Goliath!

Back when I was a teenager fishing Arkansas farm ponds and rivers, I started keeping a list of fish I dreamed of catching someday. Call it my “Bucket List” if you will—a list of fish I want to catch before I “kick the bucket.”

In the 40 years since I started keeping this list, I’ve caught and crossed off many species, including the piranha, payara, peacock bass, white sturgeon, king salmon, paddlefish and saltwater species such as roosterfish, tuna, lingcod, sharks, halibut, cobia and dorado. Until recently, however, one species listed since day one has eluded me: the jewfish, or as it’s now known, the goliath grouper.

Imagine a steer-sized largemouth bass with mottled brown colors and you’ll know what this brute looks like. When I was young, I often saw photos of these big groupers in fishing books and magazines. All were similar—a jewfish hanging above a dock with a triumphant angler standing beside it. The angler always was puny by comparison, a fact that fueled my desire to catch these incredible giants.

In 1988, I had my first chance. A guide in Marco Island, Florida, motored me to a sunken wreck miles offshore, shoved a stand-up rod in my hand, baited the hook with a live pinfish and instructed me to lower it to the bottom 150 feet below.

“Jewfish live in the wreck,” he said. “They’ll come out, grab the bait and go right back inside. To catch one, you must keep it out of the wreck. Set the hook hard and reel like hell.”

This should be a cinch, I thought, looking at the winch-sized reel, thick mono line and broomstick rod I was using. But when the first fish struck, I was unprepared for its power. It slammed me against the transom so hard I had bruises for weeks. In an instant, the jewfish was back in the wreck and wouldn’t budge. Game over.

This happened 20 times that day. A fish struck. I held on for dear life. The fish swam back in the wreck. Game over.

I left Marco Island frustrated. I hooked some enormous jewfish, but they seemed impossible to catch. The species dropped a few places on my bucket list but remained there, nevertheless.


Fast forward to June 2009. My friend Mark Davis, host of Penn’s Big Water Adventures television show on the Outdoor Channel, posts photos on his Facebook page of a 700-pound jewfish, one of several monsters he caught while filming at Boca Grande in southwest Florida. I’m intrigued.

“How the hell did you manage to land them?” I ask.

“Let me set you up a trip and you can find out yourself,” he says.

Plans are laid. Wife Theresa and I will be in nearby Punta Gorda, Florida, for conference in October. Davis will attend, too. He arranges an October 6 outing with Captain Ryan Rowan (www.tarponcaptain.com), an experienced, 38-year-old North Port resident he describes as “one of the best guides I’ve ever shared a boat with.”

I encourage Theresa to accompany us, but having heard stories of my previous jewfish outing—long boat ride, heavy tackle, zero landings—she has reservations. “I don’t think I have a chance of landing one,” she says.

Davis says otherwise. “I promise you’ll catch the biggest fish you’ve ever seen,” he tells her. And although he was with me when I landed my biggest ever—a 7-1/2 foot, 250-pound-plus white sturgeon—he assures me I’ll have no trouble exceeding my big-fish mark, too.

“I guarantee it,” he says.

On the morning of October 6, Ryan Rowan motors Theresa, Mark and me to the goliath grouper hotspot where Mark caught his 700-pounder. The scene differs greatly from my Marco Island excursion. Instead of a wreck, Ryan takes us to a half-acre spread of wooden pilings, the remains of an old pier. Instead of 150 feet of water, we’ll fish 10- to 40- foot depths. And instead of traveling 20 miles offshore, we set up just 200 yards off a beautiful beach.

After I’m seated at the boat’s bow, Ryan runs a hook the size of a small anchor through the snout of a foot-long jack and explains the set-up.

“We’ve spent several years perfecting our technique for catching these big groupers,” he says. “They feed around the clock year-round, but we fish during slack tide because it’s easier then to position the boat beside the pilings where they live and feed. Mark will be in the tower maneuvering the boat. I’ll stay here and help you get your bait in the right spot. When a fish takes the bait, it’ll yank the rod down hard. Don’t set the hook or start reeling when that happens. Just hold on tight and Mark will back the boat out. That will hook the fish and pull it away from the pilings. When the fish is in open water, then you’ll start fighting it.”

