing up. I needed to get up to Long Island that night to continue my trip, and over burgers, we discussed if I should just call it a day and get on the road.

Mark was not to be defeated so easily, and suggested that we give the slimy sculpin one more try. (No matter how many times I rewrite that sentence, it still sounds faintly dirty.) I had missed this creek denizen in the initial rainstorm, but Mark was confident we could get one. It would add about two hours of driving, plus fishing time, to my trek, but I was determined to get something else on the scoreboard.

The creek had certainly settled in three days, and visibility was excellent. I hunted the water for about half an hour, saw two sculpins that fled, and then got on one that stayed still under a rock. It took some teasing him out, and a drastic increase in bait size – sculpin have large mouths and often ignore darter-sized offerings. But he finally gobbled it down, and I had species four of the trip. This one was purely owed to Mark’s dogged persistence in getting me to try for one more.

Thanks for a great trip, dude.

But it wasn’t over for me. Waiting, up in Long Island, was another well-known species hunter, Mike. Again, an internet connection from one of my fishing buddies, Mike has figured out about every possible species in Long Island and the surrounding areas, and there are a lot more fish there than one would think, especially in late summer when the Gulf Stream brings up all kinds of tropical oddities.

Two things were working against us. First, the same storm that had New Jersey had slammed Long Island, so everything was unsettled, and second, Mike had a broken ankle and was on crutches, meaning he could now move only slightly faster than me.

We spent the days fruitlessly pounding assorted pier and beach spots, but the larger fish were just not to be, and there was so much loose seaweed in the water that it was impossible to keep a bait down for five minutes.

This dude has some serious local knowledge.

Mike did have some interesting night spots, especially for one of the recent pirate perch splits – the yellowbelly. Being that I spent years trying to get one pirate perch species, the idea of catching a second was very appealing. The only complication – the spot was about a mile of forest trail from the parking lot, and Mike was on, say it with me, crutches.

No decent person would ask him to do it, and yet, he volunteered.

It actually took two trips, because on the first night, we had miscommunicated as to whether I had the species, but on the second, we waited until perhaps 30 minutes after dark and the things showed up everywhere. He had great advice on using a larger bait and keeping my headlamp away from them (I’m terrible at that) – but after three or four missed strikes and spooked fish, I nailed one.

This alone made the Long Island part of the trip worth it.

We spent the next day hobbling around more beaches and catching a lot more seaweed. (By the way, if you fish this area, make sure that you somehow figure out their Byzantine parking regulations, because the parking ticket I got was $200. That is not a typo.) That evening, Mike wanted to try one of the harbors and see if we could dredge up a tropical drifter or two. After a brilliant fish and chips dinner, we headlamped our way through one of the local marinas. Mike was disappointed – the storm had clearly cut down the variety of stuff he usually sees, but we did get to view some truly tropical oddities, like teensy butterflyfish. Alas, none of these would bite, but I did end up with a small seaboard goby, so that took the overall trip to six and left me with a definite rematch for a future summer.

The beast. On the right.

I can’t thank Mark and Mike enough, especially Mike who toughed it out on a bad ankle. What a mensch.

The following morning, I headed for the Connecticut ferry and Cape Cod, for the trip that was finished in the installment before this, the already-fabled “Cape Cod, For Love and Sharks.” We now return you to your regular timeline.

Steve

DATELINE: AUGUST 27, 2025 – CAPE COD, MASSACHUSETTS

Martini Arostegui was a freshman at Stanford when I met him. He was barely shaving and yet even then far more mature and responsible than I was. It has been 14 years since that fateful day on Elephant Rock, and my life has been better for it. I’ve been fishing with him and his family countless days and nights, learning far more than I had any idea I needed to learn. Along the way, I added over a hundred species and dozens of records with them, been included as part of the family for trips to the Bahamas, watched both of his parents get inducted into the Fishing Hall of Fame, watched him graduate Stanford Summa Cum Everything, get his PhD, and go to work for Woods Hole. But today was even more special. Today we would watch Martini get married.

The road to this wedding was a long and winding one. Unlike me in my 20s, Martini had a lot of responsibilities and little taste for insincere volume dating. He knew what he wanted in a partner, and it took a few years to meet Kaitlyn. It was an instant match. They had nothing but fun together, understood each other like no one else, and soon, they got a cat. We will now do a cat digression.

