Posted by: 1000fish | March 19, 2015

The Road Trip – “And So It Begins”

Dateline: June 19, 2014 – Bishop, California 

It began with the gentle strains of Simon and Garfunkel’s “America,” the 60s anthem of self-discovery through a trip across the states. And that was pretty much the last song I recognized for the next three weeks. This is because I had signed up to do a cross-country fishing road trip with two 21 year-olds, both of whom would sit closer to the radio than I did. The idea sounded perfectly idiotic, which is exactly why it was so appealing. Drive across the country for almost three weeks, hopping from fishing spot to fishing spot, searching out oddball species and world records.This was Martini’s trip – his present to himself for four years of relentless work at Stanford, and he had asked his best friend Kyle and me to go along. We had talked about it for almost a year, and with Martini’s post-obsessive penchant for detailed research and planning, he had scoped out each day for target locations and species. It would be some 4000 miles of driving over nearly three weeks, but if things went well, it could be a bunch of species for me that I would never catch any other way. We would be specifically searching out some truly undermarketed creatures – anonymous beasts like the Guadalupe bass and the grayfin redhorse. Before any of you start thinking how hard it would be for me to be the adult supervision for that long, it is probably fair to admit that I would not be the adult supervision. Indeed, out of of the three of us, I might be the biggest risk  to do something memorably stupid. The guys spent the pre-launch night over at my house in Alamo. I had met Kyle a few times, and even though he is not as intense a fisherman as me or Martini (who would be?) he does have a gift for catching the biggest fish. (Details HERE) This ability would lead to some annoying moments later in the trip. Even though we would be in a car together for untold days, we still stayed up late talking about the trip. The western portion of the agenda would be heavier on driving and some mandatory sights, such as Death Valley, the Grand Canyon, and the Bellagio restroom in Vegas. The fishing was planned to escalate in intensity as we entered Texas, which seemed an awfully long way off, and then wind through New Orleans, the Gulf Coast, and end up in Florida and finally back home for the guys. It was early when we got into the Ford Escape. I failed to call shotgun and moped about the prospect of facing 4000 miles in the back seat. Martini made a u-turn and, at around 7am on June 19th, we were off. Road Escape Kyle calls shotgun while I was barely awake. Many road trips begin with a surge of energy that fizzles out after about 90 minutes and settles into “Are we there yet?” Whether it was the Red Bull or the anticipation, we didn’t seem to lose momentum. It all seemed like we couldn’t miss. I couldn’t help but be reminded of my college road trips, which seem so long ago yet strangely entertaining to people who are not Marta. Road college Road trip, circa 1983. That’s Tim Bacon in the Nixon mask, me in the jockstrap, Kevin Gurney in the hat, and Mike Wilcox trying to hide his innocent face. I haven’t talked to these guys in years – I need to change that. On road trips, some things never change – the endless conversation focused on intellectual topics, not inane things like sports and swimsuit models; the healthy food, not like Red Bull and Cheetohs; and the farting. I was getting a chance to re-live college, and get it wrong all over again. The day had one fishing target – the elusive Owens sucker, which is alleged to live in the Owens River watershed. Martini and I had taken a crack at this beast last year, and had been humiliated. (Peripherally mentioned in “The Road to Orick.”) This time, we would be going during the height of their spawning run and should have found quite a selection. At least that was the plan. We had a six hour drive to the first fishing stop, but our route took us straight through Yosemite, some of the most sublime scenery in all of California. Road Yosemite The first group shot of the trip. This is the best we would smell for 20 more days. I have been to Yosemite only three times, including a trip in the 1970s with my stepmonster’s parents, who, as I may have mentioned previously, were inexplicably kind and stable. Road Yosmite 2 General Yosemite scenery. My prose can do it no justice.  Well before lunch, the first enduring prank commenced. For no good reason, I purchased a can of baked beans and left them on the driver’s seat. (Unopened, for those of you who wonder.) Martini nearly sprained his buttocks avoiding a hard landing on them, turned to us, and said “What kind of idiot would do THAT?” Sheepishly, I raised my hand. For the next three weeks, at every stop, we placed the beans on Martini’s seat. He forgot about them only once – more on that later. The first place we went was a creek off the Owens river that was supposed to have a spawning run of the suckers. It did not. We did, however, get the first fish of the trip – a nice rainbow trout pulled up by Kyle. I smiled faintly that the least experienced one of us would catch the first fish. Road Kyle Trout On the scoreboard – first fish of the trip. A bit Guidoesque on the photo, though – see “The Minefield Road Martini trout Martini followed up with a trout that might not have been larger but was certainly better-photographed. We then headed to Convict Lake. The fish just HAD to be there. We just couldn’t open the trip on a sour note. Road Convict Convict Lake. The Eastern Sierra is full of scenery like this. The hike to the back of Convict Lake is not particularly brutal, unless you happen to be fighting a nasty chest cold and are not used to any altitude. So it was that Kyle suffered through the walk, beautiful as it was, but not nearly as much as we suffered when we got to the creek and it was utterly devoid of anything but beautiful trout. Road Rainbow 1 The creeks were full of trout like this. Naturally, we left. This would have made anyone else but us three happy, but we packed up and pretty much had to admit defeat. Road Deer Martini snapped this shot of a deer on the way out of Convict. It was getting to be a late summer afternoon in the eastern Sierra, and the view was marvelous. Martini had one more spot to examine – a bridge on the Owens that “looked” good on Google Earth. This was not Martini’s normal standard of planning. Martini’s planning skills would make even the Germans say “Wow, that guy thinks of everything.” Road bridge The bridge. It didn’t look like much at first. I was the one who actually got out of the car to look in the water. It looked empty and sterile, but I stared for a few minutes, and then, for a precious few seconds, a fish head eased out of the shadows, giving the classic white flash of sucker lips. That was enough for me. Martini and Kyle had expressed their doubts and headed out to investigate other spots toward the lake, so I raced to the bank and began casting. There were two guys fishing below the bridge, and we began chatting. Over the next hour or so, I got two small trout.  They had caught only one trout – I gave them mine so they would have a fish fry – but they told me they could see dozens of big trout in the creek just downstream from the bridge. They invited me to their spot for a look. There were dozens of big fish in the water a few yards downstream of the bridge. But they weren’t trout – they were Owens suckers, and I had found their mother lode. There was no cell signal, and Martini and Kyle were out of shouting distance, so I set up just out the shadow of the structure and cast. It was quick – as soon as my bait hit the bottom, two or three suckers would ease over toward it and I would get a bite. I missed a couple, then hooked up. Just as I was landing the fish, Martini and Kyle showed up. Martini netted my fish, and before I had even thought of it, he had pulled out his Boga Grip and weighed it. The Owens sucker was an open record, and my fish qualified. Road Steve Owens The day suddenly turns good. The next hour was a team effort to get Kyle and Martini their fish. Martini got one first, not record size but a rare new species for his collection, which I felt was moral judgement from the Fish Gods. Kyle’s came shortly thereafter. I played “goalie,” standing downstream to net their catches. Road MK Owens Kyle, Martini, sucker, and scenery. Not necessarily in that order. Things were now really good. Just before we closed up shop for a well-deserved dinner, Martini got one more fish that was much larger, so while we all three would get credit for a record that day, Martini’s would stand as the current one, which he may have felt was moral judgement from the Fish Gods. (Or not. He isn’t nearly as spiteful as I am, as long as he’s had enough sleep.) Road Martini sucker Martini’s big fish. The day was now officially epic. Road intimate An awkward moment. I quietly mused that it was going to be hard to match today for pure epic – a new species and three world records. There were many high-fives and some quiet moments enjoying the view before we headed off for a well-deserved steak. A slow start had turned into an epic day. The trip had a high standard to keep up. Road Meadow 1 Looking across the valley to the eastern Sierras. Once we caught some fish, I noticed the scenery a lot more. We crashed out that evening, three of us jammed into a room meant for two people who liked each other a lot. The next day, I would be doing one of the strangest things I have ever done – making a long detour to look at a fish  – a fish that even I would never try to catch. Steve

Posted by: 1000fish | March 1, 2015

100

Dateline: June 2, 2014 – Kona, Hawaii

I have had battles with fish that have lasted over four hours, but none ever seemed so long as the 60 seconds I spent reeling up an orange goatfish on June 2, 2014. It was a big for an orange goatfish, just over two pounds, and for the few of you who care about such things, it was a world record orange goatfish. And not just any world record, but a milestone. I had just set my 100th IGFA world record and had earned the IGFA’s Lifetime Achievement Award.

100 GOAT

The orange goatfish in question. I had a matching hat just for the occasion.

I called Marta right away. The first thing she said was “The trophy goes in the garage.” Then she laughed and said “Congratulations.” I called Martini next. “Congratulations, bro. You earned it.” I stared off into space, looking back at the past nine years and realizing I wouldn’t have spent them any other way.

It’s not like I expected Kona to produce a bunch of new species. I have fished there for months of my life and caught loads of fish – it is one of my favorite destinations on earth – all the charm of Hawaii and still an hour away from Jaime Hamamoto. The Big Island has also produced quite a few records for me, so I would hopeful I could squeeze out two more, hit the Lifetime Achievement Award, and start sleeping normally again.

This trip was also about domestic tranquility. Marta’s job is demanding and nowhere near as flexible as mine, and getting her away on vacation without her laptop is a challenge. Kona is one of those places where she can truly unwind, and our favorite hotel has lousy cell service, which I view as an advantage, because it keeps her pesky co-workers away.

100 Xmas

Marta and a Christmas wrasse on the Keahou rocks – one of the few places so beautiful she will put up with fishing for extended periods.

I set up two days of fishing with Captain Dale Leverone, my trusted species-hunting partner in Kona.

100 Sign

If you’re in Kona, fish with these guys. They can catch anything you want to – unless I am on the boat and you want a spearfish.

On the first day, we focused on trying to get me my spearfish, which would complete my IGFA Royal Slam on billfish. We trolled and trolled, but I seem to have the gift for repelling spearfish, and none were to be found. We did get a batch of solid skipjack – these tuna pull hard for their weight and kept things exciting.

100 Skipjack

That’s Dale’s son and first mate, Jack Leverone – a solid guide and angler in his own right.

We also devoted a couple of hours to bottom fishing, but the tides weren’t quite right and the bite was slow. I had another trip coming, and I knew records could come quickly here, so I didn’t pout too much.

As always in Kona, I did plenty of shore fishing near the hotel. One of my favorite spots is the rock jetty at Keahou harbor, the very place where I shattered Marta’s peppered moray record – and the very same place where the yellowmargin moray shattered my hand. (Click HERE for a really gross picture.) That night, I wandered down to the harbor and set up. I lost a couple of eels in the rocks, then got an unexpected new species – a smallscale soldierfish.

100 Soldier

The smallscale soldierfish. It’s called that because the scales are small.

Toward the end of the evening, my eel rod bounced once, then the line took off away from the rocks. I set the hook and realized I had something big that was behaving decidedly NOT like a moray. As I got it under control and pulled it up the boat ramp to land it, I realized I had a Hawaiian conger eel, also known as a mustache conger. This was not only a wonderful new species, but also an open world record. That’s #99 if you’re playing along at home.