Ryan tosses the bait beside a piling, I release it to the bottom, and, instantly, the rod nosedives.

“Hold on!” Mark and Ryan shout simultaneously. Mark revs the outboard and back we go.

I feel Ryan’s hands squeezing my shoulders. “Don’t want you going anywhere,” he says, smiling. A scene from Real TV flashes through my mind: an old dude snatched overboard while battling a monster fish. I reach back to be sure my knife is still on my belt.


When the boat is away from the pilings, Mark chortles. “Now, it’s up to you, Sutton. Reel it in.”

Easier said than done. The huge fish surges away, peeling line against the drag. But having the right tools for the job—a big Fin-Nor Santiago 50-wide reel, 80-pound-class Fin-Nor stand-up rod and 600-pound-test line—soon gains me the upper hand. I pull and reel, and inch by inch, the goliath grouper comes my way.

“I see color,” Mark shouts. Then there it is, the jewfish I’ve dreamed of catching more than four decades. This time, though, there will be no photograph of the angler standing on a dock beside his catch. These slow-growing giants, delicious on the table, were overexploited for years. Harvesting them in federal waters of the southeastern U.S. has been prohibited since 1990. I bring the fish alongside the boat, and while Ryan removes the hook, Theresa climbs into the tower and snaps some photos.

“A 200-pounder or thereabouts,” Ryan estimates. And with a flip of its tail, the goliath is gone.

Thirty minutes later, I bring a bigger grouper boatside, this one around 250 pounds. It, too, is released unharmed.

Theresa now takes a turn in the chair. The biggest fish she has caught is a 30-pound catfish. (“Jewfish bait,” Mark says.) But that’s about to change. She hooks up as soon as the bait hits bottom, and 10 minutes later, with hardly a struggle, she lands an 80-pound jewfish.


“Now it’s time to catch a big one,” Ryan says, grinning. Theresa looks puzzled but understands when Ryan drags a big stingray from the baitwell. He hooks the ray, tosses it by one of the pilings, then moves behind Theresa so he can grab her—“just in case.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” Theresa says just before the next fish strikes and lifts her from the chair. Ryan grimaces as he struggles to keep Theresa in the boat. The two strain against the rod as Mark backs away.

Theresa will never forget the 15-minute battle that follows. Nor will I. The 275-pound grouper puts up a hell of a fight, but it is no match for my determined wife.


I climb the tower and shoot photos as Theresa reaches out and touches the gentle giant, a fish more than twice her size and nearly 10 times larger than her biggest ever. That moment is a highlight of the day.

The day isn’t over yet, though. Theresa passes the rod, and soon I hook another grouper. I know immediately this fish is bigger than the others. Its power is incredible. I worry it might escape in the pilings, but somehow we pull it to open water.

Could this be my biggest fish ever? When it comes topside, I know it is. It’s 8 feet long and as big around as a grizzly. “450 pounds minimum,” Ryan proclaims.


By the time I subdue it, the jewfish has pulled the boat into the shallows. Ryan and I jump in the water with it, and Theresa and Mark shoot photos as we unhook the huge fish and release it. I am ecstatic when this truly goliath grouper swims powerfully away.

There are high fives all around. Ryan is obviously happy our half-day fishing trip had proven successful. Mark is happy he was able to plan and execute an unforgettable outing for us. Theresa and I are ecstatic because we’ve caught our biggest fish ever, an experience we'll always remember.

I’ve never been on a fishing trip I’ve enjoyed more. And if you have a strong desire to catch several 100- to 500-pound fish in a single day, I recommend you contact Ryan Rowan and book a trip with all haste. News about Rowan and the extraordinary Boca Grande goliath grouper fishery is spreading like wildfire. And with Rowan slated to appear in no less than five TV fishing shows in early 2010, I’m betting he’ll be booked up in no time.

As for me, I’m already planning another trip. My sons and I will fish with the incomparable Capt. Rowan next summer. I have no doubt they, too, will catch their biggest fish ever. And I want to be there to see the surprise, the grimaces and the smiles on their faces when it happens.

