For more than two decades, I have collected, surveyed, and simply watched fish from Alaska to Florida. In all those years and all those places, I have had a few memorable experiences which really stand out. Some directly involve fish while others are encounters with wildlife and people which this unique pursuit has set the stage for a series of exhilarating, reflective, and humorous performances. NOTE: Click on images to enlarge.

The Master Race
Most exotics are incredibly adaptable organisms that usually out compete and displace native species with ease, and not only tolerate, but generally thrive under degraded conditions. In a some what perverse way, they are something to be admired and respected for their resilience. Unfortunately once established, they're here to stay. The Common Carp (Cyprinus carpio) will probably always be North America's fish record holder for its "legendary feats" accomplished over the last century, and with few exceptions, attempts to control its spread have been futile.

In 1988, I gained even a greater level of appreciation for this almost invincible foe while assisting in fish surveys at Wisconsin's Horicon Marsh National Wildlife Refuge. The previous winter, the entire refuge had been treated with a fish toxicant called rotenone to eliminate the carp. In recent years, the population had exploded which caused a major decline of the aquatic plants that several waterfowl species depended on for food. While setting the large nets, everyone commented that the water hadn't been so clear in years and also observed large, dense mats of submerged vegetation, but not a single carp. There were many whispers heard expressing hopes a complete kill had been achieved, but the carp had the last laugh. When the last net was set and the boat planed out for the trip back to the landing, tens of thousands of four inch carp "porpoised" into the wake. I had never witnessed this behavior before, but this surface agitation continually triggered the same response. I also noticed something odd about these "Flying Walendas" even at thirty miles an hour. They were all Mirror Carp which have a very distinctive, but irregular scale pattern. The mystery thickened the next day when we pulled the nets. There were very few adult carp, but they were all normal. There were also almost 3000 young of the year which were almost 100% Mirrors. What an intriguing puzzle, but the fisheries biologist soon replied with a plausible hypothesis. Perhaps carp which carry the Mirror gene don't express the scale pattern because it's probably not a dominant trait, but does provide a much greater tolerance to rotenone than others lacking this "super" gene. In the aftermath when the "selection process" is complete, the surviving population would pass two mirror genes on to their offspring which would express the scale pattern. It's all very cerebral, academic, and will probably never be tried and tested, but I will always marvel at what appears to be the "human induced evolution" of some very unique and resourceful survival skills.

Gregarious Gators
The Everglades in Southern Florida is a "river of grass" up to 50 miles wide during the wet season, but in the winter, large expanses of sawgrass prairie are dry except for scattered "gator holes" which serve as an oasis to both fish and wildlife. In 1991, I got a one day "vacation" from my national park service job killing exotic Melaleuca trees to accompany the fish biologist on a gator hole fish survey. We had to travel in a helicopter because the site was deep in the back country. As we landed, there was no sign of the landlord which we all knew was about some where probably "collecting rent from the tenants." I put on my chest waders, harnessed the back pack shocker, and paused at the water's edge. I turned to the fish biologist and said withdoubt, "Are you really sure about this?" He smiled back with a reassuring reply, "I've studied these gator hole fish communities for years and never had a bad experience." Without hesitation, he jumped in. I literally followed in his foot steps, but soon became almost bold about the whole affair until we came around a point and heard a croaking sound. I asked, "What kind of frogs do you find in these holes?" Trying not to worry me he kept it short and said, "Ah, that's not a frog," and added, "turn off the shocker for a minute." He went ahead and carefully prodded a little alligator about 14 inches long well out of the area where our electric field would cover. I realized mom was definitely in the pool with us and we were heading into a narrow neck which was the only part that hadn't been surveyed. We proceeded and got within 15 feet of our goal when bubbles erupted from every where and small waves appeared on the surface. I felt a hand firmly grip my shoulder and glanced over at the biologist whose eyes were as big as saucers and he coldly instructed, "That's far enough, let's back out very slowly!" I heeded his advice and made a hasty, but "controlled" retreat.

Before leaving the Everglades, I also wanted to collect and photograph the Seminole Killifish (Fundulus seminolis). The fish biologist offered a place to try and guaranteed my success. This was a much more accessible site which was a parking lot along side an old barrow pit that had filled with water. Again, I was slightly uneasy as I pulled into the lot because there were six "beach masters" patrolling the shallows, but all of them headed out when I slammed my car door. I could see large killifish, which I assumed were Seminoles, schooling just past the drop off, but they would never venture in over the shallow shelf that I could work. Elsewhere, I had been very effective collecting fish at night and believed killifish would also be good candidates. I waited till dark, hit the shelf again, and started getting Seminoles. I had completely forgotten about the gators because they had been absent since my arrival. It was still slow going and I was really focused on the task at hand. I had almost completed the length of the parking lot when I heard a "SWOOSH" in the water. I reflexively turned and my headlamp swept a two inch eye ball shining back at me barely four feet away. Instantly, I jumped, tripped, and stumbled for shore. I heard a corresponding splash heading the other direction. Once safe on land, I quickly swept around again with my light and there were all my buddies which I would like to think were only curious, but they weren't going to get a second chance.