100 Conger

Photo courtesy of a bewildered 10 year-old local kid.

I was stunned to get another record in the harbor, and even more stunned to realize that I was finally right on the doorstep. The next one was the biggie. I stayed out until the middle of the night trying to get something else – anything else – but there was still another day on the boat coming up. Marta tries to tell me that this is all I would talk about, but I am sure you all don’t believe that.

We spent the next day touring the island, viewing everything from a volcanic crater to the sweeping cliffs at Waipio. (The steepest hike Marta has ever dragged me on – I think it’s Hawaiian for “Puke Mountain.”) Sure, I wanted to be fishing, but these sorts of activities mean that Marta will continue speaking to me for at least a few more weeks.

100 crater

Volcanic crater on the south end of the island. 

100 Waipio

Waipio, on the north side. Marta, please stop making me walk up this hill.

Then came the next day with Dale and Jack.

As I have learned over the years, the big events never happen how you imagine them. Although most of my records are of the “no one else knew that was a species” variety, I had always harbored a secret hope that #100 would be something uncharacteristically epic, like a 1403 pound blue marlin. Hey – it could happen. A number of the marlin records, including the all-tackle Pacific Blue, were caught right here in Kona.

And we did troll that day, although I had spearfish in my soul much more than a possible marlin. In one of those sadistic ironies that the Fish Gods love to create, we did brilliantly – four wahoo, two mahi, and a small blue marlin. Everyone in the harbor would have loved to have had my day on the water, but I would have traded them all for one small spearfish.

100 Marlin

First off, the marlin tore a gill and died on the line, so we had to keep it – Dale would ordinarily release. Worse, some guy walked up to me and said “Wow, what a day you had. I trolled all afternoon and just got one lousy spearfish.” I didn’t know whether to cry or slap him.

Distraught as I was that we hadn’t gotten a spearfish, I was still looking very forward to the session of bottom fishing at the end of the day. The tides looked good, and I had gotten plenty of records in the area we set up. I felt surprisingly calm, but Jack pointed out that I had a bit of an itchy trigger finger and that my first few hooksets looked like Spellman’s, or even worse, Guido’s. (Click HERE for an explanation.) I took a deep breath and dropped to the bottom again.

It happened quickly, and I knew the moment I hooked it that I had the right fish. It was a hard, bottom-hugging fight, and when I saw it come up bright orange, I knew right away it was big enough. I didn’t wait for Jack with the net, I just held my breath for a split-second and swung it onto the deck.

100 Goat 2

World record #100. Now I can get back to trying to catch 2000 species.

There were high-fives from Dale and Jack, and just like that, it had happened. Even though almost record I had set was on a fish no one else had heard of, I was going on the same wall in the IGFA museum as some very famous anglers – as the 15th individual angler to ever win the award. I sat in the fighting chair, stunned – and, for once, quiet.

The quiet lasted all too short of a time. I got up just to take in the scenery, looking up Mauna Loa and out on the open Pacific. I made eye contact with Dale. He glanced down at the sonar, and gently said “There are fish down there.” I didn’t need to be told twice. After hooking and losing a few fish, I got a solid take and I was back in the game. I jokingly said “This will be #101.”

When the fish surfaced, we all sighed. It was a pinktail triggerfish, which can swarm these reefs and which all seem to be the same 16-20 ounce range. I weighed it out of habit, and the Fish Gods had clearly taken the day off. It was a pound and a half, and it WAS world record 101.

100 pinktail

Record 101. Do you think they’ll give me another trophy if I get to 200?

I had several months for it to sink in – records can take a while to be officially verified. The actual confirmation came late on an October evening. I had been checking the IGFA website frequently, and on that day, the status changed from “pending” to “approved.” I woke up Marta to tell her. She simply said “Garage.”

I felt a lot of things – little bit of relief, a little bit of accomplishment, a little bit of pride. This was my small piece of history – my name will be on that wall long after I am gone. I hope a father and son see it together around 2114. I hope the son asks who I was, and the father tells him “Steve Wozniak was a fisherman in the last century. He had the mark for most species of fish caught for a long time, and he was the first ever to 1000. His record of 1999 species (he never got the spearfish) stood until Martini Arostegui broke it on July 10, 2061. Martini’s grandson – Martin Arostegui-Upton IV – broke it again last year. Wait until you see the Arostegui wing of the museum!”

This was a long journey – Nine years and one week from start to finish, 16 countries, hundreds of thousands of air miles, thousands of hours on the water and in the library. There are so many people to thank over the course of 100 world records that I’ll never get even close to doing justice to the list. But a big thanks to Jean-Francois Helias, who got me started on records back in 2005, to Scotty Lyons, who found records when we had run out of species, to the Hamamotos, my Hawaiian family, who shared their secret spots, to Dr. Alfredo Carvalho, who helped with so many IDs, to Jarvis and Alex, who opened their Singapore connections to me and put unpleasant things in my luggage, to Ben Florentino, a bass expert forced to fish for “googly gobs,” to Marc Inoue, who believes I bring bad weather, to Jens Koller, who helped me explore Europe, to Dale and Jack Leverone, marlin experts who never stopped trying to find bigger goatfish, to Oscar Ferreira, who found me a pati catfish in the shadow of Buenos Aires, to Ed Trujillo, the steelhead guide who found me a Klamath smallscale sucker, to Jeff Kerr, a dedicated fisherman who should never be left alone with my camera, to Dr. Jeff Johnson, who has pinned down so many exotic Pacific species for me, to everyone at Hi’s Tackle Box for the gear and advice, to Robert Armstrong at Shimano for his unflagging support, to Doug Olander at Sport Fishing Magazine for my first national writing gig and all the cool shirts, to Spellman and Scott Perry and Stefan Molnar, whose quiet days off are often hijacked by my adventures, to the Arosteguis, who guided and inspired me when 100 seemed out of reach, to Marta, who put up with me, to the obscure fish, who are the real stars of this story, and to all of you, who patiently read along as it all happened.

Steve

 

Posted by: 1000fish | February 21, 2015

Minister of Fishing

Dateline: May 3, 2014 – Eau Claire, Wisconsin

It was the most exciting world record I had seen to date, and it wasn’t even mine.

I can relate to obsessive, all-consuming, lifelong quests. I spent 11 years, 10 months, and 18 days chasing the 1000 species mark – the time from when I got my hundredth and really identified my quest, to that quiet day in Vangshylla, Norway. (Details HERE.) It was what I did, and nothing was going to get in the way. Martini Arostegui’s quest is much more around world records. As of April of 2014, he was #3 in the world – astonishing for someone who was 21 at the time.

One would think this would be enough, but Martini, ever since I have known him, wanted more. Strangely enough, he wasn’t chasing #1 – his own dad, who has a somewhat unattainable total well over 400. He was chasing #2, a fishing legend named Herbert Ratner Jr. – the first man to hit 100 records as an individual angler. (A feat thought nearly impossible until he did it.)

Minister Ratner

Herbert Ratner Jr. – everyone who has tried to chase numbers of IGFA records followed in his footsteps.

This would mean Martini and his father would be one and two in the world. Theirs is a relationship I have always admired – I am not particularly close to my own father, and the idea of sharing this kind of a passion at this kind of level has always inspired me. I would have settled for just playing catch.

This adventure involved an untapped potential gold mine of freshwater species – Wisconsin. In his endless deep research on fishing opportunities, Martini had stumbled onto a species-hunting enthusiast in Eau Claire named Mike, and Mike had told him that white suckers were biting at the beginning of May. There were also supposed to be other fish available, but most importantly, there were line class records open a couple of the sucker species in the area. Wisconsin was also one of the 10 states where I had not caught a fish.

I came in to Minneapolis directly from Miami – with a quick stopover in Chicago to renew the restraining order against Cousin Chuck.

Minister Chuck

Cousin Chuck – actual photo. Nicest halfway house I’ve ever seen. 

I spent two days hanging out with a very dear old friend – Bob Reine, a former co-worker at Macromedia in the early 90s. A passionate outdoorsman and hockey fan (even if he follows the wrong team,) Bob and I fished constantly when he lived in California. When he moved back to Minnesota, likely still in culture shock from five years in San Francisco, we caught up now and then, notably for trips to lake Vermilion, where I caught – with Bob as my witness – three, count ‘em, THREE muskies in one day.

Minister BS

Bob earns $12 the hard way.

Bob and his wife Shari have two children, who were still both in the incontinent phase the last time I saw them during a Lake-of-the-Woods trip. Both kids have grown into responsible teenagers, although I still have trouble forgiving Benjamin for disrupting a walleye fishing trip by removing his own diaper and using it as a weapon.

Minister Ben

Benjamin, circa 2003. Sure, he was cute, but throwing diapers isn’t normal. 

Despite miserable weather, Bob and I snuck out for a day on the water. While we didn’t get anything noteworthy, we got dozens of nice bluegill and chuckled our way through some old stories, all of which were nixed by the editor. (With comments like “Normal people don’t do that.”)

Minister Bob

Bob and Steve, present day.

Martini, busy as ever with schoolwork, took a redeye to arrive Friday morning, when I picked him up and headed to Wisconsin. It was a short drive, around an hour, and we discussed two topics of note.

First, it was plain to see that the weather had been horrible and it was not only freezing cold, it was also flooded in many places. This was going to be a challenge. Martini also mentioned “Oh, in case I hadn’t told you, Mike is a minister.” I coughed a bit of Red Bull up my nose. How was I going to spend three days with a minister and not burn in hell?

There was certainly some trepidation around whether I could maintain a G-rated conversation and stay on appropriate topics, especially if the fishing was bad. I considered buying a pair of shin guards, anticipating a barrage of kicks under the table.

We met Mike at the Minnesota/Wisconsin border on the St. Croix river. A big guy with a kind face and a ready smile, Mike was thrilled to meet two fellow species hunters, and it was clear he had followed some of our exploits online, which I was not entirely sure was a good thing. Still, Mike put me at ease and we set to fishing.

Minister Mike 1

Mike Channing, local pastor and species-hunter extraordinaire.

The river was flooded into the parking lot, but Mike was sure we could still get suckers in the relatively quiet margins. He seemed to know these rivers as if he had designed them. We had to use plenty of weight and cast carefully, but after an hour or so, we got bites. Mike was the first to hook up, but then both Martini and I both got silver redhorses, a sucker relative that frequents these parts. It was the first fish I had ever gotten in a parking lot.

Minister First Silver

My silver redhorse.

Minister Martini Silver 1

Martini adds the silver.

We then drove in to Eau Claire, and Mike took us to one of his secret spots on the Eau Claire River. Normally a lovely small waterfall, it had blown into a raging torrent of cold, muddy water, but Mike knew a few side seams where he was confident we would catch fish.

Minister Falls

This area is normally a nice, calm little waterfall. 

And we did. Martini knocked off a white sucker and a shorthead redhorse. The redhorse was an eight pound line-class record, which put Martini in a tie for second place overall with 181 overall records.

 

Minister Record Short

Martini’s record #181.