The original Martini and Kaitlyn cat, Roux, during his kittenhood.

Soon, they added Anchovy.

Later on came Chowder and Bean Sprout.

No roster of Arostegui cats would be complete without mentioning Rossi, Martini’s childhood pet and perhaps the greatest cat ever. We miss him still.

Ok, that should be it for the cat digression. Obviously, once they were co-cat parents, the wheels were in motion. It was only a matter of time, and one winter evening, Martini called me and told me the big day was coming – July 12, 2025, in Cape Cod.

Marta and I arranged to get to Boston two days before, so we could celebrate my birthday there, at one of my favorite restaurants – Legal Seafood.

Bearing in mind that I never think the restaurant puts enough chocolate syrup on the ice cream, Marta brought an entire bottle.

Our hotel in Cape Cod was in a campground full of airstream trailers – highly recommended.

The next day, we explored Falmouth and its many attractions – I hadn’t been to the Cape since I was a kid, and it is indeed the epicenter of New England charm. After we bought the requisite “Jaws” lunchbox, we attended a pre-wedding party for Martini and Kaitlyn.

Martini bought me that hat in 2014, as a reminder that it is the closest I will ever get to a Devil’s Hole Pupfish.

That evening, Marta and I cozied up in a local fish and chips place.

We expected to meet Chief Brody, Quint, or at least a Kennedy, but it was not to be.

The next afternoon, we put on nicer clothes and headed off to the ceremony. The wedding itself was, in a word, perfect. A lovely venue, and planned so well it didn’t seem planned at all. It was good to catch up with Kyle, of The Great Road Trip of 2014 fame, and to watch all the close friends and family come together and celebrate.

The bride makes her entrance.

It’s so nice to be at a wedding where neither person looked terrified.

I got to shout out “Dairy Queen” when someone asked about Martini’s favorite restaurant, and it also came up that Martini has more road miles with me than any other person. But mostly, Marta and I just got to sit there and admire two young people who had found their soulmate. Marta always says that I have found my true soulmate, but that she is still working on it.

Some of you were probably hoping the blog would end here, on a heartfelt note of romance and family, and that there would be no fishing. You are obviously new readers – welcome!

Since I was in the area, I had a 20 year-old bookkeeping error to correct, and I planned on doing it the next morning. It involves the spiny dogfish, Squalus acanthias, and me failing to keep up with scientific developments. You see, I caught my first spiny dogfish in San Francisco Bay, in 1992, on Captain Bill Gould’s Fury. (We miss Bill to this day – I learned a lot of what I know about fighting big fish from him.) In the ten years after, I caught spiny dogfish in Massachusetts, Maine, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island. I’m talking well over a hundred of them – and yet, I never took a single photograph because I already had the species. Or so I thought.

Imagine my surprise a few years back when, in reading A Field Guide to Coastal Fishes From Alaska to California, by Kells, Rocha, and Allen, I discovered that the Pacific creature was now Squalus suckleyi. While this did let me log a few world records, it meant that I now had an undocumented species over on the east coast. For years, despite many visits, I never found the right day to go out and get one for posterity. The day after the wedding would be the right day, and no, I did not invite Martini, because that would have been rude.

Enter Captain Eric Staplefeld of Hairball Charters. When I called him and made the request, he nearly hung up because he thought I must have been pranking him. This guy is one of the top striper and tuna guys in the area, and someone called him to catch a pest fish? But I explained my odd quest, and he agreed to do the trip, albeit still a bit bewildered.

We launched early in the morning and got chatting on the way out. He mentioned that he did a lot of big game shark fishing, especially porbeagle, which immediately got my attention, because I do not have a porbeagle and it’s one of the IGFA Royal Slam fish. I knew I would have to come back at some stage for a shot at one of the big fish. (A porbeagle, by the way, is a large shark that looks and acts a lot like a great white.)

For now, all we had to do was get into 100′ or so of water and drop some squid, but on the way out, he saw some stripers boiling in a current rip. He pointed at them, and at first, I passed. He was astonished. Calmly, he explained that these were very big stripers and would be hitting lures. He showed me some of the giant “walk the dog” baits he had rigged on some very nice 6000-size spinning outfits. Another big fish jumped, and Eric looked at me imploringly.