Where did They Go?
Before settlement, prairie covered southwestern Minnesota, but corn, soy beans, and other row crops eventually replaced and dominated the scene. Meandering streams also needed "improvement" and most have been channelized into straight ditches. In 1992, I was surveying fish communities for the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources in the Redwood River watershed to assess habitat and water quality. We had just finished a station on Three Mile Creek when a friendly farmer who owned the land pulled up to see what all the activity was about. We filled him in on the entire project. I had been curious about the stream's name and wondering if he knew the source. He told us that at one time you would have to walk three miles of stream to cover one mile on the ground. He was not surprised that we didn't find any game fish, but recalled 70 years ago in his youth when Northern Pike and Walleye were abundant. He also mentioned that he used to see weasels every where, but they too had disappeared. He ended his stories with a haunting comment, "Nothing has changed - where did they go?" I could hear concern and sincerity in his voice as I glanced upstream at the straightened stream channel which was tightly hemmed in with row crops. Yes, something had radically changed over this man's lifetime, but I did believe him that he could not see what it was.

Green Eggs and Ham
Rough fish in general are rarely studied, poorly known, and this vacuum may spawn more fiction than fact. One account for gar that I have found cited ad infinitum is that they have bright green eggs. I too accepted it as doctrine until I got involved with spawning gar for the aquarium trade. I have seen the eggs from scores of Longnose, Shortnose, Spotted, and Florida Gar, but have yet to find a single one that is green. They're gray, white, and sometimes even pretty sapphires. This discovery also makes me question the related legend that eggs are poisonous to all vertebrates including humans, but not fish. Perhaps I'll just have to conduct my own research study and try some green eggs and ham for breakfast some day.

Robot Reared
One really nice bonus which enhances my collecting experiences is encountering other rare species besides fish. Even though they usually keep their distance like Bald Eagles soaring over a river valley or a pack of Timber Wolves serenading at night from somewhere deep in the forest, these events will always remain very special to me. However, I once met a couple of characters that violated all the social norms and just wouldn't leave me alone.

In 1992, I was looking for the Southern Brook Lamprey (Ichthyomyzon gagei) in the St. Croix River. I drove down to the boat landing and noticed two large birds along the other bank. I could also see brightly colored neck bands which told me they were Trumpeter Swans. I thought that was rather neat and parked the car. I was using a back pack shocker to pull both the adult and ammocoete lampreys out of the silt, but didn't pay much attention to the Trumpeters. I almost jumped out of my waders when something big and white cruised up along side me barely three feet away. After that initial "shock", a second wave of terror swept through me when I realized an Endangered species had just swam through my electric field. I wondered how I could ever explain my way out of a $10,000 fine, or maybe, simply dispose of the body. It was a great relief to see that the bird was just fine and now both were sticking to me like glue. Was there something wrong with these guys or were Trumpeters always this dumb and that's why they almost went extinct like the Dodo bird? I had been finding several lampreys and wanted to continue. Even though I felt just a little guilty about scaring them off, it appeared these balmy birds were staying put out in the middle river, but did look like doleful puppies that had just been scolded. I was almost done when again one of the daring duo cruises up on me from behind feeding with its head underwater right into the middle of the field. Obviously, their feathers must some how insulate them from electricity, but I'm never one to tempt fate so called it a day. Before leaving, I wanted a couple of pictures, and sure enough, they came running when they saw me at the landing where I snapped what was probably the easiest wildlife shots of my entire life. I gave a copy to the Minnesota Nongame Wildlife Program and told them of the strange behavior. They took one look at the picture and said, "Oh, these are Wisconsin birds which they raise with robots to prevent the cygnets from imprinting on people and they are very proud of the results." I'm no expert, but I don't think these birds are getting the message.

Yes Mr. Warden Sir
I would always like to consider collecting fish a unique and wholesome experience, but others, especially those in law enforcement will always view it as suspicious activity that must be investigated. Furthermore, most can't comprehend why any one would be trying to catch something that is not going to be eaten, used for bait, or data compiled for a bonafide research project. I have had several "brushes with the law" over the years and must admit none were unpleasant or costly experiences, but does often provide an extra thrill to the hunt.

