Seven Days of The Mucus

DATELINE: JUNE 15, 2023 – EASTERN FLORIDA

Sometimes, we want to go fishing so badly that we will put up with almost anyone. This is how Chris Moore must have felt when he invited me on a lengthy road trip with him and The Mucus. He must have needed another capable driver, or someone who would back up his story in case Brayden went missing, but either way, I found myself invited on a three-week, cross-country trip with the Moores, and being retired and all, I wasn’t going to pass it up.

I flew down to Phoenix on the 7th, and had dinner with some of my old co-workers. I missed them, or at least most of them, but I didn’t miss working.

The group after consuming a prodigious amount of steak.

They’re great guys – they even paid for the meal. But morning came quickly, and there was the big red pickup, loaded with caffeinated beverages, Frito-Lay products, and red worms, ready to go at 7am. The Mucus was fast asleep in the back seat, so my hug came as quite a surprise to him. It was good to see Chris.

Then the driving started. Our first stop, even for a bathroom, wasn’t until well into New Mexico – somewhat daring as I was nearly 60 years old and had chugged two Red Bulls.

We enter New Mexico, the “We can’t catch a fish” state.

We had a fruitless detour somewhere in there, and then we were off for our final destination – some God-forsaken part of Western Texas. I think it was 11 hours of driving that first day, but at least we were positioned to hit some good water in the morning.

Food was some sort of carryout, quickly and inaccurately consumed while looking for a low-end motel where we could get a few hours of sleep. This would be Chris’ last cross-country trip with The Mucus for at least two years, as Brayden would be heading on a church mission shortly, and they wanted to maximize fishing time. In the entire 20 days we would fish, we sat down in a restaurant three times, and kept to a 6:30am departure every day, despite the fact that we never got in earlier than 10:15pm on the entire journey. You can understand this sort of thing from The Mucus, between the enthusiasm of youth and the fact that he got to nap all day when we were driving. But Chris, who is a few years younger than I am but loves fried food as much as I do, was going on grit, determination, and just being a great Dad. 

Early in the morning, after I forgot to call my sister to wish her a happy birthday, we headed to a familiar location – the same creek where I had caught my record gray redhorse in 2022.

Our first selfie of the trip.

And our first smelfie of the trip.

There was plenty I had left behind there, and it was nice to be in familiar territory. I did well that morning, tacking on a few micros, including the largespring gambusia that Chris has gotten right in front of me last year.

This took me up to three for the trip.

I then waded up to a big pool to try for another record on the gray redhorse. There was a school of at least 40 of them, easily castable, and most of them looked bigger than my 3.5 pound fish from 2022.

This is a magnificent creek, probably because it’s five hours from anyplace.

On my very first cast, as I was trying to ease the offering in front of an especially big redhorse, a catfish appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my bait. I battled it to shore, presuming it was a bullhead or channel, but to my surprise, it was a headwater catfish – a new species for me but listed as vulnerable in Texas. You can’t control what will grab a worm, but of course it was released immediately.

That would be four for the trip.

My second cast went into the trees, forcing a creekside re-rigging, but the third cast brought me the redhorse I wanted – three pounds, twelve ounces.

World record 230, which, for perspective, is about half of Marty Arostegui’s total.

Aren’t they adorable?

We wandered Southwest Texas a good part of the day, and as the sun went down, we found ourselves at a medium-sized creek that was supposed to hold a logperch the Moores needed. We didn’t do well, partially because there was a spectacularly drunk, belligerent kayaker who kept harassing us, intermittently splashing with his paddle, throwing rocks, and yelling homespun witticisms like “You’re going for the BIG ONES! WHOOOOOOO!!” Before we left, I blind fished a large darter, which I could tell was not a logperch the moment I got it out of the water. It turned out to be a Guadalupe darter, a new one for me.

A gorgeous species, safely released without ever leaving the water. Notice their eyes glow like walleye – they are in the same family.

We called it an evening before I lost all patience with the kayaker and did something that I would have had to act like I regretted when it showed up on YouTube. I doubt drunk kayakers are state-protected in Texas. 

The 10th saw us cover the rest of Texas, another substantial drive. There was one species to report, the blackspot shiner, which got me up to seven for the trip.

Yes, it looks like every other shiner ever, but scientists assure me the ID is correct.