Sanity got the better of me and I grabbed one of the rods. I fired the lure out past the current break, and on the second twitch, the water exploded and the fish took off downcurrent. I’ve caught quite a few stripers over 20 pounds (most of them on the east coast,) and this one was clearly in that range. We drifted with it for about five minutes, and after at least two more sizzling runs, we brought it boatside.

It was all of 25 pounds, one of my top 10 stripers ever, and the guy had to talk me into it. That’s how strong species hunting derangement can be.

We caught four more over 20 before we headed onward, so for anyone sane, it would have been a great day already. But we had our mission. Perhaps five miles later, we stopped and rigged up a bottom rod with some squid. Captain Eric joked that this would somehow be the first day ever he wasn’t pestered by dogfish, which was a terrifying thing for him to say as I dropped the bait down and hit bottom.

There was dramatic silence for roughly seven seconds, and then something started munching the squid. Roughly two seconds after that, I hooked it, and after a 40 second fight, I had it in the boat.

My official Squalus acanthias, species 2402.

We stayed and caught a few more, just to really make a point, and then we worked our way in, with Captain Eric trying to find me another new fish the whole time.

I did get a large winter skate, but alas, I had caught this species in 2004.

Marta picked me up at the ramp and we had an uneventful flight home. But the story doesn’t end there. It actually ends a month and a half later, because I took that Porbeagle thing very seriously. At the end of an east coast swing that will actually be the next blog, I took the ferry from Long Island over to Connecticut, and drove back to Falmouth for an offshore day with Eric. The ferry is a huge time saver if you find yourself in the same area.

That evening, there was a schedule miracle and Martini and I got to hang out for a few hours. We talked fishing, of course – an assortment of our shared history and some great ideas for the future. Married life was going well, and they had added more cats. (The aforementioned Chowder and Bean Sprout.)

He was going out after bigeye tuna the next day, another Royal Slam fish I need to add.

Morning came quickly. It was good to see Eric, and he brought his grown son, also an Eric, with him. A tremendous fisherman in his own right, Eric Jr. was curious to meet the man who chartered for spiny dogfish.

Steve and the two Erics.

They had good intel on where the big sharks were, although things had been messed up a bit by a storm the previous week. (This storm will be covered in the next blog, which actually happens after the wedding and before this porbeagle trip. Sorry about the Marvel timeline.) But today’s weather was absolutely perfect and I liked my chances.

We motored for about an hour, well past our spiny dogfish spot and into the open Atlantic. We slowed down after a while, and Eric set up some big game rods with live mackerel. Then began the wait. I have never been accused of having even an average attention span, so I began dropping small baits to the bottom to see what would happen. Spiny dogfish is what happened. At least 25 of them during the day, probably more. It serves me right. We were also surrounded by whales most of the day – and they’re noisier than you would think, and their breath smells awful. Here’s a video:

Whales off Cape Cod

It slowly got to afternoon, and we hadn’t seen any big fish, but the area was absolutely crawling with life – whales, porpoises, baitfish, and loads of bottom fish. Somewhere in there, I got a small hake that didn’t look quite like any hake I’d caught before, so I took photos.

As Colonel Hans Landa would say “That’s a Bingo!” It was an offshore hake, and I was up a species, albeit not the one I wanted.

As with many fishing trips, there are long periods of inactivity broken up by brief moments of chaos. Our chaos came at about 3pm, when one of the big rods snapped down, screamed out about 10 yards of line, then went dead before I could fully pick it up. Eric thought it was probably a tuna, and just as I set the rod down, the other one went totally slack and there was a commotion right at the back of the boat. A small porbeagle had grabbed the bait and swum straight up with it, never getting hooked but giving me an excellent look at him.

As it often is with the Fish Gods, that was it for the day. The big sharks were out there and I would connect with one someday, but in the meantime, the bottom fish kept at it, and one of them look pleasingly unfamiliar.

It was the much more common red hake, which I had somehow not caught previously, and I was up two for the day.

Both Erics looked at me with polite bewilderment, but they had totally bought into the species list idea and had numerous suggestions from local waters – things I hadn’t thought of, like windowpane flounder.