In 1988, I was surveying the Rum River in Mille Lacs - Kathio State Park near Onamia, Minnesota. I could hear a vehicle coming down the road, but couldn't see it because the river flowed through a deep, forested ravine. I glanced up just when it became visible for a second or two as it shot over the road culvert. I only got a brief look, but thought it looked like a conservation officer's pick-up. They may be unmarked and different colors, but I think rather conspicuous. My suspicions were confirmed when I heard the driver skid to a stop, turn around and punch the accelerator. Within a minute the conservation officer was on the bank asking me what I was doing. I told him that I was surveying the park's nongame fish on a volunteer basis and had a permit in my car if he needed to see it. He accepted parts of my explanation and never did ask for the permit, but he just couldn't grasp that some one would do this as a volunteer. He kept asking me over and over, "Your sure that you're not with the Department of Natural Resources or a university working on a degree?" I tried to convince him that I really enjoyed looking for nongame fish and compared it to birding, but I used nets instead of binoculars. I got the feeling he considered me crazy as a loon, but just shook his head, wished me luck, and left me be. I also once met another conservation officer while using a back pack shocker. The same-type-sore-thumb-pick-up pulled up, however, the driver didn't appear to be in uniform. I thought my keen detection abilities were slipping until the sun shined on his metal insignia pinned to his lapel - M.C.O. (Minnesota Conservation Officer). I knew it! He strolled over to the stream bank and rather nonchalantly asked, "Can you tell me why we are shocking in the stream today?" I appreciated his sense of humor, but this time he insisted on seeing my permit.

I have also learned through experience that there are several other enforcement agencies out there that are just as bewildered when they uncover me in places where no law abiding citizen would venture. Municipal police departments are probably the worst and my best story involved Mendota Heights finest. I had just finished a site on a small stream and was opening the door to my car when another car came speeding up the hill. I really thought some body was just hot dogging around, but my friend who had a few more and serious brushes with the law calmly sat on my bumper and whispered, "P-I-G-G-Y." I didn't make the connection until the unmarked car abruptly stopped, partially boxing in my car, and the driver got out with a detective's shield hanging on his belt. Then, a black and white showed up out of no where and snapped the trap closed. The detective was friendly and courteous, but informed us that we had been under surveillance because he believed we were bow hunting in the city limits. Now I was dumbfounded. How in the heck did he deduce that? Here we were wearing hip waders and had a push seine on broom sticks. He asked to look in the car and pulled out the seine. He commented that from a distance it looked like a bow in a case. He then asked what we were doing and was very surprised to learn there was a stream at the bottom of the ravine and that there were actually fish in it. Having completed his interrogation and satisfied with my answers, he let us go. As the units pulled away, I couldn't help wondering if things had been really slow that day and they just needed some thing to do.

Painful Pastimes
One advantage of living at northern latitudes is that there isn't anything wild and alive that can cause serious injury or worse. However, there are a few goodies up here that can really pack a wallop and put a damper on the outing. Mosquitoes are first and foremost. These insidious little beasts never show any mercy and always find their host. I've frequently been in places where they descend in swarming clouds so thick that I gag on them with every breath. All repellents are useless when they attack at these densities. I can tolerate bites fairly well on my arms and other parts with "ample padding", but it's always excruciating on my fingers and ears. Another agony is anticipating the next bite. I know defeat again and again when I feel one squeeze passed the bridge on my glasses and settle in the soft, protected corner between my eyelid and nose. By the time I remove my glasses and squash the perpetrator, she's already done her dirty work and the swelling from the bite is impressive. The only real protection I have are the waders on my legs, but on hot, muggy nights I shed them for sandals to drive the car. No matter how careful I am, some of the monsters hitch a ride and inflict the most hideous and longest lasting bite of all-in the toes. The second great test of character and fortitude are stinging nettles which often choke the riparian areas along streams. Again waders provide leg protection, but arms and hands are always vulnerable. One healthy brush against the formic acid laced stingers is all it takes to produce a nightmare you can't wake up from. It's all over in about 10 minutes, but vivid memories of the encounter linger for a long time. Finally, a fish which can be regarded as both friend and foe. Tadpole Madtoms (Noturus gyrinus) are nocturnal and reclusive, but possess a defense mechanism that will temporarily disable any would be attacker including a fish collector. Poison can be injected from glands through hollow shafts in the dorsal and pectoral fins. I've been stung countless times and it always hurts, but my most "memorable" experience occurred in Savanna State Park near Grand Rapids, Minnesota. I was doing a nocturnal survey and caught a Tadpole Madtom. As I reached in to release it, I shined my headlamp into the bottom of the net, but lost sight for an instant and drove the dorsal spine all the way into my finger. The burning was instant, intense, and felt like some one was torturing me with a lit cigarette. Frantically, I yanked the fish out and shook my hand in all directions. My howls of anguish and maybe some French echoed through the forest. Screaming and shrieking brought no relief, but I was actually glad of being alone in a remote part of the park and miles from the campground because it must have sounded like a wounded animal suffering a horrible death.