He was amazingly calm, but he also knew his next record would be a very big one. He was very guarded even discussing it, as if he would hex himself.

I added a white sucker to my list but the shortheads avoided me completely.

Minister White

My white sucker.

Minister Silver Short

I also caught some nice silver redhorse while everyone else was catching shortheads. 

Mike and Martini both caught several shortheads, and I was beginning to question if I had done something wrong in a spiritual sense. Mike assured me I had not. Then I had an awkward moment where I hooked a shorthead and got it close to shore before the hook pulled out. Reflexively, I started to yell something bad, then corrected myself mid-word, so it came out something like “Fffffffuuuu … udge.” Mike smiled quietly. He was a pretty regular guy and has become a good friend, even if I have given him material for a few sermons.

We called it a day and headed to a local barbecue place – absolute UMF*. Back at the room, I sacked out while Martini studied some sort of complicated biology. Not my idea of a fun topic – the book didn’t have a lot of pictures. As I drifted off to sleep, covers pulled up over my head to avoid any unfortunate pranks, it was clear Martini wasn’t going to sleep well. The record – and history – weighed heavily on his mind.

Day two was a tour of the places we could have fished if everything hadn’t flooded. Mike’s local knowledge was absolutely encyclopedic, but he was also heartbroken that we couldn’t get to most of his favorite spots.

Minister River

The Eau Claire running about 10 feet high. It was a miracle we found any fish at all. That may not have been the best choice of words.

The conversation was nonstop species hunting – Mike was the real deal and spoke of things like the blue sucker in the same hushed, reverent tones as Martini and I do. Interestingly, Mike had done a mission in Asia, and was well-acquainted with our old friend Jean-Francois Helias. Small world, although I doubt they met in church.

With only one record to go for Martini, we were impatient to just get settled someplace, and that someplace turned out to be the middle of town. Eau Claire – ironically named to be sure – has a lovely park at the confluence of the eponymous river and a tributary, and it was there we set up in the later morning.

Minister Park

Steve and Martini on the point. I spent all morning wishing I had brought my Tigger pajamas to wear under my clothing.

It was cold; right around freezing, augmented by a bracing wind. Martini, the Miami native, was half-frozen, and I was about 40% frozen, but I weigh more, so in total terms, I was actually more frozen. And I complained more.

The Fish Gods don’t put up with this, and they favored my companions. (Ironic because this sort of polytheism doesn’t play well in conservative circles.) By complete accident, Mike caught a lake sturgeon. Not a big one, but a nice one – and a species I would love to catch. They were out of season so we quickly and safely released it. Then Martini caught one. And I didn’t. I was not constructive about this. (Again the fish was quickly and safely released.)

Minister Sturgeon Mike

Mike gets a lake sturgeon, and I am thrilled.

Minister M Sturgeon

Martini gets a lake sturgeon, and I am thrilled.

As the morning warmed to a balmy 36, the redhorse began to bite. I got a silver, and then, after a less-than-dramatic fight, a stonecat – a new species that had given no indication it had taken my bait.

Minister Stonecat

The stonecat, one of the least exuberant species I have ever caught.

Martini was awfully calm for someone about to make history. He moved to the point and kept changing his baits, jogging in place in a futile effort to stay warm.

In the later morning, just shy of 11, Martini got a bite and hooked into a nice fish. It could have been anything – a sturgeon, a catfish, a gar … but it turned out to be a big silver redhorse. This fish needed to be four pounds; it looked big enough as Martini landed it. Without a word, he gently lifted the fish up and steadied it on the Boga grip. Martini looked up at me, his eyes absolutely noncommittal. He then broke into the biggest smile I have ever seen. The fish was four pounds even, and there was a new #2 in the IGFA standings.

Minister Record Silver

#182.

Minister MM SIlver 2

Mike and Martini celebrate the catch. And remember, Mike isn’t a pro guide – he was just doing this because he loves to fish.

There was the requisite high-fiving and man-hugs, but this was an intensely personal moment for Martini as well. This had been years of very hard work, late night planning sessions, endless research, thousands of hours on the water, telling swimsuit models “Not tonight, I’m fishing early tomorrow,” – and it had all paid off here, on a patch of frozen shoreline in Western Wisconsin. Martini, now oblivious to the cold, took a long moment to himself.

Minister Martini afterward

Martini composes himself, right before he called his family with the news. (Interestingly, the lawn was soaking wet and his rear was stained all day, to my great amusement.)

The rest of the day was a bonus. We got more fish, and I finally got my lake sturgeon, although it was the smallest one Mike had ever seen.

Minister Steve Sturgeon

I had prayed for this species. (Bad choice of words.) This again shows there is no room for shame in my species hunt.

Skipping around to a few more locations, we could tell the area had massive potential in good weather, and between fish, we planned a summertime return trip.

We held a celebratory dinner that night in a local steakhouse, and drank a toast to Mike, the newly-minted guide for two world records, to Martini and his Father, 1 and 2 in the IGFA world, to the Fish Gods, and to Herb Ratner Jr., who had made history all those years ago and showed us that this was all possible. On my next angling adventure, I would be trying to make a little history of my own.

Steve

 

* Unsupervised Man Food – the crap we eat when our partners aren’t looking.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted by: 1000fish | February 14, 2015

Et Tu, Jaime?

Dateline: April 28, 2014 – Coral Gables, Florida

It never stops. I keep thinking maybe, just once, she will behave herself, but she never does. I know you must all carry deep sympathy for me, because I am the innocent victim of a bad person here, but if Jaime Hamamoto catches one more species I haven’t, I’m going to put my eyes out with a fork. And on top of it all, she completely ruined one of my favorite days of the year.

This should have been a very good weekend. It was time for the International Game Fish Association’s annual awards, and I had stumbled in to two more plaques for the wall. (Clarification from Marta – the GARAGE wall.) This meant I would get to give a speech, and that Marta would have to listen politely, which would never happen if we weren’t in public. As a matter of fact, I actually had to give TWO speeches, but one of them was the shortest address I have ever given in front of an audience. More on that later.

The down side of all this, and it was a very big down side, was that I would be sharing the event with Jaime Hamamoto. “NOT THAT!” I hear you say. But it was true. She had set a bunch of world records in 2013, and had actually won the Women’s Saltwater title. Good grief.

Despite the best efforts of United Airlines, Marta and I arrived in Miami on the Thursday before the event. In the hours before Jaime descended on Miami, Marta found us an interesting tourist spot – The Coral Castle.

Caesar Castle

The Coral Castle.

The castle is a set of large structures built from solid coral in the early 20th century by a Latvian immigrant. No one can figure out how he moved the pieces into place. Some of the blocks weigh as much as 30 tons, and there is no evidence he used any sort of power equipment.

Caesar Coral

Marta at the original admission gate.

Caesar Leedskalnin

Edward Leedskalnin, who designed and built The Coral Castle – life-sized cutout.

We also headed out to the Everglades. The Everglades are cool, and there are some truly awesome animals there. The coolest among these, in my humble opinion, is the Roseate Spoonbill.

Caesar Spoonbill

The Roseate Spoonbill. This photo required a zoom lens of frightening proportions.

Caesar Hawk

A hawk having a snake for lunch.

Late in the day, we got back to the Arostegui house and met up with them and the Hamamotos. The Arosteguis have become family over the years. Wade, Alma, and even Jaime have become family over the years. This was the first time the full group had met, and Marty generously hosted us at one of his favorite Cuban restaurants.

Caesar Cuban

A family meal. Wade and I made sure to sit closest to the kitchen.

The food was outstanding, and stunningly, Jaime didn’t offend anyone. Indeed, she and Marty got along spectacularly, and even after dinner, they talked fly fishing well into the night.

Caesar Marty Jaime

Marty and Jaime. This concerns me. 

Still, I am sure Marty saw through her act and knows that she is viciously competitive and that I am the victim here.

The awards program was phenomenal – think of it as the Academy Awards for fishing, minus Gwynneth Paltrow in a bad dress. No matter how many of these I will ever go to, I still get butterflies. There are so many superstars in one room, and so much knowledge and so much passion around fishing – although I am never quite sure I belong there, I at least know that most of the people there can actually relate to my level of obsessiveness.

Caesar Winners 2

Photo of the award winners taken during the cocktail hour. Notice Jaime somehow managed to force her way front and center, because that’s how she is. 

Over dinner, Jack Vitek began his emcee duties and started handing out the awards. Every year, I am in simple awe at the stories – each one so full of determination and a true love for fishing.

Caesar Facepalm

Jack realizes that Jaime has won the Women’s Saltwater title.

Marty and Roberta both won awards, and each of them is a phenomenal speaker.

Caesar Marty

Marty gives thanks to someone. I don’t remember who it was, but you can be sure it wasn’t Jack’s stylist.

It was a wonderful evening, until Jaime got her award. Although her speech may have come across like a gracious and humble thank you to her family and the IGFA, I knew that she was actually venting her vicious competitive spleen on me. For example, she just HAD to point out that some of her records came from breaking mine. She even had the nerve to thank me for helping her get started on all this. Of course, people laughed to be polite but I could tell that they were horrified.

Caesar Speech 2

Jaime makes vicious statements in front of the audience.

The fallout of all this was that Wade also won an award – placing in the guide category. He went up to the podium and apologized to me, which was heartfelt, but it was brutal to relive the bonefish incident. (Details HERE.)

Caesar Wade

Wade explains the pain of being Jaime’s father and guide.

When my turn came to accept the Men’s Saltwater award, I did what I have always done for these – got uncharacteristically humble. It is a privilege to be included in this group, and I tried to be brief – at least by my standards – and thank everyone I could think of. Let’s face it, none of this would have been possible without so many people who supported me – Marta of course, the Arosteguis, the many guides who put up with me all year, and the friends who spent all those hours tolerating fish pictures.

Caesar Jack

Jack in an intense moment. Fill in your own caption here.

A few plaques later, it was time for the Men’s Overall. Amazingly, there was a three-way tie – me, Bo Nelson, and a little-known young man from Coral Gables – Martini Arostegui. Bo, ever-modest, said a few quick words and left me and Martini on stage. We stared at each other, as we really hadn’t planned much. More on that later. If you can’t wait, skip to the bottom.

Caesar Overall

The three-way tie for Men’s Overall.

Caesar Plaques

This may be my favorite photo of all time that doesn’t involve Kate Upton.

Caesar Jaime

And then I got photobombed.

Caesar Group 2

The full group at the awards dinner. Note that Jaime has shoved her way next to Marty.

The day after the awards program, Marty generously offered to take me out fishing, but sadistically invited Jaime along as well. I was too polite to say anything, but I knew things would go badly. We would spend the day reef fishing off Miami, so there was some chance of new species, but I dreaded having my teenage arch-nemesis along. I knew what would happen.

Caesar Boat

I think that smile says everything you need to know.

Caesar Scenery

It was a lovely day off Miami, until …

You won’t hear much about Wade on this particular day. This is because Wade gets seasick, and there was an unfortunate overestimate of the amount of Bonine it would take to keep his breakfast down. He was out like a light for most of the trip.