Captain Eric hated to go in, but I had an early flight the next day and had to be back to work. On the way to port, he made a couple of stops to try to for another species and for “a couple of quick stripers.” In California, there is no such thing as “a couple of quick stripers,” but this guy knows his stuff.

We did indeed get a few stripers, trophies by my standards but smaller than the July fish.

This is a sub-average striper for Eric. By California standards, it’s a beast.

While bouncing the bottom with some light stuff, I finished the day by pulling up my personal best black sea bass, a beast of some 3+ pounds.

No, this is not a rainbow bass.

Sunset as we got to the ramp.

It was an excellent day, one porbeagle shy of epic, but I also knew I would be back. This is one of the places the big sharks are known to concentrate, and I definitely had the right captain. All I needed was another trip, which you know is already being planned, and another perfect late summer day, which is up to the Fish Gods.

Steve

DATELINE: JULY 24, 2025 – SAEGERTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

There is almost nothing I love more than splashing around a creek in the middle of summer, searching for darters on a warm afternoon. It feels like something I’ve loved all my life, even though my first darter was just 10 years ago – a rainbow (what else) in an Illinois creek with Martini and Ben.

That magical day in 2015.

One of the downsides of fishing a lot is that you catch a lot of fish, and your local target lists gets smaller and smaller and consists of increasingly unlikely species. (Dom Porcelli would always say “You’re a tough guy to buy a gift for, Steve.”) Such is the story with me and darters within a day trip of Indianapolis, my most frequent midwestern destination. At one stage, it seemed fairly wide open, but as the years went by, one species started to stick out as stubborn – the variegate. The fish is not especially rare, but its choice of habitat – shallow but very fast-current areas – makes them difficult to spot and present to. Little Darby Creek, the Ohio waterway that Josh Liesen introduced me to on a particularly eventful weekend in 2018, is an excellent spot for them, as are several creeks northeast of Columbus, where I have missed quite a few while fishing with Cody Cromer. (Who caught one RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.) It is an evil creature, and I am sure it is somehow related to the spearfish.

But before we get into more fish misery, I should at least mention that this trip started with a much happier purpose. Jarrett, of Jarrett and Ron fame, was about to become Jarrett of Jarrett and Phoebe fame. For the dimmer of you, and that means Cousin Chuck, that does not mean he was getting a new fishing partner. He was getting married, and knowing little about my performances at any number of weddings, he put me on the guest list, mostly so Marta would attend.

Of course, any trip to Indiana is going to involve Steve Ramsey, and any visit with him is going to involve a sporting event. Our first evening was supposed to feature an Indiana Fever game (courtesy of my friend Pam) and steaks at St. Elmo’s. I had arrived on time and was just taking my luggage out of my car – it was a beautiful day and I was looking forward to a great evening. Of course, Steve had to ruin it. He stepped down off his porch to greet me, and from 20 feet away, I could hear his meniscus tear. He went down like Lebron James after near-contact, and when he got his wits about him, we was suddenly not interested in doing anything but Tylenol. When cartilage tears, the first few days are extremely painful. Trust me.

But I wanted to see the Fever game. I reasoned that Steve would be in pain either way, so he may as well suffer courtside. It took a lot of persuading, a call to Pam to round up the ADA guys at the Fieldhouse, the shortest Uber ride in history, and some gentle threats, but we got Steve over to the game.

No, he is not in a wheelchair full time. But he surely appreciated the ride on this particular evening.

This was no ordinary game – this was the very Fever game in which Caitlyn Clark was mugged so badly it got national attention. We were just a few rows back when some of the mean girls decided to lay a beatdown on the league’s star player. While it was more exciting than watching Angel Reese miss layups, it was not a great look for the sport.

Ms. Clark where the league doesn’t want her – upright. Alert to the WNBA – without your star player, no one watches.

The Fever Mascot. Even it may have kicked Caitlyn in the ribs.

Marta got into town a few days later, and we all headed to a Dayton Dragons (single A) baseball game, vs. my beloved Fort Wayne Tincaps. It’s not all that far from Indy, and best of all, there’s a Skyline Chili on the way.

The hot sauce provides a true test of mental discipline and intestinal fortitude.

