Posted by: 1000fish | November 19, 2015

The Hook and the Cook

Dateline: June 1, 2015 – Port Hacking, Australia

This episode starts a long time ago – it goes back 15 years, 79 countries, 123 world records, 1360 species, and one Marta, to be exact.

It was May 2, 2000, during what Marta likes to call “The Dark Time” (i.e. before I met her.) My species count was at 119, I wouldn’t set my first IGFA world record for another five years, and I had caught fish in seven countries. (It has been a busy 15 years.)

I was in Sydney on business, my second trip there ever. I was in awe at seeing things, like the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House, that I seen in encyclopedias as a kid and never imagined I would visit in person. Truthfully, I’m still in awe every time I see something like that.

Hook Bridge

Sydney Harbour Bridge – they actually have tours where you can walk along the top. I’ll pass, thanks.

I had met Steve Baty a few years before, and he had become a great friend – and hairstyle inspiration. During that May of 2000 visit, Steve set us up to fish on Botany Bay with a guide buddy of his.

Hook Hairdo

Steve Baty on an especially spectacular hair day.

I got four new species that day – silver trevally, yellowfin leatherjacket, bluelined goatfish, and dusky flathead. (Five if you count the local yellowtail a.k.a. “kingfish” as separate from the Southern California version.)

Hook Baty Yellowtail

Steve and Steve, May 2000. I still have that shirt, but it fits differently now.

The guide was named Scotty Lyons, and in the 15 years since that autumn (yes, autumn) day, he and I have fished dozens of days together and put 89 species and four world records on my tally.

Hook Scotty 2

Scotty and Steve, circa a long time ago. The “Squidgies” shirt was a gift from him, and I still believe it is one of the coolest pieces of clothing I own.

This May, I found myself in Sydney again. It had been six years since I had been to Australia, and that, you are likely thrilled to learn, was before the 1000fish blog came into existence. This means there are no previous episodes to refer to, which is a shame, at least to me, because Scotty Lyons is one of the best guides I have ever fished with. Some of our adventures together, such as a week on a houseboat in crocodile-infested northern Queensland with six men and one bar of soap, are, depending on your level of maturity, either eminently bloggable or best left in the mists of history.

(Interestingly, or not, Scotty and family have met the Hamamotos – click HERE for details.)

With a few days in Sydney on my way home from Melbourne, I connected with Scotty, and we planned out our first trip in years. Sydney is a magnificent town – great restaurants, friendly people, as scenic as anywhere on the globe. It was great to be back and wander around some of the old, familiar tourist spots.

Hook Opera

The Opera House lit up during the “Vivid Sydney” festival.

I was unaware that the”Vivid Sydney” festival was happening – imagine my surprise when I showed up to find the streets near my favorite hotel jammed with tens of thousands of inebriated revelers, which is pretty much like any other night in Sydney, except there was a light show.

Hook Sydney

Downtown Sydney completely lit up, just like most of the visitors.

Morning came quickly. I took the very familiar cab ride out toward the airport, then around the edge of Botany Bay to the Sans Souci bridge, where the big green boat was waiting, just as it had been for dozens of mornings over the years. I thought about some of the many species Scotty and I had gotten together, some unexpected, like the rock cale, some struggled for over dozens of trips, like the mulloway.

In planning the trip, we first had to acknowledge that this was not going to be a species bonanza. Scotty and I have picked this place over for years, searching out even the most obscure piscine residents. We have fished Botany in every season, day and night, rain and shine, wind and calm, headed miles up estuary creeks to search out brackish beasts, and driven well offshore to pursue species rumored to be there.

This trip was about trying to put some world records together – I knew there were a bunch here – and also to just get out onto some of my favorite water with one of my greatest fishing buddies, or mates, as they are known in Australia. I wonder how Australian Facebook works, and rather than “friend” someone, if you “mate” them, which makes the place sound a bit racy for my tastes.

Our first day would be in Scotty’s normal stomping ground – Botany Bay. I had figured out at least four of the regular catches there – silver trevally, Maori wrasse, Port Jackson shark, and the oddly named Sergeant Baker – were open world records. So we set out to catch normal-sized examples of stuff Scotty catches almost every time out. It sounded like a can’t-miss proposition, but this, of course, is just begging the Fish Gods to do something humbling.

The day was perfect – a bit overcast, and dead calm inside and outside the bay. There were so many familiar spots, and I flashed back to some of the wonderful species I had gotten with Scott over the years. We drove over the channel where, years before, I had gotten one of the most beautiful fish I have ever caught – the bluefin gurnard.

Hook Gurnard

Imagine my surprise when it opened its pectoral fins.

Our first target for the day was a Port Jackson shark – a type of horn shark common inside the bays. We set up some mackerel slabs, and I also cast a smaller rod with a prawn just for fun, knowing there weren’t any species but there was still plenty of fun to be had. Naturally, that very first prawn I tossed out into Botany Bay returned with a new species attached. I couldn’t believe it, Scotty couldn’t believe it, and we didn’t ask the fish, but I’m sure it was incredulous as well.

Hook Flathead

A very surprised Australian Bartail Flathead. Go figure.

Stunned though we were, the Fish Gods had apparently noticed that I assumed the records would be easy and decided to punish me. While Port Jackson sharks normally show up uninvited in droves, they wouldn’t bite today. I sulked.

But as I sulked, the small rod went down again, and my short attention span was diverted elsewhere. This time, I landed a silver trevally, and at one pound, it was a record. One down, but let’s face it, hoping for three more felt a bit optimistic.

Hook Silver

The Australian silver trevally – Caranx georgianus, for those of you playing along at home.

Scotty moved us outside the bay, and we began searching the reefs that run anywhere from 15 to 100 feet deep as you move offshore. We got into a bunch of Maori wrasses, and after 10 or so, one reached the magic one pound mark. Two down. We turned our attention next to the Sergeant Baker, a large type of lizardfish. I thought this would be easy, because I had caught these every time I hadn’t wanted to.

Hook Maori 2

Maori wrasse. These have a faintly obscene local nickname, but this is a family blog, folks.

We drifted for another hour or two, catching all kinds of interesting stuff, but no Sergeant Baker. From my previous experience, going an hour on these reefs without catching a Sergeant Baker was impossible. We got a bunch of eastern red scorpionfish, but these were not the target.

Hook Scorpion

Do not put this in your pants.

Disgusted with the Sergeant Baker, and noting that it was an extremely flat day outside the bay, we decided to “swing for the fences” and take a shot at a black drummer. Black drummer are a chub species that live in the wash right up against coastal rocks, so it takes a perfect day to back the boat into the surf and cast baits to them. I had caught only one in my life, in 2002, and it was a spectacularly small example.

Hook Drummer 1

A spectacularly small black drummer. How about the cool Akubra hat? (You might recognize it from The Cottonwood Death March.)

I didn’t have much faith as Scotty eased the boat under the cliffs – we had spent hours trying to get a decent-sized drummer, and I just never seemed to get the right day. I began tossing a peeled prawn at likely-looking washes. On my second cast, the line sank for a moment, then shot off to the left. I set the hook, and the fish took off hard for the rocks. My rig was roughly eight pound class, and I just held on for dear life as the fish pulled for the rocks. It chipped up against the bottom a couple of times, but I thumbed down the spool and took my chances. My knots held, and slowly, I got him up out of the structure and into midwater, where he made a few more runs. After about 10 minutes, it surfaced. It was a positively huge black drummer – over five pounds – and this too was an open world record. Three for the day, and now my Australian friends wouldn’t make fun of my black drummer.

Hook Blackfish

One of the toughest light-tackle battles I’ll ever have.

As the afternoon wound down, we stayed out on some of the deeper reefs and fished some larger baits. Scotty figured we might find a Port Jackson shark or something else bizarre, and as it was starting to get dark, I had one big hit, followed by a heavy but not especially enthusiastic fight. I think we both silently guessed Sergeant Baker, but did not want to hex anything by speaking out loud. Moments later, Scotty netted the largest Sergeant Baker I have ever seen, and record number four was on the books. I was officially in the IGFA running. I smiled at the thought of another plaque in the house.

Hook Sergeant

I called Marta immediately, and she answered “It’s going in the garage.”

Our next day was set up to visit another venue I have come to love – Port Hacking. Lesser-known than Botany, but an amazing fishery nonetheless, Port Hacking is pretty much Scotty’s back yard, and it has produced numerous species for me over the years, including some truly memorable catches like the tassled wobbegong.

Hook Wobby

I still can’t believe that anyone swims here.

Port Hacking scenery is some of the nicest in the area, and that’s a lot of choices.

Hook Hacking

Steve wades Port Hacking in search of flathead, circa 2004. Moments after this picture was taken, I almost stepped on a local stingray. I was more upset that I didn’t catch it than I was at the close call.

I would also finally get to meet Paul Brehany. One of Scotty’s best mates, Paul is a well-known Sydney chef and restaurateur. For several years, Scotty and Paul have produced a webcast called “The Hook and the Cook,” where Paul makes amazing meals out of the amazing fish Scotty catches. ( For our day out, we would be filming an episode, presuming I could catch something edible.


Scott, Paul, and a big snapper. They clean up nicely.

We had one main target for the day – a record on the Eastern Blue Groper. That is not a typo. The Australians, with their penchant for creating misleading or downright bizarre common names, decided that they just had to call this large wrasse a “groper.” I imagine this makes sense after a gallon of Fosters, but I remain perplexed.

Hook Groper 2

Eastern blue groper – August 2002. Sure, it’s blue, but how do you grope anything if you don’t have hands?

Our plan was to motor outside of Hacking to the south, but the Fish Gods paid us back for the previous day’s calm conditions, and the wind picked up unexpectedly. We were limited to some protected areas of the coast, but Scotty was still confident we could find a groper. In the meantime, I put down some small baits and, stunningly, pulled up a new species. That’s two in two days, which I had thought impossible.

Hook Leatherjacket

The yellowstriped leatherjacket. I had never even heard of them.

We then set to groper fishing. This involves finding a likely reef, and drifting an unweighted crab on very heavy tackle – these fish hit hard and run for the structure, so it’s a quick but violent fight. A couple of crabs later, I got a crushing strike and leaned back as hard as I could on the heavy bottom rod I was using. The fish got into the rocks twice, but I managed to lift it out, and a moment later, we had our record – number five for the trip.

Hook Groper

This is the female – only the males are bright blue. Look closely at the eye.

After appropriate high-fives, we fished for about 30 more minutes on the outside reefs before the wind got to be too much. There was one more surprise waiting for me. After I had pulled in about a dozen of the normal reef inhabitants – scarlet parrotfish, sweeps, and mado – I swung a white and black wrasse over the rail. Scotty saw it first and his eyes almost popped out of his head. “It’s that comb wrasse you’ve been chasing forever, mate!”

Hook Comb 2

ANOTHER new species. I am guessing Marta made a special appeal to the Fish Gods, because I couldn’t have dreamed of getting three new ones here in two days, and I have some pretty optimistic dreams. For example, I still believe the Tigers will win the World Series next year.

It was a comb wrasse, a rather rare local resident that I only ever seen once – when it fell off my hook in midair in 2008. This was truly satisfying. We headed into Port Hacking to get out of the wind and to try to find something edible so we could film an episode of “The Hook and the Cook.”

Hook Logo

I must have one of these shirts. Marta knows I need more shirts.

It didn’t take long. We found a nice batch of bluefish – “tailor” in the local parlance, and Paul was able to whip up a beautiful ceviche as we continued a pleasant afternoon inside the bay.

Hook Lunch

Paul and my lunch, the subject of an episode of “The Hook and the Cook” – click HERE for the sordid details.

In the few minutes we fished after the meal, the species hunt went from weird to downright bizarre. I was casting a light rod with a prawn bait, expecting to catch the small pink snappers that are stacked in the bay, when I got a decidedly bigger small fish. Flipping it up onto the deck, I couldn’t believe my eyes – or my luck. It was a small Maori grouper, a generally more northerly fish that had gotten quite lost, but it was the third new species of the day and one I had never even considered could be here.

Hook Grouper

A Maori grouper – third species of the day and fourth of the trip. “Unlikely” can’t begin to describe this one.

We headed back to the dock in the late afternoon, and while Scotty pulled the boat out, I had a moment to reflect. It had been great to meet Paul, even better to have been fed by Paul, marvelous to have added a record, ridiculous to have put three more species on the board, but best of all to have spent another day with one of my greatest fishing friends. I smiled to myself and appreciated what had been not just one, but a string of golden moments – we only get so many of these in a lifetime.



Hook Door

If you’re anywhere near Sydney, look up Scotty.

Posted by: 1000fish | October 30, 2015

I’m Here for the Gummy

Dateline: May 30, 2015 – Sorrento, Australia

If there’s one thing worse than a healthy dose of perspective, it’s getting it from a five year-old.