Planning A Boca Grande Fishing Trip

The waters around Boca Grande, Florida are home to an incredible variety of popular sportfish. Capt. Ryan Rowan regularly puts clients on 100- to 200-pound tarpons and heavyweight snook, redfish, cobia, speckled trout and other species. Goliath groupers weighing 100 to 500 pounds are common catches year-round, and much larger fish always are possible.

Huge sharks also roam these waters, as evidenced by two gigantic Boca Grande hammerheads landed with Rowan’s assistance: a 1,060-pounder caught earlier this year and the 1,280-pound, IGFA all-tackle world record caught in 2006.

For more information or to book a trip, visit Rowan’s website, www.tarponcaptain.com, or phone him at 941-706-5061.

For information on local accommodations, restaurants, attractions and more, contact the Charlotte Harbor Visitor and Convention Bureau, www.charlotteharbortravel.com, 800-652-6090.

Early-Season Squirrel Hunting

For many sportsmen, the early weeks of squirrel season are a curtain-raiser for the late-autumn and winter game seasons to follow. Blue-ribbon hunting opportunities available within the next few weeks provide hunters an exciting way to pass the time before deer, waterfowl and other popular seasons get underway.

Early-season squirrels aren’t easy marks. During long hot spells, they may be almost totally inactive and seldom seen. Food is abundant now, therefore, squirrels are more likely to be scattered and sedentary, making it difficult to locate concentrations.

Despite the challenges encountered, though, early-season hunting conditions are more favorable than conditions encountered after the leaves have fallen. Squirrels are less wary during the season’s first few weeks, and there are plenty of young squirrels around. Leafy branches restrict the squirrel’s vision, allowing for closer, easier stalks, and because nuts are still clinging to branches, squirrels are moving more in the trees overhead, making them easier to see and hear. Bushytail fans who take advantage of these favorable circumstances enjoy some of the best squirrel-hunting action the year has to offer.

Scout for Food

Pinpointing food sources is one big key to successful early-season squirrel hunting. During the season’s first few weeks, if squirrels aren’t feeding, they’re probably not moving, and trying to locate inactive squirrels in a jungle of green foliage can be a lesson in frustration. Take the guesswork out of early-season hunting by determining what food items rate high on the squirrel’s menu during late summer and early autumn.

These foods vary, depending on where you hunt, so scout to determine what’s hot and what’s not. Look for blackberries, hawthorn berries, wild plums, grapes and wild cherries. Seeds and buds of maples, tulip poplars, hackberries and dogwoods are relished, along with corn and soybeans. Green mast is also eaten, and hunters should watch for nut-laden black walnut trees, hickories, beeches, pecans and oaks (especially white oaks). Squirrels move from one food source to another as different foods come in and go out, so be prepared to change your hunting pattern as the season progresses.

Be An Early Bird


Early-season hunting is primarily a morning sport. Later in the season, when the air is cooler, squirrels may feed throughout the day, with significant activity peaks near both dawn and dusk. Early on, however, evening feeding periods are usually shorter, and squirrels won’t be as active.

Concentrate your hunting efforts during the first three hours after dawn. Cooler temperatures this time of day make it more comfortable for squirrels and squirrel hunters alike. There’s also less likelihood of a heavy breeze springing up to spoil the hunt.

Good Things in Small Packages

Be flexible when selecting hunting areas. Large stretches of timber can be very productive for savvy hunters, but in country with a mix of small woodlots and big woods, you may do better working the smaller patches during the season’s first few weeks. Small tracts are often overlooked by other hunters, and though they may not hold large numbers of squirrels, the restricted environment makes bushytails easier to find. Move from one tract to another, taking care not to overhunt any single area.

One-On-One


Stalking is a technique ready-made for the early-season squirrel hunter. Squirrels aren’t as wary of hunters and leaves are still on the trees, allowing the hunter to approach more stealthily. Late in the season, when leaves have fallen, squirrels can be difficult to stalk, because they can see movement on the ground for longer distances.