Man's Best Friend
Duke was a lab-setter-retriever mix that I had for over 16 years. In his youth, he was my bird and rabbit dog, but in his twilight years, he became my constant collecting companion. Duke had this peculiar habit of retrieving rocks in lakes and streams. He never got enough of it and some times would wrestle 30 pound boulders into shore. Quite by accident, I turned his little quirk into an aid for collecting fish when I once noticed schools of fish fleeing his relentless rock rescues. In pools too big to seine alone, we would start at one end and drive fish to the other where they would concentrate at the base of a riffle. I would frequently give him an encouraging, "Get 'em Duke!" Near the end of the pool, I would hold the net in the deepest water which appeared to be the likely escape route and then wave Duke ahead. All at once the school would make a dash for freedom downstream and I would begin splashing off to the side of the net which would funnel fish into my waiting trap. Surprisingly, this mad method almost always worked. However on one day, I thought Duke was goofing off. I never looked behind me because I was attempting to prevent a large school of fish from making a premature run. I was hoping Duke would finally get with it and plug the hole on his side of the pool. I thought he was at least 10 or 15 feet away when I felt a vice-like grip take hold of my tennis shoe. The first thought that flashed through my head was that I had just stepped on the only true terror of the deep in Minnesota - SNAPPING TURTLE! I let out a muffled scream, jumped, and tripped over Duke. He never was aware of all the commotion he caused and still had his head underwater intently hunting for that rock that "flushed" off the bottom.

Train Terror
At a distance, I find the sound of an oncoming train rhythmic, soothing, and the intermittent whistle blasts provide punctuation to this outdoor orchestra's performance. Along rivers, the sound becomes haunting as echoes reverberate for miles off the valley walls. However at close range, the experience is anything but pleasant. In southeastern Minnesota, tributary streams enter the Mississippi River which is also a major railroad route. When I'm collecting in these streams it seems a train is always coming and usually at 50 to 60 miles per hour. It never fails that trains catch me either along side or underneath the bridges which are rarely more than 8 feet above the stream. Through these encounters, I have really come to fear and dread the peaking Doppler effect. The train gets closer and closer, louder and louder, and far beyond deafening. My hair stands on end, skin begins to crawl, and I have an almost uncontrollable impulse to run and hide anyway. If I'm along side the bridge, the engineer further assaults me with a long warning blast from his whistle. At that instant, I would give anything to make him wear it. If I'm underneath, dust, gravel, corn, and pigeon poop rain down on me. Finally, the last car crosses the bridge and silence follows bringing a welcomed peace.

Stowaway
In all the places I have visited collecting, I never gave it much thought if I had unknowingly brought something besides fish home with me. If I had, it would have to be very small to escape detection, but would inevitably be eaten by fish in my aquarium. Or so I thought. One day I was looking for a fish in my 100 gallon aquarium when I noticed a red antennae-like hair protruding from a crevice in the rocks. I got closer and looked for a better angle. Even though the aquarium glass separated my face from whatever it was, I was only inches away when it "materialized" and I instantly recoiled backwards. Regaining my composure, I took another look. My shocking mystery was a brilliant red crayfish about 4 inches long. I knew this wasn't native to Minnesota and had no idea where it came from. I kept it for over a year and it grew to almost 10 inches when it suddenly expired. I brought it in to the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources (MDNR) to have it identified which at least provided answers to my questions. It was a Red Swamp Crayfish (Procambarus clarkii) which doesn't range any further north than southern Missouri and Illinois and I had been collecting down there in recent years. I considered the case closed, but the MDNR did not agree. They had few questions of their own for me to answer.

Bullheads and Booby Traps
When I have time while I'm collecting, I try to also pursue a second love of mine and learn the history of the area which can include trips to historic sites and interpretive centers. In 1993, I was surveying Rice Lake National Wildlife Refuge near McGregor, Minnesota. I had finished sampling most of the fish stations and decided to visit the Native American cemetery near the refuge office. Most of the graves were over grown with vegetation and unmarked, but the more recent ones with headstones all had something in common which I found very intriguing - the figure of a bullhead. I stopped back into the manager's office and asked him about the figures. He was not aware of the spiritual significance, but knew it was the sign of the tribe that still lived in the area. He also added that it was probably the most common species on the refuge and historically may have been the only fisheries resource available to the Native Americans on a regular basis.