Melbourne Spangled

This is a picture of a five year-old taking me down a few notches. It should be noted that he did not do this on purpose, like Jaime would have. Even at age five, Jaime was already evil.

More on that in a moment, but first, we need to talk about weather. My job is guaranteed to take me to some exotic places, but it is not guaranteed to take me to those places when the weather is good.

So when I was called to Melbourne, Australia in May, I was thrilled – and concerned. Thrilled because I have been to Australia dozens of times, but never south of Sydney. Victoria has a completely different batch of fish than Sydney, and the whole south of the country, from Melbourne west to Perth, is a key area for me to hit if I am ever to reach 2000 species. There are also loads of potential world records in the region, and if I was going to make a run at the 2015 IGFA Men’s Saltwater trophy, that run was going to start here. If I could find a calm few days, I could easily add 20 species and five or more records over a weekend. (Spoiler alert – the Fish Gods routinely punish this sort of optimism.)

I was also concerned – about the weather. I can read a calendar and understand the whole Austral winter thing. Indeed, even finding a guide was harder than I expected, as most local skippers pack up for the season and go tuna fishing up the coast, and the first few folks I called acted like I had lost my mind. “It’s WINTER.” they would say. But after a few days of searching, I found Shaun Furtiere and Think Big Charters. Shaun immediately got what I wanted to do – we were quickly talking about all the weird species he catches while fishing for snapper or gummy shark. I knew I had found my man.

Melbourne Snapper

Shaun Furtiere and a positively huge snapper – his website is FULL of pinkies this size.

I was in the Melbourne office for a few days before my weekend on the water, and early in these meetings, I got a huge dose of perspective through a co-worker named David. (As someone who revels in catching fish the size of my pinkie finger, I find perspective to be generally unwelcome.)

I had just met David. We were talking in the office, and another co-worker who I’ve known for a while stopped by to talk fishing. “Oh, Wozniak’s quite the fisherman. Something like a thousand species.” (“1435” I quietly corrected, but who’s counting?) David considered this for a moment, pulled out his phone, and said “Ever caught one of these?” It was a picture of his five year-old son, Jackson, with a spangled perch. I have never caught a spangled perch. Seriously? This is how we’re going to start the trip?

Melbourne Spangled

Jackson and his spangled perch. He’s ten now, and he has probably caught even bigger ones since this photo was taken. This hurts me, because our society frowns on being openly competitive with children, so I have to pretend that I’m not. This is all Jaime Hamamoto’s fault.

After work on my last day in central Melbourne, I took a taxi south to Hastings, one of the vacation towns on the lower perimeter of Melbourne Bay. Shaun met me for dinner – it was a great steak, but both of our food got cold while we rooted through Fishes of Australia and he let me know what they catch here – in good weather. There were dozens of possible species, some rather exotic-looking, like the elephant fish. (Look it up – awesome.) He was concerned about the forecast, but with all the islands and bays in the area, he was confident we would find some shelter and at least be able to wet a line.

We got to the dock just at dawn. It was a beautiful place, and the day was clear, but the wind was blowing hard. I knew this would limit our available spots, but we were heading out.

Melbourne Boat

Shaun launches the boat.

Melbourne Dock

Hastings at dawn.

The day started well enough. On my very first cast in Victorian waters, I hooked a small flathead, which turned out to be a Southern sand flathead, and I had a new species. I was elated until I remembered that it wasn’t a spangled perch. (To be fair, spangled perch are a freshwater fish, so it was rather unlikely I was going to see one, and this bothered me. A lot.)

Melbourne Flathead

These things are so darn cool, especially the big dusky flatheads in Sydney that crush six-inch swimbaits.

I turned my attention to the other main target for the day – the gummy shark, a local dogfish that can grow well over 50 pounds.

Melbourne Candy

Not to be confused with the popular candy.

This is when it got slow. Shaun did the best he could to adjust spots and try different rigs and baits, but the wind kept picking up and seemed to follow us around. I caught loads of flathead and Australian salmon, and got broken off by sevengill sharks a few heartstopping times, but I have already caught big sevengills – an hour from my house. I was here for the gummy.

We pounded it all afternoon, and well past when Shaun would normally have called it a day, I hooked up something that felt bigger than a salmon, but more hopeful than a sevengill. Moments later, Shaun netted a small gummy for me – I was equal parts thrilled and relieved. We headed for the dock soon afterward.

Melbourne Gummy

A rather modest gummy shark – species # 1437.

This was it? A bumpy day at sea and just two species? No world records? I whined to the Fish Gods –  “But I’m in southern Australia!” They did not favor me with a response, and the weather for the next day looked a lot worse. So I did what I always do – started fishing on the boat ramp the minute we landed. In just a few minutes, I got a batch of Australian smooth puffers – another species. Things were looking up again.

Melbourne Puffer

That’s a smooth puffer. Not to be confused with the awkward puffer.

Shaun had some family things to attend to in the evening, so I was on my own in Hastings. There were a couple of hours of daylight left, and there was a pier about 300 yards from my hotel. The outcome should be obvious.

It was a lovely pier, and while it stayed windy, it was still a clear evening and a beautiful spot. The puffers had followed me over from the boat ramp, and I pulled up half a dozen or so from the pilings on a sabiki. My seventh fish didn’t fight quite as hard, and when I flipped it up into my hand, my jaw dropped. It looked as if I had snagged a Christmas ornament.

Melbourne Cow 1

I love Christmas ornaments. But I never expected to catch one.

It was a male ornate cowfish, in all his glory. I had seen these in books previously, and I hadn’t even considered that they might be here at this dock on a blustery Victoria evening. This alone made the trip worth it. I caught a few more, including the beautiful but less-gaudy female ornate cowfish.

Melbourne Cow Female

The female ornate cowfish. Ornate, but not as ornate as the male.

As darkness set in, I was off for a well-deserved pizza. For a small town, Hastings had some very nice food, although I couldn’t find mention of King Harold anywhere.

Melbourne Cow 3

I just felt like posting one more picture of this thing. I still can’t believe I caught it.

The next day’s forecast looked miserable. The wind was supposed to get worse, and the rain that had missed us on day one looked like it was going to arrive in force. I gamely donned my Goretex before Shaun picked me up, and we drove to Sorrento, a summer vacation town about 30 minutes south.

Sorrento is a charming place, even though no spangled perch live there. The rain didn’t materialize, but the wind was gusting to 40. Shaun cancelled his afternoon charter, but he knew I didn’t get there very often and launched the boat.

Melbourne Sorrento

Sorrento at dawn. This was the most sheltered spot, before the wind really got going.

He did, however, promise that we were going to get quite a beating, and he was right. It was a three on the “Oh my goodness/Oh my lunch/Oh my cojones” scale the entire day, but I knew there were species to be had, and I was going for it.

We set up a few medium bottom rigs and then fished smaller stuff to pass the time. My first catch was modest but promising – a silverbelly, which looks a lot like a mojarra with a nose job.

Melbourne Silverbelly

Not a mojarra. This surprises me.

We moved around, trying in vain to find a bit of shelter from the wind, and on the second spot, one of the bottom rigs bounced. I set the hook into something that was clearly decent-sized, but put up less-than-enthusiastic fight. When Shaun netted it, I was thrilled to see it was an Australian Swellshark, an unusual species that can blow up with air or water like a puffer.

Melbourne Swell

I had caught related species in Southern California. For details on this and to see some amazing hairstyles, click HERE.

This fish was also an open world record, so there was hope. I needed to knock off a few more, but the first one is always the hardest, because there cannot be a second one without a first one.

There was plenty of action on the light rods. We caught dozens of Australian salmon – which are not actually salmon. Australians do some confusing things with their common names, calling groupers “cod” and “trout” and calling threadfin “salmon” also even though they are not related to the Australian salmon or any other salmon. We also got barracouta, (not related to barracuda of course,) a odd cold-water species I have captured as far afield as Chile, Namibia, and New Zealand.

Melbourne Barra

A barracouta. Why couldn’t they have named it something less confusing?

We stuck at it, and while the fishing was only a shadow of what it could obviously be in good weather, we added a few more to the tally before we had to call it a day. I was glad to have gotten out at all.

Melbourne Shaun

Shaun and Steve with a bluethroated wrasse, the third species of the day. Shaun is an outstanding guide – if you’re in the Melbourne area, look him up at No, his head is not that big – he’s just a lot closer to the camera.

Moments after adding the bluethroat, I got a much bigger one. A quick check of the record book I bring for just such occasions indicated that this too was an open world record, and that was two for the day, and ten for the season. I was in the running, and while I know I could have gotten more if the weather had just been right, I was fortunate to have gotten the ones I did. Shaun did a fantastic job.

Melbourne Bluethroat

The record bluethroat. These things fight hard. 

I had an afternoon flight to Sydney, so we headed in around 11. I almost always take the time to cast a sabiki around docks whenever I finish a day, and in this case, I got one more small reward, a common weedfish –  the eighth and final species for the adventure. (Although, I noted with some deflation, none of them were spangled perch.)

Melbourne Weedfish

You never know what might show up in the rocks while the skipper is putting the boat on the trailer.

Shaun had been awesome, helping me turn a weekend most fishermen would have spent in front of the TV into a great trip. I knew I had eight species, and I knew I had two records, but I also knew I had only scratched the surface. I was already making plans to come back, but in the meantime, I was heading to Sydney, where the weather was calm and an old friend had the boat warmed up and ready.






Posted by: 1000fish | October 4, 2015

The Heng of Dave

Dateline: May 23, 2015 – Northern Singapore

Dave has massive heng. You’ll know exactly how massive in about 2000 words, but trust me, it’s massive. I wasn’t even sure if heng is a noun or an adjective, but whether he has heng or is heng, it’s darn big.

And how did I find myself in Singapore, holding a rare fish next to Dave and his positively ginourmous heng? It started with an audit. Somewhere back in the 1990s, the company I worked for enjoyed making me argue with the auditors. One of these auditors, Chad, did a bit of fishing. He introduced me to one Chris Armstrong, who does a lot more fishing. Chris then introduced me to two of my most important fishing connections – Ed Trujillo and Jarvis Wee Lee. Ed introduced me to steelhead fishing and guided me on some of the most magical days I ever spent on a river. (Background HERE.)

Jarvis opened the door for me to fish southeast Asia. Apart from picking through dozens of species in Singapore for me – 54 and counting –  he also helped me add Malaysia and Indonesia to my country list. Because he secretly controls the world fishing tackle trade, Jarvis is a busy man, but he shared his connections with me, introducing me to friends such as crazy Alex (unfortunate details HERE,) and to Dave, the guy who is or has the great big heng.

Dave took me out fishing in October of 2014, betting that his secret barramundi spot could produce a few unexpected creatures. We visited Palau Ubin, an island off northern Singapore, and I am sworn to secrecy from there, but his spot was absolutely jammed with barramundi.

There were also some surprises. Before we even got to the lake, I nearly lost a pair of underpants, as I spotted what I thought was a tiger about to kill and eat me. When Dave finished laughing and got me off the roof, he explained it was an old ceramic decoration.

Heng Tiger

Tell me you wouldn’t have wet yourself.

Dave happily tossed lures and caught some solid barras; I brought out the #16 hooks and started tossing baits around the bank. Moments later, I got a sullen tug and listless fight, and pulled up a small puffer – the green spotted puffer – which was indeed a new species.

Heng Puffer

Dave and Steve celebrate the greenspotted puffer.

I then just had to cast a bit for barramundi. I landed a couple of these light-tackle powerhouses – great fun on a trout rod. Barramundi will always have a fond place in my heart. Not only were these the first species I caught in Singapore, making it my fourth fishing country back in 1999, but a barra on 16# line was also my first IGFA world record, in 2005 with Jean-Francois Helias.

Heng Barra

A Singapore barramundi, courtesy of Dave.

The photo above is the one that started all the “heng” talk. I showed it to a co-worker, and she said “Oh, you are very heng.” I told her that my friend Dave had actually done all the hard work, and she said “Then Dave is very heng.” I asked her what that meant. She explained it was a “Singlish” word and told me to look it up. And just as when my Mother told me to look something up, I didn’t do it. This is why I still don’t know what “tact” means.

After a few nice barramundi, I noticed that the pond was full of mullet. I get frustrated with mullet, as they rarely bite and can be hard to identify, but I had brought a loaf of bread just in case. The process is maddening. If you throw a slice of bread in the water, the fish will devour it like a pack of hungry piranhas, but anything on a hook gets little more than a sideways glance. I am either very optimistic or a slow learner – the two are often indistinguishable – and I stick at these things far longer than normal people. After an hour or so, I finally got one to bite – and then the fun started, because I needed to go through a number of scientists before someone gave me the word that I had caught a greenback mullet – a new species and two for the day.

Heng Mullet

A greenback mullet. The back wasn’t green. Go figure.