I also managed to do battle with a Hardee’s western bacon cheeseburger in the car, and I would estimate at least 60% of it got into my mouth. Chris, I’d check under that seat if I were you. Or sell the truck. Your call.

We entered Mississippi on the 11th.

We began creek-hopping, going through a series of gorgeous venues.

Except for this place, where I got stung by a wasp. Chris and The Mucus probably learned some new words while I was jumping around and screaming like a five year-old sailor.

Our third stop turned out to be a big winner. I pulled in a cherryfin shiner and a starburst longear, raising the trip total to nine.

The street name was a good omen.

The shiner.

And the starburst, one of the more attractive longears. I only needed one more – the Ouachita – to complete my Lepomis collection.

We finished that day moving into Biloxi, birthplace of Apollo 13 astronaut Fred Haise. He is the only one who didn’t say “Houston, we’ve had a problem.”

At least I hope it was Biloxi, or someone has some explaining to do.

We tried fishing both some backwaters and a pier. The backwater, really more of a snake-and-mosquito-infested ditch, produced a bay anchovy.

The trip total was now 10.

While the pier had loads of pigfish, even more catfish, and a lovely sunset, there were no new species to report.

A train rumbles across the bridge west of us.

That evening, I learned that it is possible to eat tacos while driving. I ended up throwing the shirt away, but the point is that I ate the messiest thing I can think of and didn’t completely destroy the truck, although Chris should probably check his glove compartment. Those olives had to go somewhere.

The floor was beginning to resemble a Jackson Pollock painting, although it would later develop some Van Gogh-like dimensionality.

We kept moving east rapidly, and our first stop the next morning would be a pier at Gulf Shores, Alabama. While The Mucus and I had intermittently bickered through most of the trip, it was here that he would really irritate me for the first of several times on our journey.

I feel for parents. They try to be instructive, but their advice often falls on little ears that have no intent of listening. The Mucus is resistant to most fishing feedback, even from persons – like, say, me – who might be considered somewhat experienced. He was using far too much weight and a hook that was way too big, but rather than simply retie for a minute or two, he spent at least 10 minutes arguing why his idea was better. I sighed and left him to his fishing – even his father agreed that he could have benefitted from making a change.

But the Fish Gods have a sadistic sense of humor. Moments later, The Mucus caught a gulf flounder. It wasn’t a very proud example of one, but it was 100% a gulf flounder and I was disgusted with myself, The Mucus, and anyone who thinks this is funny, and yes, that means you. When the Fish Gods reward bad behavior, it makes parenting that much more difficult.

It was scant consolation a few moments later when I caught a bluntnose jack, species 11 of the still-young trip.

The Farlows hat is a souvenir from London’s best tackle store.

The Mucus has fun with a sharksucker. They’re surprisingly hard to remove.

We also had fun catching some dignified fish, like this pompano.

We would spend our evening in a coastal river, about two hours away.

The Mucus slept the entire way. One of his favorite things to do is ask you a question and then fall asleep in the middle of your answer.

Our plan was to poke around until dark and then hit the main event – a small side-creek that was supposed to have some rare darters and, most importantly, the elusive pirate perch. (On good information from the fabled Bloomington duo of Ron Anderson and Jarrett Maurer.) It was a silty river and tough wading, but in the late afternoon, I managed to get a coastal darter, number 12 for the trip.

More importantly, The Mucus did not catch one.

We piled into the truck, checked a nearby stream for sunfish, and moved over to the pirate perch spot. Just as we got out of the car, it starting sprinkling. By the time we got the rods, it was fully raining, and by the time we got to the cooler, it was a biblical downpour. We could see muddy gullies forming and draining into our target creek, and we were done for the evening. In a hurry to get out of there, Chris started to back up and nearly ran over The Mucus, but no such luck. The boy can be surprisingly nimble when his life is on the line. (Chris almost hit me the next night – coincidence?) We actually had time to sit down in a restaurant, a Cracker Barrel, and enjoy a proper meal that wouldn’t end up as archeological evidence under his floor mats.

And I made the life-altering decision to buy a Cracker Barrel hat. This cap would bring me great fortune in just a few days.

The 13th opened up clear and sunny, and we headed to the same landing I had fished last year on the Seatrec Destin trip. There were several things I had missed here, notably the clown goby and the diamond killifish. Although The Mucus managed the killifish, I could not get one to go, but the kid did spend at least an hour helping me look for a clown goby, which I am proud to say I finally caught.