Ramsey was walking a little better, but there was surgery in his immediate future.

We got photographed with an unemployed Game of Thrones dragon. Note that I own a customized Fort Wayne jersey.

Marta also found and made us visit the Kurt Vonnegut museum. He is one of my writing idols, and I had no idea he was from Indianapolis.

Slaughterhouse Five is one of the greatest books ever written. To this day, I feel sad for Edgar Derby.

A day later, Marta and I headed south for the nuptials.

The wedding was on a lovely, hot day in southern Indiana. The food was great, and there was an open bar. Even better, no one gave me the microphone, which, just ask Spellman, was best for everyone. Our table had Ron and Cody, so not everyone was completely bored with the fishing talk, and we got to be there for a truly touching ceremony.

Awwwww. He cleans up pretty well.

I’ve been to weddings where we were taking bets on how many months it would last, but these two have truly found their soulmates.

The couple. Jarrett and Phoebe. Thank you both again for the invite.

Once Marta went back to California, Steve and I also took in an Indianapolis Indians game – the site where I retrieved the only batted ball I have at any level of professional baseball.

But after that, it was time for the fishing. This was planned as a three-part journey. First, I would make the requisite failed attempt at a variegate. I would then meet up with Cody, and his Pennsylvania friend Nick, to chase a few central Ohio mysteries. And then, finally, I would drive up into Pennsylvania chasing a couple of assorted targets at spots suggested by Nick.

It was a gorgeous day at Little Darby. The water was low and clear, but as always, the variegate territory was fast and opaque. As usual, I worked my way up likely runs, gently nudging rocks, and as usual, I spooked a few. I had some false alarms with rainbow and fantail darters when I got out of the fast current, but I knew even as I got the bites they were the wrong fish.

It is a gorgeous spot, with miles of wadable fishing and quite a variety of species. The variegates are to the left, where the water is too ripply to see through.

It was getting later in the afternoon, around five, and I knew I would need to be getting over to Columbus sooner or later. I figured I would make one more pass over the rocks and go find some Skyline. Then I figured two passes couldn’t hurt. (Anyone who has fished with me can attest to the difficulty of getting me to leave a spot.)

I jumped a couple more on the third pass – unfortunately, these fish spook for impressive distances. (Rainbow darters, the shameless hussy of the darter world, will just go to the next rock and settle down, but the variegates seem to go a hundred yards, then run off into the woods and climb a tree.)

On the fifth pass, somewhere right in the last few rocks, I was blind-dropping in the lee of a volleyball-sized stone with current racing along either side of it. I thought I saw a tail poke out, but I couldn’t get any interest. I peered helplessly at the refracted surface on either side of the rock, but there was a tiny pressure point at the front where about four square inches of water were clear. To my stunned disbelief, there was a head poking out in that tiny window. I couldn’t see most of the fish, but it looked big and variegates are big. I took a deep breath and swung my bait to settle in the fish’s view, and before I could even start to line it up, the fish charged out from under the rock and gave my split shot a beating. Breathlessly, I inched it forward, and the fish slammed the splitshot again and then full-on inhaled the bait. I lifted up quickly and the dropped the critter into the small plastic tub I use as a makeshift net. I covered it up like any NFL running back except Ernest Byner, and raced for dry land.

Although the dash took all of 10 seconds, it was an emotional journey. I had dark visions of the fish being a rainbow – I hadn’t seen it that well. I got 15 feet onto the dirt and slowly peeled my fingers back. It was a variegate, and a good one.

I had spent dozens of hours chasing that species, and at last, it was on the list. I checked my photos over and over, then safely released him back into the creek.

Celebrating in the woods. Note the Fort Wayne Tincaps hat.

I did have dinner with some long-time friends from my Columbus area that evening and the next – I see these folks every few years now at most, and I think back to 1989, when they were a nearly-daily part of my life.

That’s Dave, Sue, and Micki. Dave and Micki own a house with a baseball field in the back yard, so we spent most of our weekends over there. Sue is celebrating two years cancer-free – she had a darn close call a few years ago and we’re glad to have her around.

That’s Sue again and Scott “The K” Kisslinger, one of the most feared if unstable pitchers in wiffleball history.