Just as we were leaving, I saw several tarpon-like jumps in the middle of the pond. Dave informed me that they were ladyfish. There are several ladyfish species, and I hadn’t caught the one that lives in this region. This would have to wait until next time, which of course meant that I lost sleep. I lose sleep over every species that gets away, which means I don’t sleep much.

Four months later, I was called to Singapore again.

Heng Night

Singapore at night, from some sort of a really tall building.

At this stage, I still didn’t know what “heng” meant, but I knew that Dave had it and therefore I needed to fish with him again. I asked him to set something up for ladyfish, and I also asked him what “heng” was. He started laughing and told me to look it up. So I finally did:

heng /heng, hɛŋ/ a. n. & int. [Hk. 幸 hēng to hope, to expect; gracious, favourable, fortunate, happy (Medhurst); Mand. xìng good fortune; rejoice; fortunately, luckily (Chi.–Eng. Dict.)]  A a.Fortunate, lucky. N a. Luck, good fortune

Well I’ll be darned. Dave definitely is heng and has heng and it’s quite a bit of heng at that.

In order to pursue the ladyfish, Dave brought in some skilled help – local guide Jimmy Lim. I had heard about Jimmy for years – he is supposed to be THE expert on fishing the northern estuaries, especially for you lure-tossing types. Jimmy also has heng. The place was just full of heng, and I hoped some would rub off on me, as long as heng didn’t turn out to have some sort of gross double meaning, as things often did with Alex. (I have an ugly history with misunderstanding foreign words.)

It was me, Dave, Jimmy, and a couple of their friends. I was expecting another “peanut gallery” a la Alex, but these were nice enough guys and excellent fishermen, and were certainly more polite than Alex. They didn’t call even one of my catches “panty fish.”

We started early and went right after the ladyfish. I would have said “bright and early,” but it wasn’t bright, nor would it be all day. It was chilly for Singapore, which means it was still hot for Michigan, and we had occasional rain. I was wearing my lucky red Hi’s Tackle hat – the only red Hi’s hat Alex hadn’t swiped. (Red is considered a lucky color here.)

We started drifting some live shrimp over a deep channel. I missed a hit on the first pass, and on the second, I hooked up. The fish came flying out of the water like a miniature tarpon, so I knew I had the right one. Ladyfish are acrobatic fighters, and I played it softly for about five minutes until Jimmy slipped the net under it. We had our species.

Heng Ladyfish

Steve, Jimmy, and the ladyfish.

Jimmy is awesome – contact him if you’re in the area: Jimmy Lim or

One of the guys had a look and said, “Dude! You got one! You are so heng.” Then they admitted they don’t catch them very often, and indeed, we didn’t see one the rest of the day. But it was already a good day, pretty much no matter what happened from then, as long as Cousin Chuck didn’t show up naked.

I faintly believed that this was the last new species I would ever get in Singapore. Still, I had most of a day ahead of me on a boat full of local experts, so I was  looking forward to a great time catching whatever happened to swim by. Jimmy, quiet and serious, was racking his brain for species ideas, and kept moving spots because he remembered catching something exotic there.

In the next few hours, I got loads of small snappers, bream, and trevally. As we moved onto some mud flats, we started getting catfish. These were greeted with groans and mumbling, especially by me – they are difficult to unhook and hard to ID. About five whiskered pests later, I got a huge bite and something ran off for Malaysia. I barely turned it on my relatively small Stella 3000 reel, and after a stubborn battle, Jimmy netted … a catfish, albeit a big one. Saltwater catfish are hard to identify, but this one was clearly different – it had stripes, and a vomerine tooth pattern I didn’t recognize. (I can’t believe I know what “vomerine” means, but I still haven’t looked up “tact.”)

Heng Sagor

The beast.

It turned out to be a Sagor catfish, which not only was a new species, but also a world record. This was getting positively epic, and the day wasn’t over yet.

I also got a gray eel catfish – one of the least attractive of a rather homely family. I had caught these previously – in Thailand – but they are worth a photo or two.

Heng Eeltail

These are also quite venomous, so don’t put one in your pants.

Heng mouth

A face only a mother could love.

Late in what I could only call a great day, there were two more surprises. The first, a spotted scat, was not a new species, but is such a cool fish I felt the need to post a picture of it.

Heng Scat

These are also venomous. In general, if something has sharp spines, don’t thrust your hand on them.

The second surprise – my last fish of the day – came as I cast a sabiki just as we were packing up. The lovely creature below is a lagoon shrimpgoby, and this was indeed a new one.

Heng Goby

The lagoon shrimpgoby, which spends life shacked up with a shrimp. I think they leave the burrow to spawn with their own kind, but if you ask me, the whole thing is scientifically and morally confusing. I can’t imagine how the IRS would handle it.

That was three new species for the day, including the first and the last fish caught, in a location where I thought I had gotten pretty much everything. Throw in a world record, a day on the water with some good guys, and the fact Alex wasn’t there, and you can’t get any more heng than that.


Heng Duo

“Hey Steve and Dave, who’s the ugly one?”


Posted by: 1000fish | September 23, 2015

Qatar Hero

Dateline: May 8, 2015 – Doha, Qatar

For unknown reasons, my pants failed. It was not a simple tear that I could patch with duct tape – the entire right seat of my Columbia travel pants had burst open, taking all the mystery out of whether I wear boxers or briefs. This might not play well in a conservative Muslim country, and was certainly not an auspicious beginning to the trip.

Pants Pants

The Pants of Doha.

And how was it that I found myself with my rear end exposed, floating a few miles off of Qatar? Per usual, it started with a short notice business trip. The nature of my job is such that I can be sitting at my desk on a Thursday evening, looking forward to a weekend of Marta putting my things in the garage, when the phone will ring. The conversation is always the same. “Steve, we have an emergency in (FILL IN NAME OF “EXOTIC” TRAVEL DESTINATION HERE.) We would like you to come and fight with the customer, who we are expecting to pay us (FILL IN WILDLY OPTIMISTIC AMOUNT AND DATE HERE.)”

I always check three sources before I travel somewhere – the CIA Factbook on the country (to make sure there isn’t a rebellion going on,) my travel doctor (to make sure there isn’t a nasty epidemic going on,) and (to make sure there is fishing.) Qatar passed with flying colors, and so I was off.

My flight landed in the evening, and I got to walk around Doha a bit – this is a major, first-world metropolis with beautiful buildings and landscapes, something like Dubai without all the craziness. (Dubai adventure HERE.)

Pants skyline

Doha at twilight.

Pants Mosque 1

Playing tourist near the main mosque.

The place is clean and safe and jammed with high-end shopping, my favorite being a Carrefour supermarket because they had fresh shrimp I could bring for bait. Marta, although she was 8000 miles away, managed to find jewelry stores in the same mall and direct me to them.

Pants Jewelry 2

Oh yes she did. Now do you see why she likes it when I travel?

Pants Outfit

Why couldn’t she have asked for this? Spoiler alert – her birthday is coming up.

Fishing-wise, I had found a reasonably reputable-looking tour company that offered charters – QIA. (  or This is not an inexpensive destination – the folks in the oil business must make a lot of money, but I was here and I had to give it a shot. My first day would be a short one, as I had to get to some meetings, but on my last day I was free until late afternoon and would make a more concentrated effort. Between the two, I hoped I could scrape up a few Persian Gulf species.

QIA picked me up very early – around four – because even in the more temperate months, the dawn hours are precious – temperatures get over 100 by mid-morning. The driver introduced me to my guide, Hari, pronounced “Harry.” Hari was Nepalese, which was not as surprising as it sounds, because almost no one I met in Qatar was actually from Qatar. They bring in foreign labor for jobs ranging from construction to drivers to senior management at my hotel.

Pants Boat

Hari and the boat.

We motored out of the harbor. Qatar is a strangely beautiful place – stark desert rising up out of the Persian Gulf. It looked like two worlds – mosques and old Arabic buildings on one side, but just across the bay was the Doha skyline, as modern as Dubai or Miami.

Pants Skyline 2

Downtown as viewed from across the bay. It was something like 5am, and it was already over 90 degrees.

The main point of day one was to catch a fish and add Qatar as my 85th country, and that happened immediately. We set up a few miles offshore, drifting cut baits on sand bottoms in 40-50 feet, and I caught a quick succession of threadfin breams.

This is when my wardrobe malfunction occurred. (Now I can feel Janet Jackson’s pain.) Poor Hari had a terrible time not laughing, but the idea of facing the Intercontinental Hotel lobby in my skivvies had me worried. Doing my best MacGyver impression, I took out some 8# fluoro leader and a small hook, and using one of the zip-off legs as a patch, repaired my trousers enough where I could get through to the elevators later without getting arrested for indecency. I don’t know what it is about me and world records and nudity, but I view the fact I had underwear on as a move in the right direction. (Those of you who have read this blog from the beginning will remember the original naked world record debacle. Those of you who haven’t are probably a lot better off.)

As we moved from spot to spot, I got some bigger hits, then hooked into a nice bream, which looked a lot like the breams from Australia. But this was an Arabian Yellowfin Bream, and at a pound, it was a new world record. But the world record photos still feautured me in my underwear.

Pants Bream 1

The bream. The underwear. For the inquiring minds out there, they’re Polo boxer briefs.

We then took a meal break. I brought some sandwich makings with me, and just as I was preparing lunch, I realized it was May 5th. And so, to celebrate, I threw the mayonnaise overboard. You know, to Sinko the Mayo.

We fished hard for a few hours. I got endless threadfin breams, a few small catfish, and one other new species, the Gulf Herring.

Pants Herring

The savage Gulf Herring.

With two species and a record, it was a great start, and I was looking forward to the full day I had scheduled later in the week.

Day two started well. Since we had so much more time without the distraction of meetings, we could go much further out into the Gulf. The fishing was mostly drifting, in anywhere from 40 to 90 feet of water. Like Dubai, the water was shallow a long way out and the bottom was very barren – rockpiles were few and far between.

We got our first species of the day while registering with the Coast Guard. I pulled out a sabiki while they were checking my passport, and hooked a wide-banded hardyhead. Hari was bewildered at my joy over a fish this small, but he was pleased that I was happy.

Pants Hardyhead

Hardyhead on right, hardhead on left.

We headed well offshore this time, at least 15 miles, and set to it. We spent the time talking as best we could – his English was certainly better than my Nepalese. There had just been a devastating earthquake in Nepal, but luckily, his village and family were OK.

On our first drop offshore, I got another Arabian yellowfin bream, which was bigger than the earlier bream, and therefore was another record. This pleased me.

Pants Bream big

A record with my pants on! What a relief for us all.

Just as I was measuring this fish, one of my sabiki rigs got hit, and I pulled up a ballyhoo-like Sind halfbeak, another species.

Pants Sind Halfbeak

The hemiramphidae are a favorite of mine.

Hari knew the area very well, and could find small rockpiles by visual reference, even miles from land – the guy was good. On one of these small piles – which felt about the size of a compact car, I got a yellowfin hind, a type of grouper common in the Persian Gulf.

Pants Grouper

One of the few rocky-bottom fish I would see all day.

Moving back onto deeper sand patches for a few hours, we got four more new species – deep flounder, bartail flathead, gilded goatfish, and Gulf lizardfish. I was absolutely thrilled that the numbers were piling up – I attribute this to the structural integrity of my backup pants. There is nothing that hurts focus like exposed buttocks – especially if they’re mine.

Pants Flounder

Deep flounder. It was in shallow water.

Pants Flathead

This is why they are called flathead.

Pants Goat

Goatfish always seem to be beautiful. More examples HERE.

Pants Lizard

Gulf lizardfish. Another ID nightmare.

We caught loads of marine catfish throughout the day – they fought hard and filled in the slow spots nicely, but this family is tough to identify. But one of them was big enough – over four pounds – to give it a shot as a world record. After weeks of drama on the ID, Dr. Patricia Kailola pinned this one down as a giant sea catfish, Netuma thalissina, and the trip had three (unexpected) records.

Pants Catfish

Thanks also to Mark McGrouther of the Australian Museum for facilitating yet another tough ID.

Late in the day, as Hari moved us to try some inshore spots, we saw some fish hitting bait on the surface. Hari expertly maneuvered the boat to drift through them, and I got to cast poppers and jigs through the school – they turned out to be queenfish, aggressive strikers on artificials and a great way to mix things up. You game and (gasp) fly anglers could make a nice day here chasing these around.

Pants Queenfish

A nod to those of you who insist on using lures.

Just before we pulled up for the day, I pulled up a beautiful prawn goby on a sabiki. These gobies exist in a symbiotic relationship with a prawn in the same burrow. I read that in the ID book and am not exactly sure what that means, but I don’t think the church would approve.

Pants Prawngoby

It’s called Luther’s Prawn Goby, which makes me suspect the Protestants would give at least a tacit nod.