Caesar Aepnea

Jaime makes sure Wade is completely unresponsive before she heartlessly takes his wallet.

We pulled up on a reef, baited up, and dropped down. Jaime immediately caught a #$%@ Caesar grunt. On her first cast. You just can’t make stuff like this up. Caesar knew what it was like to have his friends betray him, but he never felt pain like this.

Caesar Caesar

We took this photo back at the dock, once I had stopped crying.

The uninitiated among you might say “But Steve, it was early in the day and you would surely have plenty of chances to catch one yourself.” And I would respond “It doesn’t work that way. Get your finger out of your nose.” I knew that was the only Caesar we would see all day. Brutus had done her work.

This took all the joy out of two new species I caught that day – a spotted moray and a blackline tilefish.

Caesar Tilefish

The blackline tilefish. This was species 1300 for me. Interestingly (or not) my 1100th species was caught on this very same boat and was also a tilefish. (Details HERE.)

Caesar Eel

A spotted moray. I love eels. They don’t love me. 

Caesar Puffer

Jaime caught this checkered puffer at the dock. It was laughing at me. I could handle this, because I have caught checkered puffers before … but not this big.

Still, it was great to be out with Marty, and Wade, and Alma, but NOT Jaime. Once, just once, I want to catch the weird fish before she does, or even better, to catch it and she doesn’t and I can politely and diplomatically point that out to her, all day. I remember laying in bed that night, with Marta saying comforting things like “Enough about the Caesar grunt.”

I had one more day in Florida, and Marty and Roberta graciously asked me along on one of their Everglades world record jaunts. Marty knew I was painfully close to 100 and wanted to help – he let me know there was a shot at a line-class record on Florida gar. We headed out the Tamiami Trail early and launched the boat before the alligators started getting especially active. I don’t like alligators. (Background HERE.)

Caesar Gators

Of course, there were alligators EVERYWHERE.

Watching these two work together was a thing of beauty. They are both so passionate about fishing that it never loses its fun, but they are also a well-oiled machine when it comes to catching and recording records.

Caesar Arosteguis

Apart from a lovely couple, you’re also looking at something like 600 world records.

The fishing was fabulous. I got bass, warmouth, bowfin, and loads of oscars – there was something going every minute, and all the time, Roberta was catching bowfin on a fly rod.

Caesar Bowfin

One of the many bowfin we got that day.

We took two cracks at the gar. This was not an easy proposition, as we had to set up where there were a number of gar, then identify an appropriate-sized fish, then sight-cast to it and hope for a hookup. Gars have mouths the consistency of concrete, so this is not easy, especially when I was needing to be alert lest the alligators come on the boat and eat me.

Caesar Gator

I had the paddle ready to defend myself. Marty and Roberta found this to be amusing.

The first round on the gars was not successful, because I apparently can’t set a hook. But when we came back in the afternoon, we saw one fish that was clearly big enough, and it decided to hang around the boat long enough where even I was able to get a good cast in front of it. I let him wander around with it for what seemed like an eternity, then finally set the hook. I have lost so many of these over the years that I was nervous until Marty netted him, but when the fish hit the deck, I knew I had world record number 98.

Caesar Gar

World record #98, courtesy of the Arostegui family.

Your mind plays tricks on you in these cases, because being at 98 felt somehow further away from 100 than ever before. But I knew I had a Hawaii trip coming up, so there was a good chance to get it done. This part of the quest, just as it had been for 1000 species, was keeping me up at night, occupying my thoughts constantly, affecting my eating habits, which are horrible anyway, and causing me to involve random strangers in talk about IGFA rules.

But I also had the strength of a lot of friends behind me. I thought back to my moment with Martini on stage, accepting the Men’s Overall together. Everyone expected me to have a lot to say, because I am, to be honest, a ham. Martini took the microphone first, and instead of the gentle ribbing I expected, he gave one of the more moving speeches I have ever heard. He thanked his parents, who have given him so much love and encouragement. He thanked everyone else who had helped him over the years – the guides, the friends, the IGFA. He joked that the only thing his parents never gave him was a brother. (Martini has two amazing sisters.)

Martini then turned to me and said something to the effect of “Over the past few years, I went from a freshman at Stanford, knowing no one in the state, to being part of Steve’s family – over the course of I don’t know how many early mornings and late nights on the water. Some great days and some horrible ones, a bunch of species and a few world records. There are only a handful of people in the world who know how much those hours on the water mean to me and share my obsession with being there. And I knew I had a brother and always will.”

Martini then gestured me to the microphone. I knew that the moment was perfect the way it was, and that for once, I should just shut up. I took the mike, and looked around the quiet crowd for a long moment. They expected me to go on for ten minutes at least, but I uttered the shortest acceptance speech in IGFA history, which consisted of three words:

“What he said.”

Martini and I shook hands and walked off stage together.

I had two records to go. Hawaii was in four weeks. I could pack and repack my gear and read Dr. Jack Randall’s thrilling Reef and Shore Fishes of the Hawaiian Islands over and over. But first, I had an appointment with a clergyman.

Steve

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted by: 1000fish | January 24, 2015

Karaoke Night at Srinakarin

Dateline: April 15, 2014: – Srinakarin, Thailand

The noise shocked me out of a sound sleep. I bolted upright, and I could only think one thing – “It’s me or the water buffalo.” I pulled out my Swiss Army knife and prepared to use it. The corkscrew is often handy in such situations.

Panting in the darkness, I wondered how I came to be sleeping in a place where this kind of problem could happen. And even once I figured out it wasn’t actually a water buffalo, I had to ponder the truly important question – what was a karaoke machine doing on a floating hut in the middle of rural Thailand?

Jean-Francois Helias, master of the Thai fishing scene who has found me more than 100 species over the past decade, had wanted me to go to Srinakarin for years, and we had finally worked it out. (For more on Francois, read HERE) Srinakarin is not an easy place to reach, but it is a pilgrimage required for devoted snakehead anglers anywhere. Many of Jean-Francois’ monster snakehead are from this enormous, island-dotted reservoir on the Burmese border, about 150 miles northwest of Bangkok. The clincher for me was that the lake had jungle perch. I have always wanted to catch a jungle perch.

Jean-Francois recommended that we stay for a week, but with a hectic schedule, I could only manage three and a half days – 86 hours. It would be a very high ratio of travel to fishing, but that’s nothing new for me.

The trip began at the always-painful hour of 4am. We drove three hours to Kanchanaburi, then bought supplies for three days. (Bottled water, Red Bull, Pringles, and Red Bull. I generally bring camping food and hope we can find boiled water.) I am not an adventurous eater, to say the least, so when I did eat something that wasn’t from REI, it was fried rice with chicken, topped off with a Cipro just in case.

Kanchanburi is the site of the infamous “Bridge on the River Kwai,” where thousands of British POWs – and tens of thousands of Thai forced laborers – died while building the Burma railway link for the Japanese in World War II. We took the time to visit the site, still a sad place full of so many ghosts, and I could not help but think of Sir Alec Guinness.

Karaoke Bridge Sign

You are all lucky I am not a fly fisherman, or this post would have been called “Midge on the River Kwai.”

Karaoke Bridge 2

Although the road surface is new, the pilings here are from the original WWII bridge.

There were four of us on the trip – Francois, his lovely wife Lek, myself, and an unflappable British fly angler named Richard.

Karaoke Group

The group, minus Lek, who took the photo.

After Kanchanaburi, we drove another few hours to a village on the south end of the reservoir, then boarded a boat that was somewhat more rickety-looking that I would have hoped for.

Karaoke Boat

This carried six people (including boatmen) and all of our gear and supplies.

We roared off on to the lake. It was huge – arms opened into coves, and coves opened into expansive bays.

Karaoke Scenery 4

Srinakarin. Note all the sunken timber, which was positively loaded with fish. 

Two hours later, we pulled up at the floating village that was to be our home for the next few days. Francois had warned me that the accommodations were a touch rustic, so I didn’t start crying, but I’m not much of a camper and wasn’t relishing the evenings in the wild. It was somewhat of a comfort that the houses were floating off the shore a bit, so tigers would have a harder time getting to me.

Karaoke Hut

My home for three days. We slept on mats on raised platforms, and while there were mosquito nets, these would not stop cobras.

The villagers were very friendly and helpful. The kids showed me where all the fish lived under the platforms, and I caught plenty of barbs, although regretfully nothing new. Francois and I went casting for a couple of hours without result, but he was confident that the morning would be much better. Although it was stiflingly hot, the scenery was lovely, and there was wildlife everywhere, including water buffalo.

Karaoke Buffalo 2

Small herds wandered the shoreline. The males would snort and charge if the boat got too close.

That night, just as I was considering trying to go to sleep, I heard music. Loud music. Loud, awful music. The locals somehow had gotten a karaoke machine, and they had revved it up and were singing at the top of their enthusiastic little lungs.

Sure, it surprised me to find a karaoke machine on a floating hut in the middle of rural Thailand. But what really surprised me was that no one there, not one man, woman, or child, could carry a tune. Still, they sang better than I could, and more importantly, they had fun. But this precluded sleep.

Then it got worse.

Around midnight, the floor show tapered off and I decided to turn in on my mat. It was not disastrously uncomfortable, and a Benadryl later, I drifted off to sleep. Forty minutes later, I was snapped awake by a terrible noise.

It was a noise unlike any I had ever heard, a cross between a failing sump pump and a water buffalo giving birth – for distance. I flailed around for my flashlight, well aware that my mosquito net would not stop a water buffalo calf. I looked around, peering into the darkness. Was the house sinking? Was a pig ejecting its spleen?

After a tense moment, I figured it out. Richard and Francois were having a snoring contest. We’ll call it a draw, but as I lay awake wondering if it would ever stop without violence, I came to appreciate the different styles that each of these artists brought to the field.

Richard was the consistent one, producing a deep rumbling, not unlike a mechanically unsound locomotive.

Francois was the artist – “La Cirque du Adenoids.” He did not snore steadily, but every 30-50 seconds, he emitted a phenomenal range of bleats and yips. One moment, a kitten with peas up its nose, then next, satan passing a gallstone. I dozed and mused in equal measure, and figured at least the noise would keep away the tigers and water buffalo.

Morning came slowly, but I had brought plenty of Red Bull and was ready to go. Jungle perch and snakehead awaited.

Karaoke Scenery 3

Early morning on the lake. I don’t remember taking this picture.

One of the local guides took me out just past dawn. It had cooled off to a bearable temperature, and the air was fresh and still. Unlike the previous afternoon, fish were jumping everywhere. We drove about a mile from the huts and started paddling the shoreline. Within five minutes, we saw some some fish slashing bait on the surface and raced over to them. The guide said “Jungle perch!” I cast a white X-Rap within two feet of shore, and at least four fish blew up on it, knocking it onto the beach. One of the perch flung itself on the sand and thrashed at the lure, and I hooked up the instant the plug re-entered the lake. It was a strong fight, but there was no timber nearby and I landed the fish in a few minutes. I had enough adrenaline going to keep me awake until lunch.

Karaoke Jungle

My first jungle perch. There would be more shortly.

