Yes, Luke. There Are Darters in Texas.

DATELINE: MARCH 24, 2022 – RIO GUAPO, TEXAS

I don’t like it when someone tells me I can’t do something. This entire blog is proof of that. But this was special.

I was researching an upcoming trip to South Texas with the Moore clan. I gave Luke Ovgard a call, as he had recently fished the areas we were planning to hit. The conversation was cordial and informative as always, right until I mentioned that there were darters in a few of the sampling reports. Luke’s tone darkened, as tone can only darken in a very competent fisherman who has tried hard for darters someplace, and not found any. “Steve.” he said. “Just to save you some pain, I’ve fished over 100 hours in those waters and never even SEEN a darter.” I mentioned again they were on the sampling reports, and he said again “Over 100 hours. Not one sighting. Avoid the pain.”

Challenge accepted.

I appreciated Luke’s advice, and I like the guy, but the way my abnormal psychology works, I could now think of nothing but getting a darter. 

It would be an early spring adventure, starting from Phoenix and covering a lot of miles in just a few days. Despite the risks of spending extended time in a truck with The Mucus, the idea of exploring South Texas was very interesting, and it would be one last chance to hassle Carson about Lebron James before Carson headed off on a two-year church mission.

There were about 15 target species. My personal priority was the gray redhorse – a sucker relative I had never gotten. Years ago, an especially clueless internet commentator somehow got the idea I had never caught a sucker (I had around 20 sucker species at the time) and publicly stated that “Steve Wozniak isn’t $#%& because he’s never caught a sucker.” Now that I’m over 40 Catostomids, with a few world records sprinkled in the mix, I always muse back on how much motivation I got from that one little keyboard hissy-fit, likely typed reaching over a plate of stale pizza rolls in his mother’s basement.

We started on a Saturday, and spent most of the time on that long, desolate drive to western Texas. There were brief moments of entertainment, like when the Mucus dozed off and scared himself awake with his own gas.

They’re so cute when they’re sleeping.

It felt like driving across Montana twice, but we got to eat at Chick-fil-A and the conversation was good – these guys study every fish and location in depth, and amazingly, The Mucus may be the most prepared of the group.

Chris didn’t shave the whole trip.

I spent hours fruitlessly trying to convince Carson that there is not a Nobel Prize for basketball, and that even if there was, Lebron James would not deserve it, because he flops like an Italian soccer player. Late that night, we stopped someplace that should have been called “The Motel Fungus. ” 

We were up early the next morning, and headed over to a series of creeks in what felt like the most remote place on earth. We did not see another vehicle in two hours of driving.

We opened with a quick starter session in a spring, and Chris caught some kind of exotic gambusia.

It was a gorgeous place, but we were hours from the nearest convenience store, and I only had one Red Bull left.

Then we all got Mexican tetra and roundnose minnow, so I was on the scoreboard.

The Mexican Tetra, species #2054.

The roundnose minnow is one of those ID messes that rivals the orangethroat darter for pure complexity. There are several flavors, all difficult to tell apart. This is the manantial roundnose. But it’s not a manatee.         

We then headed to the main event, a beautifully clear, wadable creek about 15 minutes away. As we got out of the car, we finally saw another human, a heavily-armed local who drove by several times in his pickup, staring at us like we were space aliens. Clearly, not too many people fished here.

The gang gets ready to hit the water. (Marta commented that this photo looks like the cover of a really bad album, like “Mercy Flush – The Greatest Hits.”)

I have to mention that the very first fish I saw as I stepped into the water was … a darter. I emphasize again that Luke is an excellent fisherman – he has over 1000 species – and that his visit to Texas was in a different season and the darters were likely elsewhere, but I was still inexplicably, irrationally delighted.

I spent a couple of precious hours trying to catch one, and even had a darter out of the water before it flew off the hook, bounced off my knee inches from my glove hand, and escaped. While I was crouching over these elusive beasts, time was passing and the guys were catching nice stuff – catfish and world-record size gray redhorse.