I said my goodbyes to Hari in the harbor, and I tipped him well for the extra effort, for gutting it out for two days with me, for tolerating me in my underwear for three hours, and to make sure he had something to send home to his family.

Pants Hari 3

Hari and Steve – the selfie.

The final count was eight new species in a day – 10 for the trip. Eight is an epic day anywhere for me. The three world records were a bonus, but they started me thinking … these would put me at seven for the year. I figured I needed to have at least 20 to have a shot at the IGFA Men’s Saltwater title for 2015 …

I mentioned this to Marta and was greeted with a supportive chorus of “No, no, no, no, no. I thought you were through your ‘Big Year’ phase. For the avoidance of doubt, if you win another trophy, it’s going in the garage  – right next to the Lifetime Achievement Award.”

Challenge accepted.



Posted by: 1000fish | September 13, 2015

Two Records and a Wedding

Dateline: April 26, 2015 – Pangbourne, England

I have caught thousands of trout, but this was the most beautiful. It wasn’t the largest brown I’d ever gotten – not even close. But by its very existence, it proved something wonderful … and brought back the memory of a dear old friend.

But before we get to the trout, we’re going to need to cover a lot of ground, involving a crucian carp, a Royal Air Force sweater, a wedding, a brutal day at sea, and some conveniently esoteric British fishing regulations.

So, obviously, I found myself in England again. My last two trips here had not been for the happiest of occasions, (details HERE and HERE,) so I was due for a good time, and a wedding generally qualifies as such. And this wasn’t just any wedding – this was for Katy Barnes, Roger’s daughter. I had fished with Roger 11 years and never met Katy in person, but we got to know each other quickly through the sad summer of 2014, and she and Sam are now as much family as Roger was.

Of course, I was going to do some fishing. No, not during the actual wedding, although it was held painfully close to a river, but even I know that running off during the vows to hook a barbel might be considered rude. (Or so Marta tells me, but what if it was a really big barbel?)

On my first day on the other side of the pond, John Buckingham took me out for a day of float fishing. I love using the centerpin and delicate float gear, even if I haven’t completely figured out how to use all the accouterments. Of course, it was no trouble to catch crucian carp – now that the pressure was off, I got four or five. It was an education, as always, to watch John land big carp on 3 pound line when I never even saw the bite.

RAF Crucian

I would have done anything to catch this fish last May.

I stayed at the Compleat Angler in Marlow, so the Thames was right there, but I couldn’t bring myself to cast the weir just yet.

RAF Marlow

Looking out from the hotel bar toward Marlow. There are a lot of fish in that river.

I went and looked at the boat, and I knew that fishing the Thames was never going to be the same without Roger, but I also knew I couldn’t NOT fish the Thames.

RAF Angler

The bow of Roger’s old boat.

It is too special of a place with too many memories and too many fish yet to catch. One of the fishermen I met at Roger’s memorial was one Steve Roberts, a tweed-clad gentleman who had been a great friend of Mr. Barnes. Steve was just opening his own guide service on the Thames – indeed, he ended up buying Roger’s boat. (River Days Guiding – you can find him on  or

Because I am every guide’s worst nightmare, I decided to give Mr. Roberts a severe test for his first Wozniak excursion. Rather than the pike and perch he knows so well in his home waters near Pangbourne, I asked him to find me a flounder. (“A what?” I could hear him thinking.) He was game, although this would require a long drive to a part of greater London that would be described, in local parlance, as “dodgy.”

Tilbury is supposed to have excellent flounder fishing the right time of year, but the place is like Cleveland without the charm. We set up on a long stretch of seawall and prayed we wouldn’t get mugged. It was rather chilly, but luckily, I had brought my Royal Air Force sweater.

I had always wanted an RAF sweater – one of those heavy white turtlenecks the aircrews wore in World War II. After I pestered Marta for years, she finally found one online and bought it for me. Then came the really difficult question – where the heck was I going to wear the thing? Sure, it would look appropriate if I was blowing up the Mohne dam, but otherwise, I was lost. But I was going to England, where it is generally cold and rainy, and I decided that this was the appropriate place to get some use out this “jumper,” as they call them here.

RAF Thames Essex

Lovely Tilbury. If I had caught a flounder, it would have all been worth it.

RAF Steve R

The first photograph of Steve and Steve. The big white thing holding back my stomach is the aforementioned RAF sweater. And yes, I think it’s totally cool.

There was little drama to the day, apart from the brawl that broke out at a nearby pub. There were no flounder – Steve did his best, but they just weren’t there. But in just a few days, we would try the Thames together in his home weir, and I expected this would be a different experience altogether.

Then there was the matter of a wedding to attend.

After careful consideration, I decided not to wear the RAF sweater at Kate and Sam’s wedding. I wore something more suit-like, and tried to stay out of the way as much as possible, except when there was food. Katie looked lovely, Sam looked not completely terrified, and I have to call that a win. Marta was locked up in some venture capital event for the week, so my date was John Buckingham, a wonderful person to be sure, but perhaps a touch less attractive than Marta. Of course, that’s just my opinion.


The only photo of me and John at the wedding. The lovely woman in the foreground is Dee, Roger’s girlfriend of many years.

The event was held at the Henley rowing museum, which, although Kate and Sam will protest otherwise, was quite posh. Henley is a town upriver of Marlow, best known for its annual regatta. (Where the wealthy and powerful of Britain watch rowing competitions, wear outlandish school blazers, drink expensive French chardonnays, and get sick in the hedge.)

RAF Blazers

Outlandish school blazers.

RAF Henley

Looking down the Thames from outside the museum.

The ceremony itself was lovely, blessed by weather that had unexpectedly gone from a predicted storm to perfect.

RAF Wedding 1

To the right after Sam and Katy are Dee, Pippa (Katy’s Mom,) and Roger’s Mom. 

To my great delight, the wedding featured some classic British wedding millinery. As a fan of Downton Abbey, I was hoping I would see these at least once in person, and now my wish is fulfilled.


Authentic British wedding headgear. Awesome.

RAF Redheads

There was also authentic British wedding hair. Also awesome.

The cake was a quiet tribute to Roger.

RAF Cake

This represents Sam’s first fishing trip with Roger, on which Sam caught a pike in the 20 pound range. It took me a lot of years to catch a pike that big.

RAF Katy 1

My favorite picture of Katy.


Yes, Sam really is that tall.

Two days after the wedding, I had optimistically arranged a day of sea fishing on the south coast. There are quite a few rays and flatfish there I haven’t caught yet, but the constant challenge is vile weather. My last trip in this area, with Roger in 2010, was a windswept debacle that saw the reappearance of more than one breakfast. (Details HERE.)

The connection to this trip started with Roger, then to Steve Collier, owner of our favorite pub in Twyford, and then to a friend of his named Nigel, who Steve mentioned is one of the most intense and skilled sea fishermen he has ever met. Needless to say, Nigel and I hit it off well. He organized for me to go out with a group of his friends, but warned me that the entire venture was completely weather-dependent and that the weather in April was typically rotten.

Nigel called me the night before and I expected the worst. He said “Great news – it’s only blowing 25.” It is clear that the British standards of acceptable weather differ somewhat from our own, but the point was that we were going. He drove me down to Langstone the next morning – the same area near Portsmouth where I had fished in 2010. We passed the hour-long drive talking about Nigel’s trips in the area, and I lost count of the species I could add.

We boarded the Valkyrie, a sturdy power catamaran, and Nigel introduced me to skipper Glen Cairns. Glen has fished this area his entire life and knew every hole and reef. This did not mean, of course, that he could control the weather.

RAF Group

From left to right, Nigel, Glen, and Steve. We apparently share the same hairstylist.

The weather was not so awful that we couldn’t go out, but it was rough enough to keep us from reaching some of the prime ray spots. Glen anchored up and gave it his best, but it was all kinds of sloppy. Molnar would have gone rail bunny in five minutes.

RAF water

A lovely day on the water, at least by British standards.

It was quickly obvious that Nigel knew what he was doing. Before I had my first bite, he landed both ray species I wanted desperately to catch – the blonde and the undulate.

RAF Nigel

Nigel at work.

RAF Blonde Nigel

Nigel’s 17 pound blonde. At this stage, I figured I had to get one.

RAF Blonde Ray

Then Nigel’s friend Ray got one.

I figured I had to be due any second. But it didn’t happen. Nigel still got a few fish, while I got nothing. I was reconsidering our friendship when I finally had a small bite. I hauled up a pouting, a cod relative locally held in low esteem, but when I weighed it, I was thrilled. Low esteem or not, I had tied the world record on this fish. Of course, this is because no one else bothers to turn them in – everyone on the boat had caught a larger one at some time in the past, and they were stunned – and lightly amused – that the record was only two pounds.

RAF pouting

Steve gets on the board with a record. I had caught the species before, but obviously not this big.

We stuck it out for hours at the ray spot, but the bite dried up completely, and we finally moved to a harder bottom where Glen knew we would at least get some action with sharks. We all got a smoothound or two, and then I got an odd bite and odder fight. It was not a shark, and when I got it to the net, I was thrilled – I thought I had gotten my blonde ray. But I hadn’t.

RAF Spotted

The spotted ray.

To Glen and Nigel’s astonishment, I had gotten a spotted ray – a relatively rare creature that occasionally wanders into the area. Not only was it a new species, but it was also a record. Despite a bit of a pounding from the rough water, the day had been more than worth it.

RAF Valkyrie

If you find yourself in London, look up Glen – Langstone is a short drive away and great fishing on the right days.

I then turned my attention toward reacquainting myself with an old friend – the River Thames.

Back in the day, the Thames was a famous trout fishery. Because of this, and because the British love to leave esoteric laws on the books well after they are pertinent (e.g. it is illegal for women to eat chocolate on public transportation in London,) there are quite a few trout regulations on the books for the Thames, even though the pollution killed off most of them years ago.

One of these regulations had to do with the closed season. For “coarse fish” – which include the pike and perch I love catch – the Thames season is closed from March 15 to June 15. But the “trout” season remains open in that period, even though the trout fishery was almost non-existent for many years. In recent years, stocking programs and vastly improved water quality, both of which Roger helped work for, have helped the trout start to come back, and once in a while, Roger would mention that he caught a Thames trout.

This loophole is used by some to continue fishing in the off season, although Roger would always make a game effort at fishing for trout, having me use smaller lures and fish more likely areas. We never did get one, although I saw one once above the Temple lock.

So it was that Steve Roberts and I set out to give it an effort after this elusive creature. It was a beautiful place, but a typical English spring day – blustery and cold. Luckily, I had the RAF sweater.

Steve picked me up at Marlow and took me out to Pangbourne – a lovely 40 minute drive through some classic English countryside. We arrived at a boat ramp, and I could tell this would be another amazing fishery. I readied my trout gear while Steve went to get the boat.

RAF Pang

The boat ramp at Pangbourne, so called because the River Pang meets the Thames here.

Steve walked off onto the path, carrying a pair of oars, which I presumed were for an emergency. I fished the bank a bit, and kept waiting for the sound of an engine starting. It was then I saw Steve and the boat. The oars were not for an emergency. They would be our primary method of propulsion, thus earning Steve the nickname “The hardest working man in row business.”

RAF Boat

Dude, you have to be kidding me. But we managed nicely in the small punt, although it was difficult to get far enough apart to get decent photos.

We first tried the weirpool. It was cold and getting colder, but after a couple of hours of casting a small spinner, I got a big hit and landed a nice chub.

RAF Chub

A European chub – always fun on lures, but not a trout.

I also ended up with two pike later in the day – it always amazes me how small of a lure they will take.

RAF Pike

But they weren’t trout.

The day was winding down, and the gloomy light was slowly fading into a gloomier light. We were working our way back to the ramp, but Steve spotted one more spot to try – a perfectly trouty-looking confluence where the River Pang joined the Thames. I cast it twice without result, then got a sharp strike on the third try. I reeled in a frisky fish, which I presumed was a perch, and I had flipped it into the boat before I realized that it was a trout.

RAF Trout

An authentic Thames trout. 

Reserved and British though he is, Steve whooped in celebration, and so did I. It didn’t need to be said that we were both thinking of Roger. This fish became perhaps the most photographed trout in the history of trout, and Steve learned about both selfies and photobombing in the same moment.

RAF Trout 2

So it certainly wasn’t a big trout at all, but it was the most beautiful one I have ever seen. It was a link to the past and a dear friend, and it was a link to a better future for the Thames. I let it go, and it swam off into the riffle, unaware that it had nearly made two grown men cry.


RAF River 2

Pangbourne at dusk.