I was getting ready to leave and set up my tent when he suggested I stay in the office that night because the forecast predicted frost. I accepted his offer, but warned him that I had planned several nocturnal surveys and might not be in till after midnight. He assured me that was not a problem, would notify his staff, and turn off the alarm. I got back early, turned the key, and opened the office door. A low buzzing erupted from inside and I recognized the piercing sound from other refuges where I had worked. I had tripped the initial warning phase of the alarm and only had thirty seconds to punch in the security code which would deactivate the system. Otherwise, all Hell would break loose with deafening sirens, blinding strobe lights, and last but not least, notify the county sheriff's office. Of course, I didn't have the code so I ran across the compound to one of the refuge staff's home. I rang the door bell, but no one answered so I peered in the window and there was a terrified teenage girl dressed only in a football jersey staring back at me. I really felt bad about her reaction and could picture this scene through her eyes. It was dark, the 120 plus decibel alarm had just kicked in, and here was a bearded and deranged looking stranger glaring at her through the window. I tried to explain through the closed door what had happened and to call the county sheriff. She did get on the phone and I thought she may be calling 911 to report a prowler, but she hung up and yelled I'd have to run all the way over to the other side of the compound to get help. This time, I was met by a greeting party of three snarling dogs. Finally, some one came out of the house and I had to go through the entire story again. He didn't know me and had not heard that any one was going to be staying in the office, but I knew the manager's name which was enough for now. He shut off the alarmand called the sheriff's office which immediately recalled the dispatched patrol car. I finally had time to take a long, deep breath and relax. I never dreamed there could be so much stress associated with collecting fish. The next morning when the manager arrived, he was very embarrassed and apologized, but had simply forgotten all about it. Believe it or not, this was not the first time I heard that same excuse.

Helicopter Pilots from Hell
In 1986, I was working on salmon streams in Alaska's Tongass National Forest. The entire area is very remote and helicopters are the principal means of access. A typical day included flying out to a stream, hike all day through crystal clear waters, set up about five stations to inventory the habitat and structure, and fly out. This sounds like and would have been the perfect job if I didn't have to deal with hot dog helicopter pilots which literally scared the poop out of me (I was also suffering from Giardia at the time). One pilot was known for his hard landings that always ended in a sharp jolt. He seemed unable to judge his distance and speed. The second had served in Vietnam and was use to picking his people up under fire. He would land almost on top of the waiting crew. If you tried to move back, he followed, and you just had to trust him. This one was also had a nickname, The G-Man, and he constantly lived up to his reputation. The third was my favorite. He always had feather landings and take-offs. When he thought it was too dangerous to be flying, he'd cancel that day's flight schedule without hesitation, but he wasn't overly cautious either. Once he dropped us off in a small muskeg opening that I thought was too small for the main rotor to fit inside the tight ring of trees. It was the slowest and straightest decent I've ever experienced, but didn't bother me a bit because I trusted his judgment and skill. Later in the season, I learned the reason for his always level head and professional attitude. He had one very serious crash under his belt that had also temporarily paralyzed him. This reaffirmed my faith in him and wanted to reserve my personal chauffeur for the rest of the season, but had to settle for every third week. However, in the interim weeks, I have to admit The G-Man always kept the flights very exciting. He picked us up one afternoon from a small clearcut. We were fully loaded with passengers and the pilot needed some horizontal air speed to provide vertical lift. Climb we did, but at a snails pace and we were rapidly running out of clearcut. I thought we had just barely cleared the top of the first tree when a loud B-A-N-G rang through the helicopter. I looked behind us and saw the top of five feet of a tree falling back to earth - the rear rotor had sheared it off. I turned back to the pilot who was looking a little sheepish and said over the intercom, "Gee, I didn't realize we were so heavy." He had another that was better yet. We were flying back with a crew of timber cruisers who mark the trees for logging sales. We often called them timber beasts, but never to their faces. One of beasts was in a really good mood and started talking over the intercom. "Hey, you know it's Friday and I'm really looking for something wild!" The G-Man's face erupted in a big grin and replied, "You really want to see something wild?" I thought oh no here we go again. He made a sharp dive, leveled off at about 30 feet over the water, and continued accelerating for the nearest shore. The trees loomed larger and larger and I'm saying to myself, "He'll pull up any second now, He is going to pull up, Come on - pull up!" We were already in the shadow of the trees when he finally made his move. I had never seen a helicopter maneuver like that except in the old TV series - Air Wolf. The nose shot straight up toward the sky and then I think he did at least a three quarter barrel roll. The G force plastered the side of my face up against the plexiglass canopy and I still vividly remember our shadows rapidly rotating through the cabin. He finally leveled out and every one squeaked out some nervous laughter. The timber beast was beaming, but I noticed a few beads of sweat on The G-Man's brow who said, "I should have never have pulled that stunt so close to the water!" I was very grateful that I had some how missed that part he was referring to.