I realized I would have to spend some time on the bigger fish. The catfish somehow refused to bite, and it was actually starting to get late in the day, so I thought of Mr. Pizza Rolls and recognized I had to try for the redhorse. Carson was kind enough to show me where they were schooling and I then began two of the more frustrating hours of my life. The fish were there – dozens of them, within easy casting distance and not too skittish. But they wouldn’t bite. I tried worms, larvae, Gulp, and all sort of different rigs. I left the bait still, I moved the bait, I drifted it. And they ignored me like Marta when I talk about rec league hockey. As the shadows got long, I went to my last resort – a simple jighead loaded with redworms. I cast for about half an hour, leaving it centimeters from the nose of several big fish. Just as I was about to dive in and go after them with my teeth, one bit, and the fight was on. I could tell it was a big fish, easily a world record, and anyone within half a mile could hear me panting to myself “Don’t screw it up. Don’t screw it up.” After a drama-filled few minutes, I netted it and had my third species and first record of the trip. I bellowed in triumph.

Three and a half pounds of steaming gray redhorse. World record 218, species 2056.

Independence Creek, just after I ruined the evening quiet.

When I returned to the group, I was informed that Carson and The Mucus had both caught larger redhorse but didn’t want to pay for a record. (This didn’t help my self-esteem, kids.) They had also all caught catfish, which I had not, and when I tried as it was getting dark, they wouldn’t bite. I was still pretty happy with three species, but what I really wanted was a darter. 

We drove two more hours into the night, again not seeing another vehicle until we approached Del Rio, where we would sleep the next two evenings.  

I assumed that there was some sort of police meeting at the hotel. Chris suggested that they had heard I was in town.

In the morning, we made a run out to a creek about 45 minutes away. It was a fail for me, but Chris did get his first Texas shiner.

I did get a photo upgrade on my Rio Grande longear sunfish, which was my very first longear. They have now split into six species and I am driving myself crazy trying to catch all of them.

We returned to town and spent the rest of the day in an urban stream. The economy here is struggling, and there were quite a few people living under the bridge. They were friendly enough, but bewildered to see people fishing in the creek. The parking lot was a vibrant if unofficial marketplace, featuring a wide assortment of products and services. 

Chris plies the deep side of the creek.

It was all wed-wading, and the water, while clear and full of interesting structure, was curiously devoid of marine life. We did scrape up a few assorted assorted micros, and lots and lots of small sunfish.

Another manantial roundnose. Manatees are definitely cuter.

Somewhere on the bank, there was a historical marker. I like to read historical markers.

As you all remember, the Camel Corps was the subject of the underappreciated 1976 movie “Hawmps,” featuring Slim Pickens’ memorable performance as Sergeant Tucker. Controversially, Jack Nicholson edged him out for Best Actor.

This was pleasing, but as we left, someone, probably The Mucus, spotted a darter. We devoted the next six hours of our lives trying to catch one. We had several bites and several fish out of the water, but no success even though our backs were likely permanently deformed from holding that awful “darter crouch” for hours on end.

Luckily, no one saw Chris’ tattoo. And please, please – no comments about how good I look in those pants. I’m not just a sex object – I have feelings.

We finally gave up and headed to Panda Express.

Our final day of fishing took us through South-Central Texas. Things got off to a rough start. Our spot coordinates had come from Luke, and sometimes, someone gets a number wrong. We showed up at a completely dry gully. Could this have been revenge for us spotting darters the day before? (Nah. That’s more my style than Luke’s.)

While the structure was fine, the water level was not. We sorted out the problem, and the correct location would lead to a moment of triumph, followed by disaster, followed by a second-chance moment of triumph that made everything better. 

The correct spot was a bit east, toward the Frio River. We passed through a number of towns, including Uvalde, a quiet little place where the gas station didn’t even have Red Bull, that would be the scene of unspeakable tragedy less than three months later. 

We found some nice-looking creeks by mid-morning. Although we were pestered by small sunfish and some assorted shiners, I could swear I saw some small darters flitting between the first-sized rocks. The guys didn’t believe me at first, but then Chris saw one also. They were female greenthroats, which would be a new species for me. It took over an hour, but I finally got one to bite. I swung it up into my palm, and The Mucus was helpfully waiting with a plastic bin full of water. He made a nice catch with the shoebox-sized container and I bellowed in triumph. I couldn’t wait to get photos off to Luke. 