Posted by: 1000fish | September 5, 2015

The Interior Design Crisis

Dateline: April 18, 2015 – Dania Beach, Florida

Years ago, when I had something like nine world records, I saw a Hawaiian-style shirt I liked very much. It featured images of Santiago and The Marlin from Old Man and the Sea, one of my favorite books ever, and I knew I had to own it. Marta was not in favor of yet another Hawaiian shirt, as she claims my clothing storage needs eclipse hers, but I explained that this was thing I needed to wear as I accepted an IGFA Lifetime Achievement Award. She informed me that this would require 100 world records and that I had eight. “Nine.” I reminded her. “Eight and one pending.” she countered. There is nothing more frightening than the fact that Marta actually listens to most of what I say.

That shirt sat, neatly folded, on a pile of other shirts in my old home in San Ramon, then made the move to Alamo where it took up residence on the bedroom hearth. Then, in April of this year, it migrated to my carryon luggage and a United flight, which eventually arrived in Miami on a schedule not related to the published itinerary. Finally, on the afternoon of April 18, I put it on for the first time.

It itched like crazy.

But I got to wear it. You all already know I got the 100 world records – the fish was caught in June of 2014, the record was confirmed in October of that same year, but it was only in April of this year, at the World Record Achievement Awards, that I would actually get the hardware. And at this stage, a very serious discussion would need to take place between me and Marta, because this one was NOT going in the garage. This one was going on the mantle, with a spotlight on it and a button I could push to play a chorus of angels on demand.

It was clear that this was going to require substantial negotiation.

Of course, I was not going to Miami without doing some fishing with Martini, and for the third time in six weeks, we got to hit the water together. This may sound like a lot, but when we had lived only a few miles apart for four years, it had been a lot easier to get together.

The flight to Miami was a redeye, and Martini was at the airport just after dawn, ready to go. He had been telling me about this pier for a long time, and felt that we could get several new species on it.

Deco Pier 1

Martini heads out on the pier, and yes, she was totally checking him out.

We had constant action all day. I have fished in this area quite a bit, so I had already gotten most of the creatures, but they were still great fun – and some of them are beautiful animals. Martini knew there were several new species out there, so I just kept fishing and had a great time.

Deco Doctor

A doctorfish. I’ve caught them before, but they are always worth a photo.

Deco Cow

Scrawled cowfish – we caught dozens of these. It took me hours of effort to catch my first one four years ago. (Details HERE.)

To be fair, I cost myself an hour of fishing (and possibly that much time in the bathroom) by insisting that we have lunch at Skyline Chili. This Cincinnati staple has a branch in Ft. Lauderdale, and I wasn’t going to miss it. Yes, this is runny chili served over spaghetti with cheese, onion, and a huge dose of Tabasco, and I LOVE IT. Martini was not as impressed.

Deco Sceptic

That is a skeptical look if I have ever seen one. I get this same look from Marta any time I suggest displaying a fishing award upstairs.

In the afternoon, things picked up. We stumbled into some big parrotfish, which would be odd on squid baits, but I was thrilled. These things pull hard and are wildly beautiful, and yes, we released them unharmed.

Deco Rainbow

Rainbow parrotfish. Yes, they have blue lips.

Deco Stoplight

Martini and the new world record stoplight parrotfish. This large adult looks nothing like the juveniles I have caught, and I made the mistake of telling passersby that this species has three phases, when Martini knew there were two. He is a marine biologist. I am not. Oops.

Late in the day, I got my smallest parrotfish of the session – but it was a new species. (The princess parrotfish, named after Marta.) Although I would have been thrilled to spend a beautiful day on a Florida pier with a great friend, this – and the Skyline chili – really made it perfect.

Deco Princess

The princess parrotfish.

The next day was not exactly big game fishing. Martini graciously took half a day of his time, five hours he will never get back, to drive me to a God-forsaken ditch somewhere in the Everglades, where, somehow, he had figured out there was a population of marsh killifish. I got one.

Deco Marsh


Moments after that stupendous capture, Martini and I were investigating a culvert when I heard a WHACK that sounded like a small, highly-accelerated rock going off his forehead. I turned around to see that he had been nailed above the left eye by some sort of ill-willed Alien/Predator style insect. By evening, he looked like he had been on the wrong end of a bar brawl with three right-handed hockey players.

Deco Sting

Martini before being treated. He didn’t say a thing, but it must have hurt like crazy.

Having his face swollen half shut did not stop him from helping me fish the boathouse that night. Our target, the elusive if ironically-named hardhead silverside.

Deco Silverside

The hardhead silverside joins the species list.

Later in the week, Marta showed up, and so the activities shifted to museums and birdwatching. I say this without resentment. Really, I do.

Well, except there was that one trip to Boca Raton. Boca Raton has artsy stuff and other things which apparently should interest Marta, according to an article I once read in Cosmopolitan, or Yoga Weekly, or Sport Fishing Magazine, I forget which. And since we were up there, I reasoned that I may as well stop at a certain boat ramp Martini had recommended. While Marta was not exactly thrilled, I quickly added two species – the jenny mojarra and the sharpnose puffer.

Deco Jenny

The jenny mojarra, featured prominently in Forrest Gump.

Deco Puffer

Puffers are so cool.

On Friday, one of my great friends, Scott Perry, flew in from California just to attend the awards ceremony and throw wadded-up paper at anyone who booed me.

Saturday afternoon, we piled into the car and drove up to Dania Beach, where four of us would get our lifetime achievement awards – the 15th, 16th, 17th, and 18th individual anglers to be recognized in this fashion. (Yes, I actually was the 15th, but why are you all so competitive? Jeez.) The other three anglers were Bo Nelson, quite a regular on the award stand, Dennis Triana, a local guy who had managed this while having one major thing I do not – responsibilities – and a woman by the name of Roberta Arostegui. Yes, that Roberta Arostegui, joining Marty and Martini. The cat gets his next year.

I was actually quiet on the drive, deep in thought about everything I had done to get to this stage – the air miles, the thousand of hours on the water, the friendships I had made, but also all of the things I had passed up. I still sometimes wonder why I did this. Perhaps as a legacy, perhaps for my own ego, perhaps because I am unhealthily competitive, perhaps because I irrationally love fishing – the only person who could ever get to the bottom of this would be a world-class psychiatrist, and every time I see one of them, they give my money back and run off screaming.

Deco Team

Walking the red carpet – from west to east, that’s Roberta, Marty, cousin Angel, some tall chick, Angel’s girlfriend Marizza, and Martini.

First there was cocktail hour, which may explain the inability to ever fully organize the group photo.

Deco Group 3

If you look carefully, you can see Richard Hart, the snoring master from Karaoke Night at Srinakarin.

We then walked inside, and after a viciously competitive silent auction, we started dinner and the actual awards. Jack Vitek did an outstanding job hosting the show, except for that brief moment he looked like he was possessed by Satan.

Deco redeye

I’m not sure the camera had a flash.

Bo and Dennis both accepted their awards with modesty and presence. Bo has done some amazing stuff over the years, chasing a lot of line-class and fly records throughout the US and Mexico. And Dennis – he probably had the most amazing journey of all to 100, juggling a job and a young family and having to plan out trips around responsibilities I can’t imagine. If he writes a book on this, I’ll be the first to buy it – this was hard enough for me, and I’ve been able to fish in over 80 countries.

Then there was Roberta. Apart from the lifetime achievement, she also cleaned up the women’s awards for the 2014 season. Remember, the figures you see below are just for 2014.

Deco Roberta 1

Her speech for the Lifetime Achievement award was the best moment of the evening. She spoke of the journey to 100 records, and the countries and states it took her to – 16 of each – but also to the fact that she had been able to do all of this with her family. She pursued her passion while living her dream – and that’s what it’s all about.

Deco Roberta

We needed another car for Roberta’s trophies.

After the long and standing ovation for Roberta tapered off, I knew they were about to introduce me. I had one more moment of what passes for introspection, and realized how humbling this all was. This is something we all did together, on different paths and for different reasons, and just being there was one of the greatest honors I will ever have.

So I went up on stage and they gave me the hardware. It was heavier than I thought – I have deliberately never picked one up before, because I always wanted the first one I touched to be mine.

Deco Stage

Rob and Jack present Steve with something that is NOT going in the garage.

I don’t remember much about my speech. I tried to thank as many people as I could, and I probably mused at more length than I remember about what an amazing journey it had all been. When I was finished, I just sat there at the podium for a moment, looking around the room and taking in the moment.

Deco Podium Bad

And apparently making a face I shouldn’t have.

There were two people I looked for the moment I got off stage. The first was Marta – she has shared this entire journey and made it all possible by wanting me out of the house so much. The second was Martini – one of the few people who knows exactly what I had to go through to do this, and who encouraged me at key moments with kind words like “The next five will be even harder.”

Deco Hug

Martini has no idea I wiped my nose on his shirt.

Scott was quietly there, as he has been for 23 years.

Deco Perry

That’s Scott Perry on the right. If I ever run for office, he is the guy Fox News would want to find.

Deco Trophy

This is the one I want Marta to frame and put on her desk. Oops – Birthday present spoiler alert.

Before we left, we got the four award winners together for a photo.

Deco foursome

That’s me with Dennis, Bo, and Roberta. My congratulations to them.

I should have slept very well that night and dreamed, at least for an evening, some proud dreams about an accomplishment some ten years in the making. But it was a short night, and I dreamed only of what I had yet to do – there were so many more species out there, so many more countries, so many more records. I was 51 when this happened, but that’s far enough along where I knew I wouldn’t be able to get every species, or every country, or all the records.

But I knew that I wanted to try. As long as I live.

And so, at some ungodly predawn hour, I dropped Marta off at the airport and met Scott over at the pier. We had a whole day ahead, a cooler full of Red Bull and squid, and a reef underneath us that just had to hold something new.

Deco Pier 3

The pier at dawn, when all is still possible.

It was perfect, and I was looking forward to a long day of trying different spots and rigs, when Scott just had to piss me off. He caught a Caesar grunt. Just like Martini. Just like Jaime. And I knew that was the only one we would see all day. Next time, I’m not giving him any squid.

Deco Caesar

That’s Scott’s hand and Scott’s Caesar grunt. No squid for you next time, Mr. Perry.

An hour later, things went more in my favor. I pulled up a Spanish hogfish, adding to my hogfish collection.

Deco Hogfish

My fifth hogfish species.

Just before lunch, I added another species – one I had never even heard of.

Deco Razor

The green razorfish. It was turning into a good day, except for the Caesar grunt.

Scott then managed to catch one of the largest mojarras I have ever seen. On a day of sabiki-based species hunting, this is what passes for a trophy.

Deco Mojarra

This could have eaten any mojarra I’ve ever caught.

The Caesar grunt remained elusive, but I did get a juvenile beaugregory – not a new species but a beautiful photo when they’re young.

Deco Beau 3

Not exactly camo, but the reefs are full of garish color patterns.

Then it was time for lunch. You know where this is going.

Deco Skyline 3

Yes, I made Scott eat at Skyline. No matter what it did to his intestinal tract, it was scant revenge for the Caesar Grunt.

Late in the day, I added one more species – the clown wrasse. This was the creature Martini thought I would catch the most quickly out here, which goes to show that the Fish Gods don’t ever let anything go as planned.

Deco Clown

Three clowns, one wrasse.

We closed things up in the evening, a perfect day – except for, of course, the Caesar grunt. We had dinner with the Arosteguis, and in the morning, flew off in opposite directions.

The trophy arrived at our Alamo home via Fedex about a week after I got home. I put it on the mantle. Marta smiled and quietly announced her initial list of demands. I won’t bore you with them, but why would you ask if my dignity was involved? Maybe I like dusting and vacuuming without complaint forever. Maybe I like cooking dinner in a frilly apron once a week. Focus on the positive, readers!

Deco Mantle

Spotlight and chorus of angels still under negotiation, and yes, that is a flying pig on the right.

It so became that the Lifetime Achievement Award is my only fishing trophy on display in the main house. The Santiago shirt, unfortunately, has been sent to the garage.


Deco Wall

Deco wall 1

Posted by: 1000fish | August 28, 2015

Swede Home Alabama

Dateline: April 5, 2015 – Birmingham, Alabama

What kind of idiot drives eight hours to try to catch a two inch fish? If you don’t know, you’re probably a new reader. Welcome!

Micro Selfie

These are the kind of idiots who drive eight hours to catch a two-inch fish.

Martini and I were not discouraged by our March fishing trip, the semi-debacle that turned into a race to stay ahead of a cold front. Sure, we showed great determination, but there is a fine line between determined and stupid. And so it was, less than a month after Dial M for Micro, we found ourselves saddling up for a jaunt to Alabama – which apparently has more freshwater species than just about anywhere.

Martini is the one who plans these things out – his research is painstaking and exhaustive. He offered me the option to meet him in Miami and drive up, which is a long way, or to fly in to somewhere north and avoid all that endless I-75. I would like to think I chose Miami to share the road hours with Martini, and that was part of my decision, but the ugly truth is that I knew that if I drove from Miami, I would get to go through Gainesville and get another crack at the elusive variegated platyfish. As you all know, I attempted to catch one of these in March, an attempt which ended in humiliation, and eight hours in the car was a small price to pay for another shot at the beast.