Chasing Rainbows
If I can blame one fish that got me started in collecting it would have to be the Rainbow Darter (Etheostoma caeruleum). I was enamored at first sight by the colors and marveled that any native fish could be this beautiful. My Rainbow collections began in trout streams of western Wisconsin where I consistently found large, robust, and always colorful fish. I believed that I could do the same in Minnesota, but our trout streams had only their namesake and sculpins. Why was there such a difference? I once poised this question to a Minnesota fisheries manager who gave two plausible hypotheses. The first was that Minnesota trout streams were colder and created a thermal barrier that even coolwater species could not tolerate. The second was slightly controversial. Perhaps the management of Minnesota trouts streams actually favored the predators to the detriment, if not exclusion, of prey species. I really respected his frankness to even suggest that possibility, but was certain there would never be a study even proposed to evaluate the impacts current management practices may have on coldwater stream communities. I continued looking for Rainbows in Minnesota and did find them in several coolwater streams which would swing support toward the thermal barrier argument. However, I rarely found specimens that were as robust and colorful as Wisconsin Rainbows. I kept visiting Wisconsin streams and one day bumped into a Minnesota trout fisherman. We started talking about stream management and I brought up my Rainbow paradox. He smiled and said that he didn't know about the darter, but he never fishes Minnesota streams anymore because there was a radical difference in management practices. Over there, they use heavy equipment and tons of artificial rip-rap to create habitat, but Wisconsin takes a more holistic approach - let the stream do most of the work and protect the riparian. I found this discussion intriguing, but wasn't sure if it favored the predator argument, or an entirely new one. I also realized that I would be chasing many more rainbows in pursuit of the truth, but the final verdict may always remain elusive and just beyond my grasp.

Prairie Pothole Wars
Glaciers advanced and retreated across Minnesota several times during the Ice Age and left tens of thousands of potholes dotted across the prairie in the aftermath. However, since settlement 70% of the potholes have been drained and 99% of the prairie cultivated for agriculture. Most of the remaining ponds and marshes are isolated basins which historically never had fish, but supported diverse invertebrate communities of plankton, insects, and crustaceans. However, even these dwindling ecosystems have been under attack for decades through the introduction and rearing of bait fish. I did not realize how widespread this practice was until 1985 when I was scouting ponds for Phantom Midge larvae (Chaoborus americanus). I scoured the central third of Minnesota for fishless ponds that contained this larvae which was also called glassworms in the aquarium trade and used as a live and frozen food for tropical fish. I found countless ponds that looked promising on the map, but almost always had fish. Farmer after farmer confirmed my suspicions. Bait dealers would pay about $25.00 per year to lease a pond and many had been with the same dealer for over 25 years. On that rare occasion that I found a "glassworm pond," my employer, who most farmer's referred to as the "Bug Man," would pay up to $400.00 a year to keep the bait people out. He's been working some of these ponds for 20 years and glassworms under natural conditions have proven to be a renewable and harvestable resource. However, in a few cases either the farmer gets greedy or the bait dealer territorial and bait fish are introduced. Within one year, the glassworms vanish forever. On a very small scale this onslaught may be reversed. In 1992, I was surveying Maplewood State Park in northwestern Minnesota which contained several potholes and found three with dense populations of Fathead Minnows (Pimephales promelas) and Brook Sticklebacks (Culaea inconstans) which I felt were not natural occurrences. I recommended that these ponds be treated with a fish toxicant to eliminate the fish and allow the invertebrate community to naturally re-establish itself. To my surprise, the park's resource specialist is seriously considering it. If it comes to pass this will be the first time in Minnesota a reclamation project is done solely to restore a community that does not include fish.