We got several more fish, including one that hit three different times. This species is nothing if not enthusiastic. As we worked into a cove, the guide suddenly started waving excitedly and pointing at the water – “Snakehead! Snakehead!” I looked around and spotted a bubbling patch of water about 40 feet away. This was one of the famous balls of juvenile snakehead, almost always accompanied by two angry parents. I had heard about this for years, and now I was living it.

Karaoke Fry

The fry ball. 

I made a cast. Once I had retrieved the plug past the ball, I cranked it in as fast as I could to make another cast. It was at this moment I get THE strike – the single most violent strike I have ever gotten from a freshwater fish.

Some fish strike with vigor, others with anger, hunger, or desperation. The snakehead struck with pure hate. She came in so fast toward me that my line went slack. I stood there like an idiot for a split-second, and then she turned and snapped the line tight. She took off for the trees, scorching a tight drag like it was freespool, and my graphite rod made those pre-breaking noises they often do right before they break. All I could do was hold on. Somehow, the rod stayed in one piece and my knots held, and the fish scraped along a line of sunken trees. I expected the sickening feeling of a breakoff at any moment, but after what seemed like an eternity, she came out into open water and we eventually landed her. At over 14 pounds, it was the biggest snakehead I ever expect to see.

Karaoke Snakehead

I was ecstatic. What snoring? What water buffaloes?

Karaoke Face

Do not put this in your pants.

My hands hadn’t even stopped shaking when I got another one. This was likely the father – I made sure that both parents were released near the fry ball, and as the sun continued to heat things up, the activity dropped off. But that few hours in the morning had made the entire trip worth it.

Karaoke Snakehead 2

The second fish. My second-largest snakehead ever.

Richard checked in with us as we headed back to the village. The fly-fishing was not outstanding, and he had not gotten a strike. With classic British stoicism, he never uttered a word of complaint. As was observed in Monty Python, this guy could get a foot bitten off and just say “Oh dear. One sock too many.”

As we paddled the boat around one of the coves, I heard a splashing and snuffling in the water. Looking around in alarm, I spotted something that you just don’t see every day – a water buffalo out for a swim.

Karaoke Buffalo

They are surprisingly good swimmers.

We returned to the hut for lunch, and an eight year-old came out of nowhere and tried to get me with a squirt gun.

This was Songkran, the Thai New Year. Whereas on the western New Year, we spend one night trying to throw up on each other, in Thailand, they spend three days trying to throw water on each other. Think of it as the world’s largest outdoor squirtgun fight. There is no way to go in public without getting soaked.

We were in the jungle for most of the festival, so this was my only experience with the holiday. Luckily, we brought an enormous, battery-operated super soaker of the type used for putting out medium-sized fires and drenching surprised eight year-olds. Oh yes I did.

Karaoke Kids

A couple of the local kids. The one on the right pulled the squirt gun on me. He’ll never do that again. 

The afternoons were brutally hot. I spent my time making short trips to shaded areas, looking for new species, and I managed to pick up two interesting ones.

Karaoke Lined

The lined barb. These are apparently very good bait for featherback.

Karaoke Catfish

A hemibagrid catfish. Although not as large as some related species, their spines are remarkably poisonous.

I got back to the dock for dinner – REI freeze-dried beef stew, which, although stupefyingly bland, has never given me the curse. A light breeze picked up, and the stifling heat slowly gave way to a pleasant evening. Francois and Lek got massages from a local practitioner.

Karaoke Massage

This looked more like medieval torture than a massage, but I’ll take their word for it.

The sun went down, and the karaoke machine came out. I smiled along as the villagers struggled through dozens of tunes, each one still better than Jessica Simpson. This tapered off around midnight, and shortly afterward, the snorefest resumed. I tried earplugs. I tried benadryl and scotch. I tried benadryl, scotch, and earplugs, and believe me, it takes a lot of scotch to swallow earplugs. Nothing worked. I got a few snatches of sleep, but at least I knew that the cobras wouldn’t go near us.

Karaoke Scenery 1

Another sunrise, before the mist burned off the lake.

The morning started well, with two more jungle perch. At Jean-Francois’ urging, I had changed the hooks on my lures to sturdier models. The one unmodified lure I tossed has both trebles bent straight in a single strike.

Karaoke Jungle 2

Imagine a European chub on steroids.

We also cast at two more fry balls for snakehead, but only the juveniles would strike.

Karaoke Juveniles

Even the young snakehead were vicious, attacking lures larger than themselves and getting hooked two and three at a time.

I spent the afternoon hours fishing for smaller creatures, and I was rewarded with three additional species.

Karaoke Armatus Barb

The lined tailspot barb.

Karaoke repasson barb

The silver tailspot barb. I only caught one of these.

Karaoke atridorsalis barb

And the sixth and final species of the trip – the blackfin barb. Note that these are my names – most of these have no English common names, and the local Thai names take years of study to pronounce correctly, almost as bad as Norwegian. (Details HERE.)

The evening’s karaoke festivities cut off a bit early, but this meant that the snoring got going around 11. It was my last night at the lake, so I embraced it, and dreamed troubled dreams involving water buffalo and Cousin Chuck.

The next morning, we fished a couple of hours and departed for Bangkok – two hours by boat and six by car. We looked at scenery, dozed here and there, and discussed the trip. Somewhere in there, when Francois mentioned how well he sleeps on the water, I had to make a crack about the snoring. Francois looked at me with complete astonishment. “Oh my man, you snore like a water buffalo.” I texted this to Marta, expecting some support, but she made a similar observation. Preposterous.

Steve

 

Posted by: 1000fish | December 8, 2014

A Gift of Yellow Fluid

Dateline: April 11, 2014 – Prachuap Kiri Khan, Thailand

Sometimes, small gifts are the most heartfelt. Other times, they are the most awkward.

Like many awkward moments in my life, this story takes place in Thailand. I was on a business trip to Asia, and decided to take a few days with old friend Jean-Francois Helias. Francois is a miracle worker – he keeps finding new species for me to catch in Thailand, even after I have been there dozens of times. (An example HERE) This time, I decided to make time for the biggie, the pilgrimage to Srinakarin reservoir to chase monster snakehead. We had a few days to kill before that, so we did a hodgepodge of spots that Francois had always wanted me to visit. Thailand is a big place, and there are an endless variety of new opportunities for the intrepid angler, or, in my case, an angler with an intrepid guide.

Carp Steve JF

Jean-Francois Helias – master of the Thai fishing scene. (fishasia@ksc.th.com)

We started with the requisite trip to Ratchaburi. Sure, it’s a stocked pond. I didn’t claim I had any dignity around this – I’m the guy who has fished in hotel fountains. But the point remains that Ratchaburi has all kinds of stuff I have never caught, and the Thai mahseer is one of these.

Fluid Mahseer

The Thai mahseer. Hard fighters, even in hotel fountains.

The next day, we piled into a minivan and headed south. Francois will generally have a very specific place in mind, but in this case, we were exploring, looking for a small river that bordered an elephant preserve on the border with Burma. We drove for some hours through small towns and increasingly wild and hilly terrain, and finally came to the elephant preserve at Pa La U.

Fluid River

If this was video, you could hear elephants snorting in the distance. But it isn’t, so you can make the experience more authentic by making snorting noises while you read the next few paragraphs.

Elephants scare me. I never particularly felt this way until a trip to Africa in 2006 when one managed to sneak up on me on an open beach. Although he allowed me to live, my underpants could not be saved. So I was on guard all afternoon, my underpants doubly so.

We fished a few creeks outside the preserve, but the elephants can’t read the boundary markers and were crashing about in the forest all day. I caught a few glimpses of them in the jungle, which kept me distracted, but I did manage to land two new species – a blue danio and a tail-spot raspbora.

Fluid Danio 1

The blue danio, which I am sure was the original title of the Bobby Vinton song.

Fluid Rasbora

A species is a species, and this was something rare and wonderful, if not especially large. There’s a cousin Chuck joke in there someplace.

You can stop snorting now.

Once the jungle adventure was over, we saddled up in the van and turned south to Prachuap Kiri Khan, a port on the Gulf of Siam. Francois described it as a species haven – I had my doubts, as I have fished the area a lot, but I’ve learned not to bet against the Frenchman. (background HERE)

We got into Prachuap in the late afternoon. It’s a relatively quiet town – none of the beachfront party craziness you might find in Koh Samui. This suits me fine, as I don’t like to be disturbed by screaming barhoppers when I am fishing at 3am. I was in a low-key mood, so it took me a full 12 minutes to put gear together, find bait at a local market, and head out to the pier.

On the way over to the docks, the driver kept pointing at a religious-looking building on top of a hill and saying “monkey.” Kindly, I corrected him and told him “The word is Monk.” As we approached the base of the hill, I began looking for the familiar orange robes, and was surprised instead to see … monkeys. Everywhere. “Monkeys” said the driver again, and I felt like an idiot.

Fluid Monkeys

If they had only been wearing orange robes, I wouldn’t have felt so stupid.

It was very breezy, so I could only set up on the sheltered side of the pier. The scenery was spectacular – scattered islands down the coast as far as I could see.

Fluid Prach 1

Setting up on the pier. The wind was howling.

There were a few other fishermen, so I set up a respectful distance from them and started tossing Sabikis. I was immediately rewarded with a variety of small fish, one of which turned out to be new species.

Fluid Scad

The razorbelly scad. They were everywhere. 

The teenagers next to me looked astonished that I was catching fish – they apparently hadn’t gotten anything all day. Checking their equipment, the problem was evident – they were using 1/0 hooks, and the fish here, even the ambitious ones, had no chance of being caught on these. I pulled out a package of something more suitable, like a #14, and retied their rigs.

Fluid kid

One of my fishing buddies on the pier.

They immediately started getting fish, which all went into a bucket – this was dinner for their family. I gave them the hooks – I have plenty. They thanked me profusely, but their innocent good intentions led to an awkward moment.

Moments later, a little old lady came by with a cart, selling some sort of beverage. Before I could stop them, the kids pooled their coins together and bought two cups of some sort of yellow fluid over ice – one for me and one for them to share. With great formality, they presented it to me.

Fluid fluid

The yellow fluid. It was not exactly tasty, but it certainly was eponymous. 

Now this was difficult. One of my three inviolable travel rules is “no street vendor food.” (The other two are “no fishing during an armed insurrection” and “no one that tall is really a girl.’) Visions of food poisoning danced through my head, and I wondered if the Cipro in my toiletries could overwhelm whatever ill-willed microbes were doing the backstroke in my beverage.

The drink was the color and consistency of a urine sample, and the taste was less dissimilar than I had hoped. Still, I took what looked like a big swig and managed to give what I hope appeared to be a smile of approval while I tried not to cough it up through my nose. Satisfied, they went back to fishing, so I could pour the rest of the drink quietly into the harbor, where it likely killed some fish. They were good guys and meant well, and I hope they enjoy the hooks for a long time.

In the morning, Francois had arranged a charter with a local commercial fisherman and one of his Thai guides. The boatman used to taking out large groups, so he was surprised to see just one large American as his full load. The scenery was exquisite – exotic islands poking out of a powder-blue sea, and yesterday’s wind had been replaced with dead calm.