The next day, fishing resumed. I met up with Cody and his buddy Nick on Scioto River, a body of water very familiar to me from my days living in Columbus. The daylight target would be the gravel chub, a maddeningly elusive relative of the streamline chub I caught with Cody on our first trip together. It’s not this is a hard fish to catch – it’s a hard fish to locate, especially during the daytime. And yet, here we were on a sunny late morning, and in a small riffle between some sand bars, we saw the right size flashes. We had to weed through a few shiners, but the chubs were there. We all got one quickly.

Another species, all from what had been my stomping ground from 1985-1989. I knew so little about fishing then it astonishes me that I caught anything, but I had other priorities at the time.

Our next target was an emotional one – the trout-perch. This vile little creek-dwelling fish is one of the most paranoid animals on earth, rarely appearing until total darkness and more skittish than Paris Hilton in a room full of smart people. We had to wait for nightfall, but that was a couple hours away, so we slowly fished our way north and grabbed a sumptuous feast at the most indifferently-managed KFC in history. Fast food my #$@.

I had tried the trout-perch creek before, and had seen and missed variegate darters, but I really had no idea how to pursue the TP. Cody had just warned me to move slowly and in stealth mode and they would appear, but that wasn’t much to go on. At least this time I would have expert advice.

Ideally, we would get the TP quickly so we could head east to a sand darter spot – another fish that has broken more hearts than that infamous Columbus girlfriend I refer to occasionally. Nick was eager for the darter but was game to wait out my TP.

Let’s just say it took longer than I hoped. Like three hours longer. After an hour, I finally at least saw what they were pointing at, but these were indeed the most skittish thing I had ever barely seen. They fled light in a blur of silvery panic, making pirate perch look like underfed bluegill by comparison. Now Cody is a friend and was willing to stick it out and assist, but Nick had no such obligation and wanted a sand darter bad. So a hearty thanks to him for taking his time so the three of us could march up that rural creek and herd the damn thing in front of us until it finally hid behind Cody’s left shoe and bit for me.

What an ordeal.

The team poses after the fish was released. This was a lot easier with three fishermen than one. Thank you again, guys.

It was about 1:30am when we got to the sand darter spot, and this again is one of those species pilgrimages where no one actually expects to catch anything but are thrilled if they even see one. It’s like the Devil’s Hole pupfish without the federal prison risk. Luckily, it was easy access and plenty of room for everyone to hunt. And yes, I saw them. While I didn’t land one, the myth of their invulnerability is shattered for me – they will stay still if you wait long enough, and they will bite – just very short, hesitant bites, after which they dive into the sand and disappear forever. This went on until about 5am, at which time we parted ways and I headed for a Holiday Inn at the Pennsylvania state line and a few hours of sleep. This was also when our chicken at KFC was finally ready.

Late in the morning, I headed up into Northwestern Pennsylvania – Deer Hunter territory – armed with a couple of good spots from Nick (thank you again, dude,) to chase longhead darter. I gave myself a pep talk the whole way there. “These are darters, Steve. They’re going to be hard to find and skittish. They are going to bite short. Make your chances count. And for God’s sake, change that underwear.”

I got to the creek, strolled down the ridiculously easy access, took two steps in the water, and saw at least 10 darters. They were everywhere, and they bit aggressively and persistently. I caught at least 10 before I gave it a rest.

That’s four species on the trip and lifetime darter #90. 100 wasn’t sounding so ridiculous.

I spent the evening hunting a couple of madtoms, but my headlamp attracted swarms of the Eastern Choking Gnat, and I threw in the towel around 10pm. I had a long drive the next day – back to Indiana and another few days with Mr. Ramsey. On the way back, I stopped in Columbus and had lunch with another old friend – Nate, a former co-worker and fellow Michigan fan.

A below-average angler, but he makes up for it in football knowledge.

Ramsey and took in another Indians game, got dinner at St. Elmo’s, and then I probably would have stayed another week except that the lawn needed mowing. I mowed a lot of lawns as a kid, and didn’t remember it as that hard, but I’m 62, it’s nearly an acre with some slope, and it was 95 degrees outside.

Thank goodness for self-propelled mowers.

I’m glad I did it – Steve was still battling with the bad knee – but I wasn’t staying around for the grass to grow again.

Steve