Choupiquet Royale
Entrepreneurs are always trying to turn a profit by improving old products or inventing entirely new ones and fish are no exception. I was aware for some time that the aquarium trade was interested in the Bowfin (Amia calva), but was stunned to learn that the roe was also being marketed as a new source of caviar. In 1992, both camps became aware of each other's existence and believed there was promise in exploring some common ground. Up to this time, both depended on harvesting wild populations which were subject to major fluctuations or restrictive rules and regulations. However, culturing the species would in the long run provide a constant and reliable source. My only connection to this scheme was knowing a fish farmer who had already developed culturing techniques for Sturgeon, Paddlefish, and Gar; and now hoped to add Bowfin to his "menu." It seemed like an appealing adventure and he did need some one to help drive so we were off to Louisiana. His connection was the largest producer of bowfin caviar which was marketed under the name of Choupiquet Royale. Both the company and the demand for this new product had only been around a few years, but sales were booming. However, the company's president was convinced the state was going to shut the entire industry down because there were fears the wild populations were in jeopardy. He also added that many unscrupulous commercial roe harvesters were littering landings with large rotting piles of Bowfin carcasses and public complaints were mounting. He gave us a tour of his operation, offered us a generous sampling of his product on crackers and cream cheese, and encouraged us to wash it down with a traditional swig of Russian Vodka. The aftertaste was "unique" and an hour later something still lingered. Experiencing the culinary delight of this fine cuisine once in this lifetime will be quite enough for me thank you! The president had already made arrangements for us with some local commercial fishermen to catch our brood stock. However, it was going to take a few days so we decided to do some traveling and also collecting along the way. Our first destination was southern Louisiana where a fisheries biologist had studied and written a report on the Bowfin. He was definitely a different breed. One of his favorite pastimes was fishing for Alligator Gar, but seemed some what embarrassed to admit it. He did find something very interesting about Bowfin which I hope someone will study further. Males and females are suppose to be very easy to distinguish by the dot on the upper caudal fin. Males have a dot ringed with orange-yellow and females are dotless. He originally used this criteria to determine sex ratios in his study, but while examining the ovaries and testes found females originally sorted as males and visa versa. Sounds like another ancient rough fish citation, which has been accepted as doctrine, may crash and burn. We also asked if he felt the Bowfin population were really at any risk of being wiped out from the caviar industry. He replied, " I really doubt it", but added a half-hearted challenge, "Let 'em try!" Our next stop was the bayou country near Lake Veret where we hoped to find the Banded Pygmy Sunfish (Elassoma zonatum). From a bridge over a small stream, we scanned the waters which were littered with washing machines, tires, and even a fake Christmas tree - nice structure. Some one had also cleaned countless fish and large areas of the stream bottom were covered with fins and entrails. In this rotting mess, there were several Bowfin carcasses with their bellies slit open and we knew who was responsible. As awful as this was, Banded Pygmy Sunfish were everywhere, but our nets and waders reeked of dead fish and really stunk up the car. The commercial fishermen came through and we started packing Bowfin for the trip home. All we had were tropical fish boxes which could hold one Bowfin each, but had to bend them in a half circle for a proper fit. They had several beautiful females, but came up short on males. Our host knew of one other source which led us deep into Cajun country. Near the town of Pierre Part, there was a road side vegetable stand which had a small sign advertising "LIVE CHOUPIC" (the Cajun word for Bowfin and sounds like shoe pick). They were several males and the vendor was very happy to sell them, but was puzzled that we didn't want him to clean them for us. Choupic is a highly valued delicacy in this part of Louisiana and some day I may be brave enough to try it. We finally headed North, hit a major blizzard in Arkansas where no one knows how to drive in snow, and arrived home 22 hours later with the loss of only two Bowfin. Spawning was partially successful, but the technique will need some fine tuning. The fish farmer didn't show much of a profit with that first attempt which only produced about 50 young. He plans to keep trying, but it may be too late for the caviar industry because Louisiana did close the commercial season on Bowfin the following year.

Wasted Efforts
The Northern Redbelly Dace (Phoxinus eos) is common as dirt in Minnesota, but ironically, is listed Threatened just across the border in South Dakota where some unusual measures were taken to "save" the species. The Nature Conservancy (TNC), Ducks Unlimited (DU), and South Dakota Game, Fish, and Parks Department cooperatively constructed an impoundment on the TNC Crystal Springs Preserve near the town of Gary. Because a Threatened species inhabited the stream where the dam was being constructed, a minnow fish ladder was incorporated into the design. I visited the preserve in April of 1990 hoping there would be some water flowing through the ladder and just maybe see a few fish actually making the "climb", but the spillway was bone dry because the impoundment was far from full. The metal fish ladder made two switch backs to clear the dam's height of about four feet and had a series of alternating baffles in the channel to reduce the flow's velocity and also create eddies where fish could rest during the ascent. I regretted that I couldn't see it in action and the preserve had no staff at that time. However, I did notice a farmer working on his fence line a short distance away and thought it sure wouldn't hurt to ask. He grinned at my questions and eventually broke into a chuckle. He found the efforts to save the minnow not only pure folly, but also very funny. However, he saved the best for last when he added, "And the darn thing doesn't even work!" Puzzled, I asked him to explain. He recalled with delight how the surveyors took their precise measurements and the inspectors kept a watchful eye on construction, but still the entire structure was not level. When water does run over the dam, it's on the wrong side and the ladder is always high and dry. I could only sum it up as good intentions gone awry.

Minnesota's Missing Madtom
Three species of madtoms have been reported from Minnesota and include the Slender Madtom (Noturus exilis), Stonecat (Noturus flavus), and Tadpole Madtom (Noturus gyrinus). The latter two are relatively common and widespread, but the Slender Madtom was found only once in 1954 near the town of Lyle in Otter Creek virtually on the Iowa - Minnesota border. In 1983, I had a summer job with the Minnesota Natural Heritage Program where I found the Slender Madtom record buried deep in the files. I made a few trips to the original collection site that summer, but never did get lucky. At that time, I didn't really know what type of habitat I was looking for or how to even collect madtoms, but believed the Slender was still in Minnesota. I decided to take a radical approach that led me on an eight year odyssey in search of this missing madtom. In the fall of that same year, I made a collecting trip to one of the species epicenters of distribution - Missouri. I had tried several streams, but always during the day. However, as the sun began to set, I stopped to try a few seine hauls in Flat Creek near the town of Cato. At first nothing, but when the twilight finally faded things really started to happened. Slender Madtoms were coming up in every seine haul. Now, I had a feeling for their habitat and habits, and also at least one type of collecting gear which was effective in sampling the species. My plan was very simple, but would take a great deal of patience and time - just work my way back to Minnesota. In 1987, I found them in Brush and Long Creeks near Middleton in southeastern Iowa. However, this time I collected them with a back pack shocker and also during the day. In 1989, I found one in Brushy Creek near Fort Dodge in central Iowa. In 1990, I received a grant from the Minnesota Nongame Program to survey Otter Creek for the Slender Madtom, but was also given the discretion (and the permits) to cross the border into Iowa.