Fluid Islands

The islands in the morning calm.

Fluid boat

Our trusty craft. 

We had loads of squid, so I took some whole ones and rigged them up as bait. The guide – Kik –  was surprised by this, as most fishing here was done with small bits of bait on a #8 hook.

Fluid Kik

Kik – one of Jean-Francois’ most experienced guides. A fishing superstar.

The first few whole squid I put down came back ripped up by small fish, but about an hour later, that changed. As I reeled up the bigger rod, I was surprised to find that the line had moved quite some distance from where I had cast. Carefully, I reeled the slack out, and it became clear something was swimming with the bait. I let it pull tight and set the hook hard.

Whatever was on the other end was not pleased with this development, and it took off at great speed, right under the boat. I raced up to the bow and passed the rod under and over rigging and the anchor rope, and held on for dear life while the fish headed for the rocks. I figured it had to be a stingray. The fight went on for about 15 minutes, and as I gradually got the upper hand, I was even more sure it was a ray, which is why I was astonished when Kik netted the biggest painted sweetlip I have ever seen in my life.

Fluid Sweetlip 1

The beastly painted sweetlip. This is not the first time I was disappointed something wasn’t a ray. (Details HERE)

I have caught these all over the South Pacific, but never quite big enough for a world record. Yet here, in a place where sustenance fishing reduced the odds of a larger catch to almost zero, I had gotten one comfortably big enough to be my 97th world record. Three to go. This could happen.

We spent the rest of the day moving between shallow reefs, and one by one, I added a series of species to the list. I had fished extensively just a few hundred miles to the north and south of this spot, so I didn’t expect much, but by the time the day was over, I had tacked on five more new species.

Fluid whiting

Oriental whiting.

Fluid Weakfish

The Tigertooth Croaker. Now that’s a cool fish name. 

Fluid Pony

The splendid ponyfish. And this is a big one.

Fluid shrimp scad

A shrimp scad.

Fluid Grunter

The mighty saddle grunter. 

Fluid Sweetlip

Yes, this is the same sweetlip. I just wanted to put the picture in twice.

Nine species in three days, and the best part of the trip hadn’t even started. I was ecstatic.

The wind had picked quite a bit by 2:00, so we made our way in, weighed and documented the record fish, and packed up for Bangkok. Francois and I spent the entire ride talking about Srinakarin, the legendary reservoir in western Thailand that has produced some of the biggest snakehead ever wrestled into a boat. We had been talking about this spot since I met Jean-Francois, more than 10 years ago, and I had been quietly accumulating snakehead lures ever since. In just 36 hours, I would finally be putting them to use.

Steve

 

Posted by: 1000fish | November 25, 2014

Power Fishing

Dateline: April 6, 2014 – Endau Rompin, Malaysia

The fact that a weekend with Jarvis and Alex means endless sophomoric humor and juvenile pranks doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that they are so much better at it than I am.

You may remember these two knuckleheads from previous blogs – see “Angry White Man.”  Despite their vile horseplay, these guys are great friends of mine and two of the most dedicated fishermen I have ever met. For their part, they still can’t understand why I am throwing sabikis at “panty fish,” when they will cast a freestyle jig for 12 hours waiting for one big bite.

The destination this time around was a familiar one – Endau Rompin, on the east coast of Malaysia. A quick drive from Singapore, especially if Jarvis has the wheel, this is an outstanding spot that features great variety and a bunch of name-brand gamefish like GT, barred mackerel, and sailfish. I’ve gotten 18 new species in Endau over the years, and I highly recommend visiting if you get a chance.

Power docks

Endau Rompin at sunrise.

We set out very early on a Saturday morning, or more like very late on a Friday night, at some indecent hour when only the Australians are still wandering the streets of Singapore, not that they’ll remember it. We made quick work of a 150 mile drive – it was like Guido was driving except there we didn’t get arrested. (For driving lessons from Guido, click HERE) We hit Endau just at dawn, loaded up on two days of 7-11 food, and hit the water.

I had fished here several times before, so I accepted that I would have diminishing returns – but new species or not, the action here can be spectacular. Of course, there were a couple of difficulties apart from Alex’s inconsistent personal hygiene. For starters, I was still nursing a broken collarbone, and the sea was a bit choppy – a bad combination. Normally, water conditions short of hurricane don’t bother me, but with a bit of a sore shoulder, each bump was a new experience in ouch. Needless to say, this greatly amused Alex and Jarvis.

And then there was the unfortunately-named deckhand.

Power power

Pa Wer the deckhand.

The deckhand’s name was Pa Wer. Pronounced in English, this sounded a lot like “Power,” and while I don’t know why this was funny, every time someone mentioned the deckhand, the whole group would yell “POWER!!” And every time someone used the word “power,” the whole group would yell “POWER!!” For two fulls days, this never got old.

After a lumpy, wince-filled two hour run, we pulled up at some offshore islands. These are beautiful places, loaded with a variety of fish – it’s just unfortunate I have caught most of them. It was still great to be out on the water, doubly so once the boat stopped, and we got to work.

Power Islands

The Gnoidea Vattheycalled islands off Endau Rompin.

I got loads of bottom fish, including one of my favorite species of all time – the floral wrasse. I pulled it on deck, and said, “Pa Wer, the pliers please!” The group responded in chorus “Powerrrrrrr!”

Power Wrasse

The floral wrasse.

We moved out to some slightly deeper reefs, and the first fish I got made the trip worthwhile. Though small, it was indeed a new species.

Power Mack

The striped mackerel – a new species. What rough water?

That night, before dinner, the guys asked to use my bathroom, so we could be ready to eat faster. They said they only needed my room to shave. Like an idiot, I TRUSTED THEM. When I returned, I discovered that they must have shaved their heads, their backs, and a small dog, and left the aftermath for me to enjoy.

Power sink

Idiots. I ask them what the hell they thought they were doing, and the responded “Power shaving. Powerrrrrrr!”

The next day was more of the same fishing. The guys cast and cast and cast lures, and while things weren’t wide open, they did manage to get a few nice coral trout and narrow-barred Spanish mackerel. For my part, I was busy whimpering about the bumpy ride, but I did manage to jig up one small flounder that was new on the species list – the savage Cinnamon flounder.

Power flounder

Who says I don’t have sole? Alex said this was a power fish, and they all yelled “Powerrrrrrr!” You can’t imagine how funny they though this was.

Power Eeeew

I try to take some advil and get a nap, and I end up with a bunch of photos like this.

We made an earlier day out of it, as we had to get back to Singapore, but it was a solid day of fishing and I was glad to add two species for the weekend, even though the image of that sink will haunt me until the day I die.

Power group

The triumphant group as we landed on day two.

All that remained was to shower, eat at KFC, and make the terrifying ride home with Jarvis Andretti at the wheel. As they dropped me back off at the Hilton in Singapore, Jarvis and Alex did something pointlessly cruel. They let it slip that they “may” have hidden a crab in my equipment, just as idiot Alex had done to me last year. (Right HERE) I was forced to unpack and go through everything, and there was no crab, but I still wasted two hours. This is terrorism.

Power room

I tear my equipment apart looking for the crab that was never there.

I will get them for this. And I wish I’d thought of it first.

Powerrrrrrr!

Steve

 

 

Posted by: 1000fish | November 20, 2014

The One-Armed Bandit

Dateline: March 22, 2014 – Long Beach, CA

My collarbone snapped loudly when I hit the ice. The ligaments in my shoulder tore at the same time, which sounded like reluctant wet velcro.

In the post from my 50th birthday, I mused about how long I would be playing hockey with a bunch of kids who are more athletic and substantially younger than I am. (Details HERE) The answer arrived just after 10pm on March 13. It wasn’t a particularly clean play – the guy took my legs out from behind, but these things happen. 99 times out of a hundred, I would have jumped up, retaliated, and probably gotten a penalty. But whether it was age or bad luck, this fall went differently, and all 220 pounds of me landed on my left shoulder. I could hear my collarbone break, and as we got my gear off before going to the hospital, it was also clear that the shoulder was badly dislocated.

Bandit Hospital

Right before they hit me with the morphine. I apparently said some strange things later. When the registrar asked for my religion, I am told that I responded “Pagan.”

In terms of pain, I had thought ribs were the gold standard, but the collarbone is worse. You might use your ribs every time you breathe, but the collarbone is apparently involved in blinking. The next few weeks involved a lot of painkillers.

Of course, I couldn’t let this interfere with fishing.

I had a trip to Los Angeles scheduled with Martini eight days after this event. We had talked for four years about getting him out with Ben Florentino and catching the Southern California usual suspects, and I was not going to let a minor thing like a gruesomely dislocated shoulder spoil the fun. Three days after the injury, I walking gingerly down to my garage and picked up the casting rod I would likely use on a trip with Ben. The act of lifting it with my left hand made me almost black out with pain. This was not good. As a last resort, I know I could just go and NOT FISH, but with four more days to work on options, I was not ready to accept this.

The next day, I returned to the garage and tried a spinning rod. I found that I could cast it one-handed, close the bail with my teeth, then reel it by rotating my good arm around the handle, which I jammed into the space between my hip and my left hand. I practiced this in the driveway in my pajamas. My confidence grew. (Note from Marta – you can’t imagine the calls I got from the neighbors.)

Martini, as ever acting the part of the older brother, made the ridiculous suggestion of just cancelling the trip. In between vicodin tablets, I questioned his judgement and dedication to fishing. He smiled maturely and didn’t engage, and when the weekend came and I refused to cancel, he insisted on doing all the driving. It was a good road trip, and we mercifully dodged the legendary LA traffic. My shoulder was pretty darn sore, but I thought things were fine – but I apparently took one too many pain pills. Later in the evening, for reasons I can not explain, I apparently unraveled three full rolls of toilet paper and left it in a big pile on the bathroom floor.

We met Ben at the dock early in the morning. Martini generously carried most of the stuff down to the boat, thank goodness – although I did carry my own Red Bull and Vicodin. It was great to see Ben, and yes, he too questioned the wisdom of my going out on the water. Where, I ask, is the dedication? (Where, Marta asks, is the common sense?)

Among the many things I forgotten to consider was the bumpy boat ride out to the kelp beds. Ben ran the boat as gently as he could, but every bump was lip-bitingly painful. I said nothing, but my involuntary squeaks gave me away. We finally arrived at some likely-looking kelp beds and set to fishing. I had practiced my one-armed casting ritual and was comfortable with it, despite incredulous glances from Ben and Martini. I became rather smug about it – What broken bones? What torn ligaments? Those are for sissies. It was at that precise moment that the Fish Gods hit me with the one thing I had forgotten about – a fish. A solid kelp bass smashed my lure, and pulled back hard to my left. I tried to speak and stifle a distinctly unmanly scream at the same time, which came out something like “Motherfgarblewhimper!!” Martini, who normally never misses a chance to give me a hard time, felt so bad he didn’t say a thing. My arm hung limply in the sling as I held the surging fish with my right, and then awkwardly placed the reel handle against my hip and brought the fish in. Despite having a bit of a sore shoulder, I had landed a fish. I’m not sure what I was trying to prove to who, but I had proven it.