I ran to the car to get my photo tank, and it was in that short period that The Mucus managed to do something breathtakingly thoughtless. (Marta made me say “thoughtless.” My original draft used a different word that you apparently can’t get by the editor.) In an action that was well-intended but not well thought-out, The Mucus tried to scoop my darter out of the bin into a photo tank. But he did this over the water, and, as you can guess from the fact I am still incensed about this a year later, he dropped it. (Still, let’s not forget who the real enemy is – Jamie Hamamoto. She would have eaten the fish just to spite me.)

I don’t handle disappointment well. I am sure that the whole Moore family learned some new words while I loudly expressed my feelings. (Marta wanted to use the word “tantrum.”)

But was done was done, and after another 45 minutes, I got another one. I wouldn’t let the kid near me.

The guys also got theirs, and we barraged Luke with texts that said clever things like “What kind of shiner is this?” And just as Francis P. Church got to tell Virginia there was a Santa Claus, I shamelessly texted “Yes, Luke, there are darters in Texas.” And we laughed and laughed, but to be fair, it was Luke who found the spot in the first place.

We also caught some minnows in the creek that turned out to be a second species of roundnose – the Frio.

Species #2059.

We then made a short move to a spot that allegedly had Guadalupe bass, a species I had added on The Great 2014 Road Trip, and only then because Kyle had the presence of mind to photograph what I thought was a spotted bass. While the Moores unsuccessfully stalked their target, I looked around the riffles, and to my surprise, there were darters. Larger, colored-up darters. It took just a few minutes to get one, and as soon as I got it in the tank, which I did successfully because I didn’t try to unhook the fish over the water, I could see these were big male greenthroats, lit up for spawning. 

These are SO much easier to identify when they’re in spawning colors.

Needless to say, I summoned the Moores, we all got one, and then we bombarded Luke with texts. I mentioned Santa Claus several more times. Luke handled the whole thing with grace and humor.

In the afternoon, we headed north to fish the Llano River, so the guys could get another try at their Guadalupe bass. I briefly looked at a map and noticed two things, one to my sentimental delight, the other to my horror. Sentimentally, we would pass right through Junction, Texas, where Martini, Kyle, and I had spent a rashy evening in some off-brand motel in 2014.

I’ll never forget the hotel clerk telling us “There’s always something happening in Junction.”

One of the retail signs in downtown Junction.

But to my unpleasant surprise, it was 502 miles to El Paso – where we planned to sleep. The math put us there in the wee hours of the morning, but there was fishing to be done and we could worry about rest later. We arrived at a beautiful little spillway on the Llano. The bass were a little more finicky than we hoped, but live shiners sorted them out and everyone had a Guadalupe.

A decent photo upgrade.

We then started looking for darters, and we didn’t have to look long. The margins were crowded with small ones, which Chris quickly confirmed were Plains darters – the local split from the Orangethroat complex.

 

Chris hard at work on the darters. We immediately sent photos to Luke. Of the darters I mean. Chris’ tattoo is off limits.

Having caught this species in Oklahoma some years ago, I got one just to be sure but then I focused on the middle of the river to see if I could scare up something unusual. The Fish Gods smiled on me – after a dozen or so blacktail shiners, I got a Texas Logperch, yet another darter species.

Species 2062, and my 42nd darter.

The Moores moved in to look for logperch, which were suddenly everywhere. After we all had one, we text-barraged Luke again. He handled it well, but he must have gotten tired of typing “Ha, ha, ha. You caught darters in Texas. I get it.” (Note – Luke has since gone back and caught these species, and he was mature enough not to send us snotty texts. I’m sure there’s a lesson for me in there somewhere, and I’m equally sure I haven’t learned it.)

And we drove off into the sunset.

It was quite a haul to El Paso, but Chris is a tireless and careful driver. It was dark, but we did pass one landmark of note.

I am buying a house here when I fully retire.

The conversation centered around the next trips – possibly Northern California in June. Whenever it would be, I knew we would find something good to catch. It had been a great trip – 10 species – and I am very thankful to the Moore family for inviting me along. The is something very special about watching a great Dad spend time with his kids. I also took comfort in the fact that by the time Carson would return, The Mucus would be leaving on his own two-year mission, hopefully to the fishless Gobi desert so he stops catching up to me for a while.

Steve