Species 13 of the trip.

For the afternoon, we drove over to a jetty on the gulf. Lunch was carryout Dairy Queen, and Chris, if you find french fries in your air conditioner vent, I know nothing about this. The fishing was all rock-hopping, and by this stage, I need to take a glacial pace in these environments if I don’t want to injure myself. Even The Mucus, who is young but not particularly light of foot, managed to slip and cut the heck out of his calf.

Before the tumble. The kid still hasn’t discovered sunblock or long pants.

But we got there and started fishing. There were some sizeable grunts out in the channel – great action on light tackle – but the species activity was all right at our feet.

I managed to add a belted sandfish – a serranid we caught in high numbers, and a longfin damselfish, which I had probably gotten before and not noticed. (Thank you Brayden for knowing the species.)

There were dozens of these right underfoot.

The damsel. This took me to 15 for the trip.

We got out of the spot just before a quick thunderstorm. You don’t see a lot of rainbows in Florida.

We tried one more swamp spot on our way southeast. I saw a spider the size of my hand.

We got to our hotel at 1am and made do on gas station food for dinner. I selected Cup O Noodles, which is difficult to prepare without a microwave.

And even more difficult to eat without utensils. You know you’re hungry when you clean a plastic brush with hand sanitizer and use it as a fork.

The 14th is one of those days I would rather not discuss. Not only did I fail to catch anything new as we worked our way through some attractive ponds and springs, but I actually cost myself a species because I tried to be nice to The Mucus. We were in Rum Springs, where I thought I had caught everything, and I spotted what I thought was a darter, likely the brown that Brayden was looking for.

Brayden fishes the spring shortly before my act of kindness went terribly wrong.

It settled under a stick like a darter. It sat there and hid like a darter. So I waved over The Mucus, and he promptly caught … a bluefin killifish. I don’t have a bluefin killifish. I said bad words. I couldn’t really blame him, although I did anyway. I spent another hour trying to get one, but none of the others would bite. Both Chris and The Mucus kept snickering every time I looked away.

I did catch some of those gorgeous Pteronotropis shiners, but I’ve done all the ID work I possibly can on those. 

My cold streak continued into the next day. We tried a couple of ponds above Orlando, then worked our way to Port Canaveral pier. We caught a lot of the local standards, but as we closed up, I did have a minor triumph – I caught my 1000th fish of the year, a bonnethead shark.

This marked the 21st straight year I have caught at least 1000 total fish.

That evening, we had some sort of vile sub sandwich for dinner. (Don’t lower the passenger side visor, Chris.) It was a particularly dry sub, and as I went to add mayonnaise from a packet, I couldn’t tell if the expiration date was 2023 or 2013, so I skipped it. The Mucus chimed in with a sentence that still chills me – “That mayonnaise is probably good.”

After that, we stopped at a small creek that was rumored to have some sleeper species. Just as we were rigging, a thunderstorm rolled in and flooded the place out.

The storm moves in. Wow, an English major just ended two straight sentences with a preposition.

It was only 8pm, and I figured we would finally get a decent night of sleep. But NOOOOOOOOOO, I hear the ghost of Belushi wail. The Mucus wanted to stay, under the wildly optimistic view that the creek would clear shortly and we could catch our fish. So we waited. And we waited. The Mucus would check now and then and tell us it was getting lower, but it still looked like chocolate milk to me. Although Chris’ iTunes playlist is awesome, it was still getting very late. Sometime around 11, the creek had actually dropped a bit, and was getting clear enough to actually see something. I had mixed feelings, because it was late and I wanted to go, but The Mucus had (eventually) turned out to be right.

The fat sleepers were fairly easy to spot and are not shy, so we made fairly quick work of it.

They’re actually not a bad-looking fish.

There was one other species in there, some kind of goby that was terrified of light, movement, and bait, but The Mucus still stayed another hour trying for that. The mosquitoes were large and organized, so I retreated to the truck for the last 30 minutes before he finally, finally gave up.

And then he was asleep instantly. But that’s my underwear he’s leaning on, so I had to wash them again.

I do have to grudgingly thank the boy for species #16 of the trip, which was also a milestone – my 2200th fish species – and we were just getting into some of the really good stuff.

Steve