Bandit Calico

The kelp bass in question. Ben is still shaken up from my screaming. 

I sat down with a Red Bull and some Vicodin and let the able-bodied fish the rest of the morning. It was not a wide-open day like I had experienced in June of last year (Click HERE) but there were definitely some fish there, and that’s when a good guide really helps – the tougher days. Martini got a few nice calico bass on lures, and some other assorted kelp denizens. He has made so many amazing trips happen for me, so I was pleased that he was getting a shot at this fishery before he graduated.

Bandit Martini

Martini’s first calico. He used two hands – almost cheating.

Martini also did something gross. After catching a nice Pacific mackerel – his first – he just had to chop it up and eat it.

Bandit Mackerel

Yes, I eat sushi, but this is different. And gross. 

Bandit Group

If you’re planning to be in the LA area, look Ben up at 310 779-0397 or rek1ess@hotmail.com

After a few hours, we moved back into the bay and put some baits down. Martini promptly got a hit and a screaming run – unquestionably the “mud marlin” – a California bat ray. I was not quick to get my rod out of the water, so we couldn’t chase it, and consequently, the fish is still going – Martini was spooled in less than a minute.

Bandit Spooled

Martini poses heroically as he gets spooled.

We picked up a few assorted perch and sand bass inside Long Beach harbor. It was pleasant enough, but as it got later in the day, we hadn’t gotten anything truly noteworthy. That all changed in five minutes. Martini went first. Casting a small bait on a light rig to the rocks, he got a big hit and a wild fight. As he brought the fish toward the boat, I thought it had to be a decent perch, but when Ben netted it, I was stunned. It was a rock wrasse. A huge rock wrasse. Not only was this a new species for Martini, it was also an open world record. This might not seem like that big of a deal for someone with 170+ records like Martini, but for the past several years, Martini, third in the record standings overall, was on a focused quest to claim second – to be one and two with his father. So if there was going to be one record for the day, I was glad it was his.

Bandit Rock

The behemoth rock wrasse. Rock wrassezilla. 

But there was to be another world record that afternoon. I was sort of halfway fishing, with a squid/jig combo under the boat in about 10 feet of water, so if I hooked something I wouldn’t have to reel all that much. I got a strange bite, slow and cautious, and after a few minutes, I finally set the hook. I was rewarded with a fight that had all the energy of a sedated boot, and as I raised it one-handed to the surface, I saw I had gotten a California skate – big enough to break my own record. This would be my 96th. I was getting awfully close.

Bandit Skate

I should have left the sling on for the photos. How do I make that face?

So just like that, a decent day on the water had turned epic. There were whoops, man-hugs, and high-fives (all right-handed.) We had both gotten records, and just as I was the first person to set an IGFA record while naked (18+ click HERE,) I likely became the first person to set one in a sling. It was great to see Ben, great to have Martini catch a few of the Southern California kelp creatures, and best of all to just survive the whole thing.

I was curiously proud of myself on the ride home. “Well,” I said. “I toughed it out.” Martini sighed with equal parts of patience and bewilderment, reminding me very much of his father. “Steve, there’s a fine line between tough and stupid, and you’re playing hopscotch with it.”

Steve

 

Bandit Moon

And just as we pulled out to drive home, a full moon came out.

Posted by: 1000fish | November 10, 2014

Return to Salt River

Dateline: March 10, 2014 – Salt River, Arizona

Martini warned me not to look. But I looked.

But wait, I hear you say. There was never a Salt River blog in the first place, so how can we be returning there? This is what I like to call “editorial magic.” This is when I botch something really badly and don’t report it to you until I have gotten it right. It’s not an ego thing – I’m just trying to respect your time. Or it’s an ego thing. I forget which.

The destination this time was the Salt River in Arizona, where, in mid-2013, the Arostegui clan had caught two species of suckers – and of course, set records on both of them. In November of 2013, Martini and I paid a visit to the same spots, hunting for the same fish, but the results were unfortunately not as successful.

This is exasperating fishing. Exasperating. On the drive from the airport, Martini tried to warn me it was going to be exasperating, but I paid no heed. He especially warned me not to look at the water as we walked up to our spot.

Of course, I looked anyway. “Holy $#@%” I said out loud. Martini said “You looked. You shouldn’t have looked. ” But I had. There were fish everywhere. In groups on the rocks. Cruising the surface and the midwater. Everywhere. Right out loud, I said something very stupid and downright offensive to the Fish Gods. “This should be easy.” Martini winced – he had been here before and knew how hard it was going to be. Just because they were there didn’t mean they were going to bite, but I hadn’t put this together yet.

Hours later, as it got dark, I shook my head and looked back on a day of utter failure – a truly ugly fall off the cliff of hubris. I had seen hundreds and hundreds of suckers. I had eased bait within millimeters of their little snouts, and I had been ignored like I was trying to give Miley Cyrus good advice.

Martini caught a couple of suckers, because he is a good angler and because he did not upset the Fish Gods.

Salt Duo

One of Martini’s fish. I was smiling because I at least got to touch a fish.

As the sun set, wild horses came down to the water to drink.

Salt Horses

But they couldn’t drag me away.

I was completely aghast as we plodded through the twilight to the car. “What the $%#&?” I asked. Martini responded “I warned you.” I countered “But there were hundreds of fish.”

Salt Sunset

The Arizona sun sets on my dignity.

“I warned you. I WARNED YOU!” he continued into a Scottish accent like Tim the Enchanter from Holy Grail berating the knights who survived the rabbit attack. “But oooooh no, you wouldn’t listen to me …”

Salt Tim

John Cleese as Tim the Enchanter. This is culturally important.

“What the %#^.” I mumbled, to no one in particular. The conversation went on like this for most of the evening, including our dinner at a spectacularly misplaced Falafel house in the middle of the Arizona desert.

We also had a spectacularly awkward moment at our hotel. We were staying at some sort of ranch, where city folks go and somehow get a kick out of doing chores and wearing chaps, and one of their greatest selling points was apparently their regionally famous “hearty cowboy breakfast.” When Martini and I were arranging our 5 am checkout so we could get fishing early, the ranch hand didn’t get it at first. He politely told us, in just the slightest cowboy twang, “But breakfast starts at seven.” Then he added “It’s a hearty cowboy breakfast.”

We politely explained that we really needed to leave at five. His face fell and kept falling. It was then we realized that we had hurt this man down the very core of his being. “You’re … (long moments of processing time) not going to make it to breakfast?” The only other person on earth who has ever been this disappointed would be Cousin Chuck’s wife, 90 seconds into their honeymoon. “But … but …” he stammered. “It’s a hearty cowboy breakfast. You work it off during the day!” He was proud of this breakfast, and he sounded almost, but not quite, ready to cry. Martini and I felt like bad people.

We excused ourselves as quickly as we could and left him in the lobby, still mumbling about “a hearty cowboy breakfast.”

The morning represented a fresh challenge. Our target would be the roundtail chub, an extraordinarily rare species that lives in a few isolated creeks in Northern Arizona. The main issue was whether we would able to reach the creek without a halftrack. The creek, you see, was at the end of some 15 miles – that’s 25 kilometers at today’s exchange rate – of “road” that hadn’t been maintained since Nixon was trusted. It appeared to be designed without motor vehicles in mind, and we had left our donkey at the hotel. (Long story.)

Salt Sign

How about “never maintained – EVER?” 

The only advantage of getting someplace that difficult to reach is of course that it was completely unspoiled beauty. We had reached a perfect, aqua blue creek in the far reaches of the high desert. There are very few places like left anywhere, and we took in the scenery for a moment and made sure not to dump any toxic waste. (Despite breakfast at Denny’s.)

Salt Fossil

The nameless mountain creek, northern Arizona. It was almost worth the drive. 

Salt Creek 2

They do this without chlorine.

At first, no fish were in evidence. After about 30 minutes of fruitless angling, I began to get that horrible feeling I get when I have just driven 15 miles on an alleged road and there are no fish. But we kept at it, and finally, a small, silvery shape shot out from under the bank and grabbed my tiny jig. I flipped it up on the bank and took a quick photo – I had just added one of the rarer species I would ever catch.

Salt Headwater

The roundtail chub. 

Just as I released mine, Martini hooked up. Suddenly, the chubs were everywhere. They had apparently stayed in tight cover until the water temperature got to their liking, then they came out all at once. I cast again and got one, resulting in the photo below, which, to species hunters, is extraordinary. To everyone else, it’s two unattractive men holding small fish.

Salt Double

This may be the only picture in existence of two anglers with roundtail chubs.

Salt Scenery

We got to enjoy this scenery at very low speeds.

We called the day a success after another hour or so, and began the long ride back to Phoenix and the flight home. I was pleased to get the chub, but still aghast about the suckers. Martini texted me as his flight took off – “I warned you.”

Fast forward four months and about ten inches of water level in the Salt River. I had a business trip to Phoenix in March, and I was determined to make good on the sucker species. I flew in to Arizona in the morning, got a car, and was out at the scene of my humiliation well before lunch.

Peering down from the bluffs, it was clear there was more water in the river than there had been in November. There was nice flow at the head of the pool, which hadn’t been the case before, and local rumor has it that the fish bite better when the water is moving. The fish were still everywhere, although I made a point of not looking at them as I walked along the bank to my first spot.

Salt Pool

I closed my eyes while I took this photo. If you look closely, all of the dark shapes in the middle of the river are suckers. And they were a lot denser further down the pool.

With what passes for great stealth on my part, I crept up to the bank, keeping as low a profile as I could, and cast into the mass of fish. Breathlessly, I watched the worm slowly drift through the groups, and sadly, I watched the fish ease away as the offering came near them. Would it be an ugly repeat of November? Just then, a Sonora sucker swam across the riffle with great purpose and slammed the bait. I was so surprised I was very late on the hookset, but the Fish Gods were merciful and I had a fight on my hands. A few moments later, I netted a beautiful Sonora, a new species, and, at three and a quarter pounds, a new world record – #94.

Salt Sonoroa

Now that’s a way to start the trip.

It was a very different experience than last November. The Sonoras bit quite reliably, and I got several more as the afternoon went on.

Salt Big Sonora

All the rest of them seemed to be exactly 3.24 pounds.

Salt Sonora Mouth

But aren’t they adorable?

So the Sonoras were cooperative, but as the afternoon progressed, it occurred to me that the desert suckers had remained elusive. I sight cast, and sight cast, and sight cast, moving baits right on to their noses, but they wandered off with stunning indifference. I have only seen that level of indifference from one other animal – Rossi, the Arostegui’s cat, when I try to pet him.

I moved all along the bank, and there was no shortage of targets, but they all ignored me. I had gotten quite cynical about the whole thing, but stubbornly continued dropping baits in front of their upturned little noses. Around four, I was lowering a piece of worm on to the snout of a fish just a yard or two off the bank, when it suddenly decided it was hungry and pounced on the bait. I almost fell over in surprise, which was sufficient to set the hook, and I had a delicate fight on my hands as I had left the net upstream. I finally landed it in a shallow pool, and then had a moment of drama as I got out my Boga grip and weighed the fish.