Swede Yeehaw

One of the many highlights on the drive from Miami to Gainesville.

It is a long drive, but we had lots of Red Bull and a good supply of Taylor Swift CDs, which, now that I look at it, sounded a whole lot less creepy in the first draft. We made one stop on the way, hunting a brook silverside. I am as proud as you are bewildered that I caught one.

Swede Silverside

Sure it’s small, but has Jaime caught one?

Then we were off after the platyfish. We pulled into the neighborhood where I had screwed up so spectacularly only 28 days before, and set up the teensy float. I was admittedly nervous – this fish seemed to require hand steadiness found only in deceased persons, and I wondered if I could pull it off. Even the slightest finger twitch can make a bait move critical millimeters away from a hungry platyfish, and once I had started missing them in March, things quickly snowballed into an avalanche of failure and disgrace.

We pulled up at the small residential creek where Martini had made my inner child weep.

Swede Culvert

Every time you think I spend all of my time in beautiful foreign locales, look at this picture.

Swede relief

Martini awaits with the photo tank. It was early and he had a remarkably positive attitude.

Martini was silent and patient, but the pressure was enormous. I tried to go to a quiet place in my soul, but my soul has very few quiet places, and so it was that I simply went at it and tried not to think a lot. My hand was still not too steady – perhaps it’s all that Red Bull – but about ten minutes into what could have become an ordeal, an enraged bull platyfish ignored my poor presentation and somehow managed to get hooked.

Swede Platy 2

A platyfish goes on the scoreboard!

Swede Platy

A closeup of this unusual and beautiful creature. The mouth is intimidatingly small.

Martini was almost as happy as I was. We headed off to Blue Springs for a few hours, where we both got lined topminnows, although Martini could not find the russetfin I had gotten in March. Perhaps this is because he was mean to me in March. Still, we celebrated that evening with the first of several great barbecue meals on this trip.

Swede lined

The lined topminnow. I love micros when they don’t look like nondescript shiners.

We had one target in mind that next morning – the elusive grayfin redhorse. Martini had caught one previously (details HERE) but was kind enough to stop on a likely river for me to get one. He then did something even kinder – when I set up to fish a bait right under the bridge, he went walking downstream looking for fish, and moments later, that long-distance whisper came over the water – “Steve! They’re – right – here!” He had spotted a fish a short walk downstream, and waved me over so I could cast to it. This is what fishing brothers do for each other.

Only he nearly got screwed for his kindness. Minutes later, I got the bait presented to the fish correctly, and it struck. I landed it, thrilled to get my grayfin, but moments later, it hit me that this fish didn’t look gray at all. It looked spotted. It was a spotted sucker, one of the truly rare species in the life-list brotherhood, and I was holding one – a marvelous if unintended gift from Martini.

Swede Spotted

A spotted sucker – the great surprise of this trip, apart from the restaurant we would experience about seven hours after this picture was taken.

He gamely photographed it for me, and while he was plainly shared my joy, he was also pained that he had passed it up. Part of the unwritten rules are that, if he had known it was a spotted, and he spotted it, he had every right to cast to it – but he had passed it to me.

Not one to mope, Martini stalked up to the same corner, and moments later, spotted another fish. He skillfully cast to it, and in short order, he had caught the spotted sucker that he spotted, and yes, it was bigger than mine.

Swede M Spotted

And it’s a nicer photo.

Martini immediately texted Mike Channing, the species-hunting pastor from Wisconsin. The spotted sucker is a biggie in species-hunting circles, and Martini was justifiably proud. Martini told Mike the whole story, and Mike wrote back “Don’t EVER give Steve any advantages.” I buy this guy multiple meals at Dairy Queen and he treats me like this?? Oh, the pain.

Swim Shorthead

That’s Mike on the right. It’s bad enough when someone tells the world to offer you no advantages; doubly so when it’s a pastor. Even worse, he’s probably right.

That night, we pulled up at a questionable-looking motel in rural Alabama. We went inside to get the rooms, and improbably, the clerk was a Nordically-blonde woman named Clara Larsson. So I said “Swede Home Alabama,” and I’m not sure, but I think Martini threw up. (I also think she was wearing blue Swede shoes.)

Speaking of throwing up, the only food option in town was a Mexican restaurant – we had hoped to find authentic barbecue and ended up with something that was not exactly Mexican food and was confusingly served by a Chinese waiter. Happily, this would be our only night without barbecue food on the trip.

Swede chair

Martini sits quietly outside the restaurant, trying to outlast his enchilada.

Morning saw us deep in Alabama, heading to one of Martini’s most impressive research achievements. He had located a spot on the Alabama River where southeastern blue suckers apparently gather to spawn. This is a large fish with a very small mouth that favors fast, deep water. In other words, the Fish Gods have pulled a prank on us, but we were game to fish in the tailrace of a huge dam, although our equipment was a touch light for the eight plus ounces needed to occasionally touch the bottom.

We gave it a game try, but a funny thing happened on the way to catching no suckers – we noticed that there seemed to be some fish in the racing current at our feet, and in short order, a sabiki appeared and we discovered that we were on a veritable swarm of threadfin shad.

Swede threadfin

There were zillions of these right underfoot.

We also got silver chub in the shallows, so even though the blue sucker remained elusive, I was up two more species.

Swede silver

The silver chub. Martini caught them also and figured out the ID.

In the morning, we drove north into yet another watershed rumored to be full of exotic species. To be fair, the place definitely has a lot of fish, but we also seemed to have arrived at a time with colder-than-normal conditions, so while we did get some species, we had to work for them. Some of the places we visited, such as Hurricane Creek in Tuscaloosa, were absolutely beautiful, and it was great fun hopping from spot to spot, knowing each one could hold something new and interesting, at least to us and a few ichthyologists.

Swede Hurricane

Martini explores Hurricane Creek.

But despite our best efforts and the capture of loads of bass, catfish, and sunfish, nothing new appeared that day. Undaunted, we dined that evening in an authentic Alabama barbecue joint, meaning that we saw as many firearms as we did rib slabs. I will say that everyone was very polite.

Not to be deterred, we spent the early morning back on Hurricane creek, casting for bass and searching for new and exciting micros. Our persistence was rewarded when I got an Alabama shiner – I only got one all morning among a swarm of blacktail shiners, which I had already gotten on the Great Road Trip of 2014. (Details HERE.)

Swede Alabama shiner

The Alabama shiner, an official Alabama souvenir!

An hour or so north, after winding through some country roads that had a church at least every half a mile, we came to a creek that had low, clear water. Martini spotted some type of bass – at least two pairs. These could be Alabama bass, which would be a new species for both of us, so he set to casting. And they ignored him. He is incredibly persistent, but they just ignored him. He finally moved down the creek, and I decided to take a crack at the bass, even though they were both likely phenomenally annoyed and wouldn’t eat again until August.

Naturally, my first cast, with a bargain-basement jighead and grub, got smashed, and the fish bent the hook and escaped. I was disgusted with myself, because I knew I would not get another chance. (Kids, always tie on the good lure FIRST.) So, I tied on a high-quality plastic, and naturally, my second cast also got hit, likely by the same fish, and improbably, I had added the species.

Swede Bass

The Alabama bass. Or so I’m told by scientists.

I flew out of Birmingham early the next day, leaving Martini to do two more days of fishing and then head back to Florida on his own. It had been another good road trip, and I knew that we would be hitting the water together again in only eight days.

I also knew that, in only 11 days, Marta and I were going to face a major home decorating decision.


Posted by: 1000fish | August 21, 2015

Dial M for Micro

Dateline: March 7, 2015 – A ditch somewhere in Southern Florida

Plan A was a good plan. Plan B was good. But by the time we got down to M, it was pure desperation.

This was supposed to be a great trip. Martini, with his genius for research and planning, had identified a four-day bonanza of southeastern species that was to begin in North Carolina and end up back at his home in Coral Gables. But as Von Klausewitz sagely observed, no battle plan survives contact with the enemy, and the enemy, in this case, was the weather. It was cold, and not just a”pack a fleece” kind of chilly, but an unseasonable arctic cold that could freeze both small streams and underpants.

I flew in late one evening, believing that an unexpected warm front would move in and make everything OK. I also believe in the Easter Bunny. It actually got colder, and by the time we got up at 6am, the temperature was into single digits, and indeed, I felt like showing a single digit to the Fish Gods, but no good could come of that. The bass and redhorses we wanted were simply not going to bite, so we went to “Plan B” and headed southeast toward the coast. There, we optimistically reasoned, we might get a couple of marsh species. This also turned out to be hopeless.

We needed to head south to get ahead of the weather, although it had been cold as far south as Venezuela, so this was going to be a challenge. Martini made some calls and set us up to pursue monster catfish on Santee-Cooper reservoir in South Carolina the next day. While I had caught both the flathead and the blue catfish, (details HERE,) I didn’t have a particularly large example of either, so this sounded like fun. The weather was actually decent for our outing, but it was almost immediately clear that the cold fronts had put fish off the bite. We got a few small cats and white perch, and we were left scrambling to find options further south.

Micro Bluegill

I did catch a big bluegill at the dock, but when your biggest fish of the day is a bluegill, that’s an issue.

It was during the day on Santee-Cooper that Martini made a rather memorable personal hygiene error. In dealing with a call from nature, Martini noted that the guide had a convenient container of what looked like baby wipes within arm’s length. Only they weren’t baby wipes. They were heavy-duty kitchen wipes, meant for scrubbing crusted chicken fat off of stoves. Bleach and some parts of the human body were never meant to meet.

Micro Wipes


As we drove to Florida, it was obvious that the cold front was moving right along with us. We got far enough ahead of it on the third day to actually make some progress. We stopped at Blue Springs, one of Florida’s beautiful freshwater springs, in which the water happens to look blue, and species were awaiting. In a few hours, I managed to get both a russetfin topminnow and the rather rare Suwanee bass.

Micro Russetfin

The russetfin topminnow. 

Micro Suwannee

My Suwannee bass. We had tried for these on the road trip last June.

I was back on the board, and suddenly feeling very good about making the trip. As a bonus, Martini had not caught the russetfin topminnow, which we would not know for some weeks, but the Fish Gods would punish me anyway in just a few hours.

Leaving Blue Springs behind, we needed to head through Gainseville, and it was here that Martini’s penchant for deep research led to both opportunity and heartbreak. Martini somehow figured out that a small creek running through a residential neighborhood in Gainesville contained something called a variegated platyfish.

I like platypi. One of my few friends is a stuffed platypus named Robert, so I thought it would be cool to catch a platyfish.

IGFA weird place

That’s Robert the Platypus peering over my right shoulder.

Despite the need for ridiculously tiny hooks and sight-fishing that needed a dead-still presentation, Martini made it look easy and got one right away.

Micro Platyfish

The amazing variegated platyfish. 

But just as Jaime Hamamoto had embarrassed me on the mosquitofish all those years ago, (See “The Worst Little Girl in the World,”) Martini caught the only platyfish that day. I just couldn’t keep the bait from twitching a millimeter or two away from the beasts. Martini was very patient with me. We were already running very late for a dinner with his cousin, but he kept trying to help. “There’s one! Don’t move the bait. Oh damn. Wait, there’s one! Don’t move the bait. Oh, damn.” And just as I had one take a savage run at my fleck of night crawler, I set the hook perhaps a bit too enthusiastically and launched the entire rig into a hopeless Bimini around the rod tip. Martini sighed and said something helpful like “Smooth move, genius.” And I was hurt. Butt-hurt.

I thought I would give Martini a hard time by playing up the emotionally damage. I pouted and said something like “You didn’t need to be so mean.” Without missing a beat, he responded “Well, you didn’t need to be so stupid.” Touche. We glared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

We spent the evening having dinner with Martini’s cousin Angel, and in the morning, we headed for Tampa Bay. Martini had several species scoped out, and then had located a pier where we could spend the afternoon. Our first stop was something of a backwater by a bridge, and Martini stalked the shoreline until he improbably spotted a two-inch long killifish out in the murky tidal flat. In 30 quick minutes, I put two killifish – the gulf and the goldspotted – on my species list.

Micro Gulf Killi

The gulf killifish. One of the more savage of the killifish, but not the most savage. Keep reading.

Micro Goldspotted

The goldspotted killifish. My killifish collection was making major progress.

Things were looking very up. We then headed over to a huge fishing pier in Tampa Bay itself. I love pier fishing. It’s usually comfortable, and it facilitates my great love of putting out multiple rods with multiple rigs and baits, allowing me to miss bites on each while I am messing with the others. (Three dozen guides and John Buckingham are reading this right now and shaking their heads sadly.)