About two miles south of the Minnesota line, I stumbled on to the Nelson Paradise Wildlife Area which had about one mile of the best reach of Otter Creek I had seen in seven years. If the Slender Madtom still remained any where in this stream, I was certain it would be here. High water postponed my surveys till September, but as I was setting a "minnow trap line" in the wildlife area, I noticed a madtom randomly twirling in the pool where I had just set a trap. I moved to intercept it, but had no net with me. I scooped and firmly grasped it with one hand. At first, I thought it was just a Stonecat because it lacked the characteristic black fin margins, but the upper jaw did not project beyond the lower. I was convinced it was a Slender Madtom and intended to preserve it for verification later. The only problem was my hands were full of minnow traps and the specimen bottles were back in the car so I had to slip my precious find into my not so lint-free t-shirt pocket. Ichthyologists at the University of Minnesota confirmed the identification and I later collected three more specimens from the wildlife area. Unfortunately, my grant funding ran out, but I was so close now that I had to make one more attempt in October of 1991. I thought I had at least stopped and looked at every bridge crossing on Otter Creek in Minnesota, but after checking the county maps, realized one had been missed. I was on a road that hugged the stream for several hundred yards and the riparian had been lightly grazed, but looked in pretty good shape. I turned at an intersection to cross the creek when I found about a 20 acre parcel that appeared to be part of the Crop Reserve Program which pays farmers to idle crop land. Here the riparian was in excellent condition and I had to give Otter Creek one more try. I started electroshocking on the rip-rap covering the road culvert and immediately a madtom popped up into the field. I scooped it into the net and this one again lacked the black fin margins, but the body and head were too compressed to be a Stonecat. I examined the jaws which were equal and I knew that I had finally done it. I also found one more specimen in the rip-rap along the road grade. After 37 years, the species still remained in Minnesota. I now hoped that the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources would take over from here, but I always expect too much. I pursued two different angles. I recommended to the Nongame Wildlife Program to consider a permanent easement along this portion of Otter Creek, but I think this ended up in the bad idea basket. I also contacted the area fisheries office which had scheduled a survey of the stream in 1993. I provided the collection location and habitat description which both received little interest. I also suggested they look for and sample additional sites that fit this kind of habitat type. This they assured me would not happen because only preestablished stations would be surveyed. Oh if I could only be king for a day - heads would roll!

What's in a Name?
I almost always welcome my encounters with bait dealers when I bump into them on collecting trips. I first like to observe their methods which may improve my own, and second, learn the names of fish used in their trade. However in 1993, I "caught one" on the Knife River near Mora, Minnesota. This time, I was initially defensive because he was harvesting minnows from a stream that was poisoned four years earlier for a reclamation project. Since then, I had put my heart and soul into restoring the nongame fish community. Stewing it over for minute, I realized he couldn't undo what I had so far accomplished and strolled over to meet my "colleague." He was in his 70's and had been a bait dealer for 50 years. He was holding a strange device which I recognized as a minnow trap constructed from clear pop bottles. He held up his new prototype with pride and thoroughly explained its theory and function. I admired that after a half century of experience, he had refused to rest on his laurels. He then asked me (presumptuously) to bait it with a fresh chunk of liver and set it for him. I thought why not - I just may learn something in the process, but he continued to bark more orders on proper placement from the bridge. I stood back and intently watched with my polarized sunglasses. Within a minute, Hornyhead Chubs (Nocomis biguttatus) swarmed the entrance to the trap and several entered. I was very impressed, but the design had a few bugs because one sharp Hornyhead grabbed the liver and easily exited the trap. Now, I expected a favor in return and had him go through my survey catch with me. First I gave him a Common Shiner (Luxilus cornutus) and Hornyhead Chub which he responded with Silver Shiner and Red Tail Chub which actually described both species better than their accepted common names. The Northern Redbelly Dace (Phoxinus eos) were called Jumpers which I found really appropriate because any one who has kept these in an uncovered aquarium sooner or later finds them dried up on the floor. Blacknose Dace (Rhinichthys atratulus) were Slickers and this was the first time I noticed an oily sheen shimmering in the sunlight. The Burbot (Lota lota) were Meesae, but I didn't make a connection because that was the Native American name. Finally we came to the last fish and was very surprised we both used the same name - Johnny Darter (Etheostoma nigrum). I reveled in this little visit, but time had gotten away from us and we both had to leave. Nevertheless, I look forward to learning new techniques and many more trade names from my "minnow mentors" in the future.