It was exactly one and three-quarter pounds. The world record was exactly one and three-quarter pounds. I had tied it, which counted as record #95, and I would be sharing this record with none other that Dr. Marty Arostegui.

Salt Desert

The lone desert sucker. I was ecstatic.

I fished until late in the day, satisfied and in a bit of disbelief.

Salt Clouds

The sun goes down over the desert. And this time, there was no one yelling “I warned you!”

I had checked off two more species on my lift list. More importantly, I had added two world records – numbers 94 and 95. Now it was seeming possible. I needed to get five more before August 15 to get the Lifetime Achievement this year, and I had a big trip to Asia coming up in April. It had taken two forays out to the Arizona desert, but I had transcended my own hubris and caught the suckers.

And the next time Martini tells me not to look, I won’t look.

Steve

 

 

 

Posted by: 1000fish | November 1, 2014

The Worst Valentine Ever

Dateline: February 28, 2014 – Bujama Mala, Peru

I’ve had some questionable Valentine’s dates over the years, but none more so than in Beijing on February 14, 2005. Nic was not only surly and unattractive, he even stuck me with the check. It took him nine long years to redeem himself, but half a world away, in February of 2014, Nic, although not much of a fisherman, managed to organize an unexpected gem of a fishing weekend.

Peru Beijing

Steve and Nic outside the Forbidden City, February 14, 2005. 

Nic has been a friend of mine for a long time – we have worked together for something like 15 years. A former US Marine and current IP lawyer, Nic speaks something like nine languages (four of them English) and has been to more countries than I have. He’s the closest thing I know to an international man of mystery, even if he’s more suited to International House of Pancakes.

Our adventures, most of which cannot be repeated here for reasons relating to good taste, are the stuff of sad legend, and in one unfortunate incident, we were mistaken as a Valentine’s day couple in Beijing. Before you start rewriting Brokeback Mountain, here is what happened: We had been sent to Beijing for business on very short notice. Bleary-eyed and crazed with hunger, we went into the first American-looking restaurant we saw, which happened to be an Outback Steakhouse. In our jet-lagged stupor, we had forgotten it was Valentine’s day, and when we requested a table, the staff couldn’t stop giggling at the two six-foot unshaven Americans. We made them take down all the flowers and balloons.

Peru Ick

Nic and Steve, Buenos Aires, 2014. I grant you we would not have beautiful children.

Nic was the son of a diplomat, and spent much of his teen years in Lima. Thus, when my South America business trip continued to Peru, he was a great source of local knowledge. One of Nic’s Peru-based employees, Jose Larranaga, is quite a keen fisherman, and it was Jose’s connections – Hector and Chris –  that made most of this trip happen. We’ll get to meet them about 500 words from now. So thank you Nic, but you can stop sending me cards every February 14.

Peru JAL

Jose Antonio and a couple of fine corvinas. 

The debacle in Brazil had put a damper on my enthusiasm. There is something about looking up at 20 feet of water that can discourage even the heartiest of breakfasts, but still, I was in Peru and I was going to make the most of it. If I could manage to catch a fish, I would reach the 80 country milestone – a level not reached by any smart person.

The serious fishing was planned for the weekend, but our first day in the office turned out to have the afternoon open.  What else was I supposed to do? Nic and I went to a restaurant right on the beach, had a beautiful ceviche lunch, then put Nic’s fluent Spanish to work with the busboy. He wrangled five fresh prawns, more than enough bait to explore the area for a few hours.

It was a pleasant afternoon, warm but not oppressive, a bit of breeze, and a calm sea. We lounged on the seawall, enjoyed the view of Lima, and I began casting. It was a bonus session – I hoped to catch something small and interesting, and put Peru on “the list.”

The fish came quickly, and while their size was yawn-provoking, the variety was not. I managed to scratch off four new species in just a few hours, which already made the trip more than worth it. I had added my 80th country; a journey that had taken me through 79 other countries and then this one. Nic and I enjoyed the afternoon, and revisited a number of stories, especially an unfortunate evening in Saigon, that are best left untold in case my nephew is reading this.

Peru Chalapo

Species #1 – the Chalapo clinid. These critters are called klipfish in South Africa and Kelpfish in the US. 

Peru Smooth

Species #2 – the smooth stardrum. Nic may be smiling now, but he was not so amused when he found his rear end had fallen asleep and he couldn’t get up.

Peru Minor

The minor stardrum. They are called this because they do not live to 18.

Peru Shortnose

The shortnose stardrum. I had never caught a stardrum species before, but now, I had three. Collect them all!

As the day went on, Nic made a beverage run back to the restaurant. I asked him to bring me a Red Bull. Nic has a strange sense of humor – hence the Valentine’s cards – and he couldn’t help himself here. As he walked back to our spot with a bag full of Red Bull and beer, he yelled, in perfect Spanish “¡Senor Wozniak, Yo he obtenido tus laxantes!.” Everyone stared at me. Nic smiled, and after about 15 minutes, he admitted that this meant “Mr. Wozniak, I have obtained your laxatives.” And he stuck me with the check at Outback. Why do I hire these people?

Peru Pier

Nic returns from the beverage run. Idiot.

Mercifully, we will not hear about Nic again until the last paragraph. That evening, Jose visited me along with Hector, and I got the pleasure of talking fishing with two professionals. Jose was heading for a family holiday, or he would have joined us, but Hector, who is both a tackle dealer and a guide, was a fantastic contact. Over some pisco sours, we talked shop well into the evening. It took some time to convince Hector that I would rather have two new species than one big corvina, but he seemed enthusiastic to help with my quest.

Peru Corvina

Hector (on the right) with a corvina. Hector has perhaps the coolest name of any guide ever – Hector Garcia de los Heros. If you’re planning to be in Lima, let me know and I’ll put you in touch with him. 

After work the next day, Hector picked me up at the Westin and drove us to Pucusana, a port town about an hour south of Lima. It was an after work thing, so we only had a couple of hours to fish, but this was new territory and anything could happen.

Peru Beach

The local beach – quite the hotspot. 

Pucusana is a small, colorful place, a working harbor on the edge of the desert. This is not a country big on planning. We simply showed up at the docks and found a local boatman who was willing to head out until sunset. The water was a touch sloppy, but after the perfect storm in Brazil, it felt like a bathtub. We slowly motored out to some rocky headlands, and started casting plugs and spoons after corvina. Corvina are the big game fish here, and this was the critter I hoped to catch the most.

Despite our efforts, no corvina were found, but I did spend about an hour dropping baits over some rocky dropoffs. I was rewarded with two more new species – the Cabinza grunt and the Valparaiso chromis – as well as the bewildered stares of the boatman. I don’t think Hector fully got it either, but he was thrilled that I was thrilled.

Peru Cabinza

The cabinza grunt. Yes, I was ecstatic.

Peru Chromis

The Valparaiso chromis. Another plain brown damselfish, but luckily, the only one in the area. 

Peru Sunset

Sunset at Pucusana.

We talked fishing the entire drive back to Lima – this guy really lives and breathes fishing 24 hours a day. Apparently, the very best fishing in Peru is off the beach for corvina and big flounder about 300 miles south of Lima – not a possibility for this trip but definitely a reason for a return visit.

The really big day of fishing came on the last day of the trip – an adventure south to Bujama Mala to meet Hector’s friend Chris, who has a boat and a lot of experience in that region. It would be a brutally full day, with a 4am wakeup call, a two hour drive, a full day of fishing, another two hour drive, and then an 11pm flight back to San Francisco.

Hector got me bright and early, and he may have been more excited to head down to Bujama Mala than I was. He positively loves to cast lures, and this is apparently a top spot. We filled up on gas station empanadas – the local version of UMF – and got to our destination just as it was becoming best not to be locked in a small car with each other.

Peru Hector Steve

Hector and I celebrate fresh air. 

Peru Beach 2

The Bujama Mala beach at dawn. A fantastic day awaited us. 

Chris was just as pleasant and enthusiastic as Hector, and we talked over the species he thought would be available and set up a basic game plan.

Peru Chris Hector

Chris and Hector as we head out to the islands. 

We worked our way over to some rocky cliffs, where the surge washed over a steep, boulder-strewn shoreline, and began tossing soft plastics into the white water. It reminded me very much of fishing Catalina Island for kelp bass, (details here) and little did I know that we were actually hunting for a close relative – the Peruvian rock bass. They were out in force. I got a bite on my first cast, then hooked up on my second. The fish ran hard back to the rocks, and for a moment, I regretted going with my lightest spinning rod. But the Fish Gods smiled on me, and I landed not only a new species, but also a world record. My 92nd world record, on a fish I hadn’t even known existed until I caught it. Eight to go.

Peru Bass

The Peruvian rock bass. At three pounds, this one was big enough to enter in the IGFA books. 

That would have been enough for the day, but we had many hours to go, and the fishing stayed solid all day. I checked off three additonal species – four for the day, which is pretty much epic for me. Action was steady and great fun, and there was the occasional big surprise thrown in, like a triggerfish on a #3 sabiki. Each new species was greeted with cheers and high-fives.

Peru Clinid 2

Peruvian clinid – second species of the day. 

Peru Pucusana

Oh yeah – it was also scenic. I keep forgetting that because I rarely look up from the water.

Peru trigger

This was quite a surprise on three pound leader. 

Peru Blenny

The giant blenny. This is the beast of the blenny world. 

The final species was another surprise. Both Chris and Hector had caught Peruvian morwongs – a colorful inshore fish reminiscent of California’s surfperch. I had just about given up on this one – there will always be at least one you don’t get – when I got a small one on a sabiki.

Peru Morwong 2

The Peruvian morwong. My Mother’s favorite color was orange, so she would have liked this picture, or at least the part with the fish.

Thrilled at the species, I kept fishing the area with a larger bait, and about half an hour later, got a bigger one, north of a pound. Several weeks later, after quite a bit of research, the fish turned out to be a world record. Number 93. Thank you Dr. Carvalho!

Peru Morwong 3

The bigger morwong. A lucky catch, even if it left me wondering where I was going to find seven more records. 

We fished until late in the afternoon. It was a calm and pleasant day, and the scenery, where desert meets ocean, was stark but beautiful. I knew I would be back. I had gathered up five records on the South America trip, as well as 15 new species. There were dozens more waiting for me, and Hector and Chris had been incredibly welcoming and generous. (And both now have credit as guides on two IGFA world records.)

Peru Chris Steve

Chris and I in front of his vacation house in Bujama Mala. 

Hector got me back to the Westin on time – what a fantastic day of fishing. I raced to shower and pack, and then, as I went through the lobby, there was an ugly surprise. Nic was there.

We had a quick drink before I headed to the airport. He’s not much of a fisherman, but he politely inquired as to my results and even more politely looked at the pictures. Jokingly, I told him “You’re forgiven for that Valentine’s Day in China.”

He looked me right in the eye and said “We’ll always have Beijing.”

“Shut up.” I replied.

Steve

 

SPECIAL BONUS SECTION – THE LLAMA SWEATER

Peru Sweater

My new favorite sweater. It has llamas on it. 

 

 

 

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