I knew we might get the elusive gulf flounder or some other oddity, and the constant action was great fun, even if most of the creatures were pinfish of some sort. But as we happily pitched shrimp at the hard bottom below us, the sky darkened ominously and the breeze picked up into a cold and gusty wind. The weather had caught up to us, even this far south. We stuck it out until evening, and despite the increasingly brisk conditions, I got the largest fish of the trip – a mangrove snapper of some three pounds.

Micro snapper

Why couldn’t it have been a gulf flounder?

We crashed out that night at the iffiest hotel of the trip, a true mildew factory with a carpet that seemed to writhe underfoot every time I stepped on it.

We awoke early to explore some state parks in the area which were supposed to be positively crammed with oddball species. Halfway to the car, we started shivering. It was 41 degrees. IN TAMPA. What had I done to the Fish Gods? The cold front was following me like a crazed stalker, only no restraining order could fix things. We drove through some wonderful locations, with beautiful-looking backwaters and streams, but everything had completely shut down.

Martini realized that drastic action would be necessary if we were to catch anything, and so we bailed out on everything on that side of the state and headed for his home turf, the general Miami area.

The good news is that I got six new species in the next 12 hours. That bad news is that all six, if placed together on a scale, would not have outweighed the rod I used to catch them. And so we are off on a whirlwind of micro fishing – Plan M.

Our first stop was somewhere in the northern Everglades, where I got a Seminole Killifish. There’s a Jameis Winston joke in there someplace.

Micro Seminole

The best bait for them is shoplifted crab.

Driving the Ford Escape through the spectacularly unscenic, ruler-straight state roads of central Florida, we reached the Fort Lauderdale area in early afternoon. There, Martini took us first to a small pond in a local park, where we captured a sheepshead minnow – which turned out to be my 1400th species.

Micro Sheepshead

Another milestone with the Arosteguis! (Click HERE for species 1100.)

We then headed to a nearby backwater off the intercoastal waterway, where Martini had somehow figured out that there was a population of mangrove gambusias, which are like mosquitofish, but smaller.

Micro Gambusia

This is small even by our standards.

We were just getting started. Against Martini’s better judgement, we drove right past Coral Cables and toward the Keys. We wound our way through a set of back roads and, as the area got increasingly swampy, we finally parked at what looked like a roadside ditch that was filled, in equal proportions, with water and garbage. I almost asked Martini if he was kidding, but Martini never, ever kids about these things. He was dead tired, but he was as determined as I was to get me these species.

We put some micro float rigs into the water, and six minutes later, I had captured a black acara, an African jewel cichlid, and a pike killifish. Miniscule or not, this was three species about as quickly as I could unhook and photograph them.

Micro Acara

The black acara. This brought to a conclusion a hunt for a species that had been a mysterious ghost for years – supposed to be everywhere, but always confused with some tilapia.

Micro Jewel 2

The African jewel cichlid. Martini’s pictures are always much better than mine. Perhaps I should clean the chicken fat off my iPhone lens. Anybody have a Clorox kitchen wipe?

But the coolest of the small beast bonanza was clearly the pike killifish. A vicious predator in scale, these creatures attacked everything we threw at them and would have put up a determined fight if they had been larger than my index finger.

Micro Pike 1

Pike killifish. The ditch and a very focused Martini are in the background.

Micro Pike face 2

The dental hardware. How does Martini get these photos?

This had been the most productive six minutes since Cousin Chuck’s honeymoon. A trip that had started in frozen disaster had resulted in ten total species, including six in less than six hours. Sometimes, when life gives you lemons, you throw them out, buy a Red Bull, and fish for whatever is biting. On to 1500!



As you all know, my teenage arch-nemesis, Jaime Hamamoto, tries to spell her name “Jamie” just to be difficult. Well, my teenage arch-nemesis just got her driver’s license (I know, Wade – we’re OLD) and the State of Hawaii seems to agree with me on the spelling thing. I can’t tell you how much this pleases me.

Micro Jaime

I look at this at least once a day and giggle.

Posted by: 1000fish | August 12, 2015

A Quappe For Steve

Dateline: February 1, 2015 – Schluchsee, Germany

On February 1 of this year, Stefan Molnar and I left Walldorf, Germany and headed for a lake in the southwest of that country. The trip would be perhaps a hundred miles – two hours in winter conditions. As we pulled out onto the Autobahn, I knew faintly that if we went the same distance to the northeast, we would reach a tiny village, Georgenthal. My mind wandered to a spring day in that village, 70 years ago, and to a young man named Steve.

Steve was 26 – old for a US Army private in World War II. He had volunteered, leaving behind a wife and two young sons, but he was from a large Polish family in Detroit, and there was an intense desire to “hit back” for the old country. On April 9, 1945, he was leading a patrol outside Georgenthal when they were attacked. In a brief firefight, Steve was killed, and the German unit was wiped out. Only 29 days later, the war would end.

Steve was my grandfather.

Steve S Wozniak

PFC Steve S. Wozniak – July 20, 1918 – April 9, 1945.

I think of him often, but especially so when I am in Germany, sometimes just a few miles from Georgenthal. 70 years later, the war is a distant, but for many, a still-painful memory, but time has moved on slowly and old enemies have long since become comrades. Here I am, 70 years later, working for a German company. (And liking it, although the travel policies can be a bit draconian.) And there I was, 70 years later, about to go fishing with one of my best friends, a German. I have even had to explain Hogan’s Heroes to Stefan, because we have a co-worker who bears a striking resemblance to Sergeant Schultz.

What is it that attracts Stefan Molnar to frozen wastelands? And why does my boss make me come to Germany every January? The weather is usually rotten and the fishing less than optimal. I spent years being angry at this, but then I figured out that my boss was actually brilliantly strategic, by having our group meetings early in the year before the Operations people overspend their own budget and try to steal ours. I don’t think fishing figures into his thinking, which is regrettable but probably for the best, but the real villains here are the Operations people, who likely don’t even fish.

This time of the year in Germany, there are two fishing options – fly somewhere sort of nearby, like Dubai (Details HERE) or to tough it out and go after some sort of fish that doesn’t mind snow. (Put on a scarf and click HERE.)

There are very few fish that don’t mind frozen, awful weather, and fewer still who actually thrive in it. The burbot – known as Die Quappe in German – is one such fish. (I thought about making the title of this blog “Die Quappe,” but this would sound a little too violent until you realized it was in German.) A freshwater member of the cod family, burbot tend to live at great depths and are most catchable when they spawn in the dead of winter. I had wanted to catch one for years, and had been regularly tormented by my buddy Bob Reine because he had caught one.

Burbot doormat

I hate to point this out in public, but Bob’s doormat has a punctuation error, unless he’s trying to make it really, really clear that he owns the doormat, in which case, excuse me.

As always, this was a complex effort that involved a lot of people. Stefan Molnar has been a consistent fishing buddy and sees nothing wrong with going out in below zero temperatures. But we still needed to find Die Quappe. This is where Wolfgang Berse came into the picture. Wolfgang (who was himself introduced to me by the fabled Autobahn Werewolf, Jens Koller,) owns a great tackle store in Pforzheim.

Burbot Wolfgang

Steve and Wolfgang, about to celebrate a rod purchase with an inadvisable pre-dinner shot of schlivovitz. (You might note that Wolfgang is wearing a “Hi’s Tackle Box” hat.) For Wolfgang’s shop details, click HERE. (Photo taken by Guido, who you just know was wearing sandals and dark socks.)

When we presented Wolfgang with the problem of catching the quappe, he introduced us to Patrick Strass, a friend of his near Freiburg who specializes in such things.

We arranged to make a Saturday drive down the Schluchsee, in the Black Forest, to meet Patrick, who would provide bait, rigging, and ideas on the right spots. We left Walldorf early in the morning, turning south toward Karlsruhe, and away from Georgenthal.

I mused that 70 years ago, we might have been trying to kill each other, but a lifetime later, we were going fishing and talking about home improvement assignments, which never seem to end in the US or Germany. Stefan’s wife also sends most of his things to the garage. I wondered what my grandfather would have thought of this.

The scenery on the drive was stunning. As soon as we turned into the Black Forest, we were treated to wonderful, snow-covered, hilly scenery of the type featured in every Alpine travel guide I have ever seen. There were charming mountainside homes tucked away in the forest, where I imagined charming old couples working on cuckoo clocks and plotting against France.

Burbot chalet

Charming alpine houses. The area was beautiful until I stepped outside and realized it was 22 degrees.

Burbot Snow

A snow-covered Black Forest meadow. Again, lovely from the car as long as the heater was going full bore.

We got to the area – the lake was also stunning, but the experience was somewhat tempered by my knowledge that I was going to be outdoors for the rest of the day.

Burbot Lake

The lake as viewed from our hotel.

Burbot church

An old church nearby. I thought about stopping in and lighting a candle for a quappe, but the Fish Gods frown on such frivolity.

We dropped our bags at a charming inn and headed over to the dam. There was Patrick, bundled up like an arctic explorer.

Burbot group

Patrick, a friend, and Steve. They had gotten a zander earlier in the day, filling me with hope.

I reconsidered the wisdom of the whole thing when I saw that the side of the lake was covered in three feet of snow, and that any trip down to the water’s edge would risk a broken ankle and an unplanned swim.

Burbot shore

The shoreline. There was something about the idea of hiking down the steep, snow-covered bank that made me think Molnar should go first.

Luckily, there was an alternative. The plan was simple – get out onto the dam where we could access deeper water – well over 100 feet.

Burbot camp

The dam wall that would be our home for about six hours.

We would then cast night crawler baits on on sliding sinker rigs and wait. This was interesting for about five minutes, until the adrenaline wore off and I realized how darn cold it was. The brief show of sunshine had disappeared, and the bitter wind was driving down a moderate snowstorm.

Burbot idiots

What kind of idiots go out in this weather? See above.

About two hours into this adventure, just as the last of the feeling left my toes, my fishing rod gave a slight but definite twitch. Then, just as I reached for it, nothing happened. I reeled the rig back up, and the worm had clearly been chewed. There was hope. I rebaited and recast, and then set to pacing up and down the dam in a vain effort to stay warm. The temperature had dropped below 20, and I recognized that another hour outside and I could be sterile.

The snow cleared up a bit before dark, and if I had been in the car, I would have noticed how beautiful the trees were.

Burbot trees

It must be expensive to flock this many trees.

Burbot lake 2

The lake during a brief break in the snow. Just above the lake on the left you can see a red train going along the shoreline – this is a well-known service that brings in tourists year-round.

I kept trying different tactics, even drifting a micro-rig on the dam face. This got me a very small perch, which I took as a good sign – there were fish here.

Burbot Perch

Not my largest perch.

It had passed 5pm and the already thin light was draining from the sky. I stared at my rod tip, trying to will the fish to bite, but it just sat there, gathering ice. Thirty minutes later, I turned to drink a Red Bull that had turned into sort of a caffeine slurpee, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the rod snap down about four inches. I dropped the drink and picked up the rod. For a long moment, nothing, but then … another thump. And another. Breathlessly, I reeled the slack out of the line and set the hook hard. I felt weight on the end of the line, then a few lethargic tugs – a sure sign of a burbot. Before Molnar could even consider going down to the water’s edge, I reeled the fish up the dam face and onto the snow. I had added a species.

Burbot burbot

The beast. Take that, Bob Reine!

Burbot burbot 2

A closeup of the beast. Take that also, Bob Reine!

Burbot triumph

Molnar and Wozniak celebrate the beast. As it turns out, they have teeth. I only found this out after the feeling returned to my fingers. And where the heck did Molnar get that hat? Seriously. it looks like a plant holder.

We whooped and yelled our triumph, which echoed across the lake and disappeared into the increasing snowfall. I was happy with the species, to be sure, but almost equally happy with the idea that I would not have to repeat this particular trip.

After the fish was safely released, we set up again, hoping to get a Quappe for Stefan. The increasing cold and wind quickly dampened our enthusiasm. It was now fully dark, and as much as I wanted to see Molnar catch something, he was not as obsessed with the burbot as I was and he fully supported the idea of going someplace indoors with food and drink. We called it a day and returned to the Hotel Schiff.

Burbot Hotel

The Hotel Schiff – great restaurant and good central heating.

We celebrated into the evening with assorted fried German foods and assorted German beers, and recalled how both this and the Huchen has been very close calls. Another snowy miracle? Perhaps, but the fish was on the books, all of my fingers and most of my toes had thawed, and life was good.

On the drive back to Walldorf the next day, I thought of my grandfather, and pondered what he would think of all this. For many years, there was a collective generational grudge – I know my grandmother was none too fond of Germany – but this has faded as the generation who fought pass into history and leave us only their stories. I also know that the man who killed my grandfather outlived him by less than a minute, and it is likely he too had a family who still feels a loss. At some stage, Stefan and I going fishing together stopped being ironic and started being just how things should be, and I have to think that is what my grandfather hoped would happen in the world.


Posted by: 1000fish | July 31, 2015

The Myanmar Shoe Debacle

Dateline: January 18, 2015 – Salween River, Myanmar

“Damn it!” I yelled out into the Burmese morning. “Who the hell peed in my shoes?”

The answer would surprise me.

How was it that I ended up in Eastern Myanmar (or is it Burma?) with a pair of horribly violated low hikers? I suppose it is politically correct of me to call it Myanmar, but “Myanmar Shave” just doesn’t have the right ring to it.

It started, as it often does, with a business trip. I needed to be in Singapore and then Thailand for a few days in January, so naturally, I started hunting for some fishing options. Anything in this area is going to involve a call to Jean-Francois Helias, regional fishing genius and possessor of the most fearsome eyebrows in the business. (Details HERE.)

Vang Francois Red

Jean Francois Helias, fishing master and sartorial daredevil. You can reach him at

Francois immediately suggested Burma. I counter-suggested that this would require a complex visa and had the risk of being carried off by local thugs, but Francois assured me that he knew an unrestricted border crossing where we could get me into the country. He did not mention getting me out, which worried me, but he also proved he had taken a number of clients there without mishap, as long as hangovers don’t count as a mishap.

Francois explained that this was not going to be the ideal time of year – the water would be relatively cool and fish would be harder to come by. Still, I was in the area, and there are only so many chances to add a new country for me – with 83 on the list, options where Americans are allowed to travel start to thin out. And I am NOT going to Iraq. I heard a rumor that there were fish of mass destruction there, but this turned out to be completely untrue.

We set the details. I would fly from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, where Francois’ top guide, Kik, would pick me up and drive me the rest of the way, estimated at four hours. (Francois would not be able to attend this particular adventure, as his eyebrows were committed elsewhere, but Kik is a super guide.) I arrived on the appointed morning, and Kik and a buddy were there to get me. We piled into a pickup truck full of camping gear – did I mention we would be camping? – and headed for the border. The drive turned out to be a bit more than four hours, but not Sexy Rexian more. (Explanation HERE)

The scenery was sublime, as it always seems to be in Thailand.

Myanmar Farm

Passing through farmland as we head for the mountains in western Thailand.

We wound our way through miles of farmland, then more miles of foothills, then onto a narrow mountain road for perhaps the last hour.

Myanmar Steep

We drive along a small tributary of the Salween.

I was very rather eager to get fishing by the time we stopped in a small village on banks of the Salween. I realized that the mountains across the river were Myanmar.

Myanmar River 3

The wooded hills on the upper right are Myanmar.

Four locals came out to greet us – our boat crew. They were a friendly bunch, and loaded everything into a long, covered boat typical of the region. I was ready to fish and figured I had about two hours before sunset. This is when I found out that we needed to drive the boat two more hours up the river to our first spot. I am perhaps not the most patient human ever, and this did not sit well.

Myanmar Boat 1

The boat. We had seven guys and fours days of supplies on this.

The ride was, I admit, beautiful – this is truly wild country. The Myanmar side of the river is not controlled because there are no roads from here to the rest of Burma and it is a semi-autonomous Karen tribal region. Steep, forested mountains come up from both sides, and here and there, tiny villages are cut into the top of the riverbank.

Myanmar River 2

We had a bit of sunshine as we headed out.

Myanmar Village

One of the villages. The people were very friendly.

It was just getting dark when we pulled up on a sandbar and set up camp. The crew found a muddy bank and dug up worms – our main bait for the trip.

Myanmar dig

The bait gathering operation.

I set up two rods and began fishing, and fairly quickly, I figured out that things were not wide open. Even in this cool time of year, the temperatures only dip into the 50s at night. This might seem temperate, but for fish used to 80 degree evenings in the summer, it had shut things down. I did see some small fish in the shallows, and I was determined to get them. After a few hours of presenting micro-rigs on the shoreline, I had gotten two new species – small to be sure, but new.

Myanmar cat 1

The blackfin sisorid catfish.

Myanmar Cat 3

In a 24 font, the name would be longer than the fish.

Myanmar Trout

The Salween Baril. The ID on this one took three scientists and some drinking.

Mind you, these were caught from Thai soil. We would venture to Myanmar tomorrow.

Then it was time to get some sleep. This would involve camping. I hate camping. Call me soft, call me what you will, but there is something about sleeping outside with savage wild animals that insults our forefathers, who fought for our right to sleep at the Hyatt. I don’t sleep well when I know there is hostile wildlife out there, and all I have between me and serious issues is a thin layer of nylon. (Which also sounds like college.) The insects were especially horrible – there were big sand spiders the size of a 50 cent piece came out at night specifically to frighten me. And there was something walking around in the bushes that made a lot of noise and was therefore clearly out for human blood.

Figuring I would be safe in the tent, I set out to not leave until morning. So I stocked it with a full bottle of water, an empty gatorade bottle for calls from nature, and enough benadryl to knock out an elephant. I took my shoes off and left them by the entrance of the tent. Zipping up the door, I tried to make myself comfortable in the surprising chill, and drifted off to sleep despite the whoops of the boat crew, who had broken out a couple of bottles of questionable “Happy Animal Brand” whiskey and were having the time of their lives. (The only reason I didn’t freeze is that I had a sweatshirt with me that Marta had insisted I take.)

Somewhere in the predawn hours, I was awakened by nature’s call, and I cleverly used the Gatorade bottle. Thinking it would be bad to leave it in the tent, I unzipped the flap just a touch, reached the bottle outside, and poured it out. I slept intermittently while the boat crew carried on well into the night.

When I got up around 6:45, I moved to the doorway, unzipped the flap, and stretched my legs outside. I shook my left shoe to check for spiders. It was safe. I picked up my right shoe, and … oh heck. It was full of water. But how had it rained without me hearing it, and only in my right shoe? Then the smell hit me. It wasn’t water. Some idiot had peed in my shoe.

I was already yelling at no one in particular when it hit me – I was the idiot. My late-night bathroom improvisation had ended in disaster, and I wore my Tevas for the next two days while the shoes dried out. 1000fish readers! Learn from my bitter experience – never pour pee in your own shoes.

Our first task that smelly dawn was to officially catch a fish in Burma. This meant getting in the boat, going to the other side of the river, getting out of the boat so I was standing in Myanmar, and then catching something.

Myanmar Bank

Standing in Myanmar. If I had done this in 1988, I would have been standing in Burma.

This sounded relatively uncomplicated, even with the difficult water conditions, and it turned out fine. In the course of an hour, I pulled up several small fish, including two new species – a loach and a catfish. That’s country #84 if you’re playing along at home.

Myanmar Loach 2

The striped loach meets the approval of the team.

Myanmar Loach

A moment in the media limelight for a stunningly obscure species.

Myanmar Silver

I called this one the Burma Catfish, because I can’t pronounce Eutropiichthys burmannicus.

That afternoon, we parked the boat on a muddy bank and hiked up a mountain stream.

Myanmar Confluence

The stream where it meets the Salween. We hiked back about two miles, and per usual, I had a surprise encounter with wildlife.

It was amazing to me how quickly we went from a muddy, broad river to a crystal-clear creek that looked every bit the trout stream except for the stray elephant that scared the bejeezus out of me.

Myanmar Stream

The stream was gorgeous. I hadn’t expected to be sight-fishing small water like this, but after some re-rigging to a light jig, I passed a pleasant afternoon scouting out small pools and casting behind boulders and logs. I got a bunch of wild Thai and Strachey’s mahseer – fantastic fighters on light tackle – and a few cyprinids that looked suspiciously like rainbow trout but were not.

Myanmar Mahseer

A small Strachey’s mahseer. I have gotten these up to six pounds in Laos.

Myanmar Trout 2

The faux trout. I never did figure out what this species is.

Myanmar Eel

I even got a spiny eel – these are listed as one species across the region, but are likely actually several different ones. It would take a lot of work for an ichthyologist to sort them out, but I think there is a Nobel prize just waiting for someone. Dr. Carvalho? Martini? Anyone? 

As we got into mid-afternoon, we hiked back, got into the boat, and fished the Myanmar side of the main river for a couple of hours.  My big catch for that stop was a pig catfish – a close relative of a catfish I had gotten in Laos (details HERE) and oddly, the largest fish of the trip.

Myanmar Pig Cat

The Hemibagrus genus has been kind to me.

We closed the day fishing the bank near our campsite. I got a couple more pig catfish – great fun on very light tackle – and a barb that was a new species if not spectacularly large.

Myanmar Barb

Doesn’t everyone travel halfway around the world to catch fish this size?

The scenery was wild and unspoiled, and it was easy to see why people want to come here, even if they (gasp) aren’t fishing.

Myanmar Camp 1

Looking back at camp. I dreaded sunset because it would mean I needed to sleep in a tent.

Myanmar Scenery

Looking up the river, Thailand on right, Myanmar on the left.

I had dinner with the group as the sun set. I’m not sure what it is they had boiled up over the fire, but it was not pleasing to the western nose. I happily consumed another REI freeze-dried macaroni and cheese and called it a night.


Myanmar Camp


Myanmar Pigs

Some wild pigs on the bank. These would figure prominently in an event later that evening.

I slept marginally better that second night, until 3:06am, when I was startled awake by snuffling noises and a nudge to my head. I reflexively threw a punch through the tent, figuring that the boat crew had downed an extra bottle of Old Overcoat whiskey. Instead of Thai swears, I heard an alarmed squeal and the sound of an upset wild pig racing off into the forest. What in the hell was I doing someplace where wild pigs would try to enter my tent? But I remembered that worse things with worse animals had happened in college, and drifted back to sleep, smiling at the memory of my old roommate Frank Lopez’s disastrous evening in September of 1982. I haven’t talked to Frank in years, but I’m still not comfortable giving all the details of that one.

In the morning, I was up very early and walked up the river, appreciating the scenery.

Myanmar Salween

The Salween at dawn, day three. The great outdoors was getting a bit old by this stage.

For most of the morning, we hiked another creek – even smaller than the first, but absolutely stuffed with small mahseer and an exotic cyprinid named “danios.”

Myanmar Danio

Brown’s Danio. Not the strongest fighter, but a new species nonetheless.

On the way up and down the creek, which was mercifully elephant-free, I caught dozens of fish and encountered birds I would never see anywhere else. Marta is much more of a birdwatcher than I am, and I couldn’t help but think of how much she would enjoy this place, minus the long trip and the camping and pigs and the spiders.

Myanmar Trickle

Even water this small was stuffed with fish.

While we were walking along the creek, I had a pig flashback and decided that I was not dealing with another night in the wilderness. Kik explained that as long as we got on the road around 5pm, that we could get to Chiang Mai and I could stay in a hotel there and catch my flight the next day for Bangkok. I had added Burma and seven species, so we decided to head out.

Emerging from the jungle, I saw one last spot to try – a small junction where the creek spilled into the main river. I was only half paying attention and casting a very light rig when the float disappeared and I was unceremoniously broken off. That got my attention, and I immediately tied up a heavier rig and began flipping a worm around to see if I could catch the culprit. Moments later, I got a beautiful little catfish – a new species but clearly not what had broken me off.

Myanmar Leather 1 doesn’t list a common name for this, so I’ll call it a Salween catfish. I figure that’s catchier than Glyptothorax dorsalis.

Myanmar Leather 2

The guys understood and supported my bizarre fishing needs.

I kept casting even though the guys were getting ready to leave, and I got one more strike. It was a relatively larger fish, still not all that big, but a stunning new species.

Myanmar Goonch 2

Any guesses?

Myanmar Goonch 1

Hint – they fish for them in northern India.

I had caught a goonch. Perhaps the smallest goonch in the history of goonches, but a goonch nonetheless – a catfish species that grows to massive sizes in the north of India and was and is the target of adventure-seeking British gentleman anglers, like well-known writer Keith Elliott, who likely can’t believe I even published my picture.

Myanmar Keith

Keith Elliott with a proper goonch. He’s the good-looking one directly behind the dorsal fin.

We landed and said goodbye to the crew. They had been a good bunch, even if they never fully understood why I got worked up over some very tiny fish.

Myanmar Team

The group before we left the Salween. Kik is on my right.

The drive back to Chiang Mai seemed to go a bit faster than the drive out – at least I knew where we were going. It was a surreal feeling to walk into the lobby of the Shangri-La, perhaps the finest hotel in northern Thailand, wearing fishing garb, having not washed for three days, and carrying in my bag a pair of low hikers that held a terrible secret. There were clean sheets, room service food, and hot showers – about as far from a tent as one can get. There were no spiders or wild pigs, and no one poured pee in my shoes. It was paradise.

I also knew that there were two or three more spots like this in Thailand, and that, camping and spiders or not, I would be back. I drifted off to sleep, content with a new country and nine species, but faintly wondering if I should just throw out the shoes.


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