As you move through the woods, watch the ground so you can ease forward with the least possible noise, and stop every 10 or 20 yards to carefully scan the trees before moving another few yards and repeating the process. Motion is what you need to look for. A shaking branch is the most common clue you’ll see, but you might see the squirrel itself as it runs on a limb.

Another trick is to hunt toward the sun. It sounds like stupid advice, but it’s much easier to spot movement in branches when those branches are silhouetted against the sun. The secret is to stand so that you have a tree trunk or clump of leaves shielding your eyes from the direct glare.

The single most important thing a squirrel stalker can learn is that patience is a golden virtue. Don’t get in a hurry because you won’t see many squirrels if you do. The slower you go, the better your chances are apt to be.

These techniques and tips aren’t the final answer to late-season squirrel hunting success. But if what you've been doing so far hasn’t produced the desired results, give them a try. Ol’ Bushytail’s brain may not be any bigger than a hickory nut, but he’s got plenty of smarts tucked away inside. To outwit him, you have to be better at playing his games than he is.

Keith Sutton is the author of numerous books on the outdoors. To order autographed copies, visit his website, www.catfishsutton.com.

Bo Whoop, Where Are You?

Back in 2004, I wrote a story for ESPN Outdoors titled “Naming of the Gun.” The gist of the story was that folks nowadays seldom give names to their favorite hunting arms as they did in the past. Everyone has heard of Davy Crockett’s rifle Old Betsy. Daniel Boone dubbed his flintlock Old Tick-Licker. Buffalo Bill Cody shot a 48-caliber trapdoor Springfield rifle he called Lucretia Borgia.

I mentioned in my story that many other famous outdoorsmen named their firearms as well, including renowned outdoor writer and conservationist Nash Buckingham, whose 12-gauge-magnum double-barrel Bo Whoop may be the best-known gun in waterfowling history.

Buckingham was a respected authority on shooting and hunting. In 1921, Western Cartridge Company president John Olin sent him an Askins-Sweeley magnum 12-gauge to field test the company’s new Super-X shotshells. Buckingham liked the gun so much, in 1926, he contacted Ad Roll at the A.H. Fox Gun Company in Philadelphia and commissioned a 12-gauge Super-Fox waterfowl gun for what Buckingham called “the tall ones.” He specified that the barrels be bored by renowned gun maker Bert Becker.

In his book, A.H. Fox: The Finest Gun in the World, author Michael McIntosh says, “Becker built the gun himself from start to finish. According to Buckingham, in a letter written in the 1950s, it was Fox No. 31108—either a case of faulty memory or an instance when the same number got stamped on two guns (which happened a few times); the only work-order card for No. 31108 describes an A Grade 12-gauge with 30-inch barrels and a half-hand stock, shipped to Supplee Biddle Hardware Company in Philadelphia July 16, 1926—definitely not a Super-Fox.”

Whatever the number, Becker crafted the gun to Buckingham’s specifications. It was constructed on a Fox frame with 32-inch barrels, which were overbored to deliver a 90-percent pattern of copper-coated 4s at 40 yards. The gun was chambered for three-inch shells, had a straight-hand stock, a rubber recoil pad, and, at Buckingham’s order, no safety. It weighed just under 10 pounds.

The gun’s unusual name came from Buckingham’s good friend Colonel Harold P. Sheldon. He called the shotgun Bo Whoop because of its distinctive hollow report.

Buckingham was riding back to town with a man named Clifford Green following a December 1, 1948 duck hunt near Clarendon, Arkansas, when a pair of game wardens stopped the men and checked their licenses and ducks. Bo Whoop was laid on the fender of Green’s car after one of the wardens looked at the gun, and Buckingham didn’t notice it was missing until they had driven several miles away. Despite an exhaustive search by game wardens, police and hunters, and ads placed with local newspapers and radio stations, Buckingham never saw the gun again.

The whereabouts of Bo Whoop has been the stuff of legends ever since. And since my story appeared on ESPN Outdoors, I’ve received more than a dozen e-mails from folks who claim Bo Whoop was found. Unfortunately, I have been unable to verify any of these reports.

One said, “The gun turned up in a pawn shop two years ago and was quickly purchased. No names were given out.”

Another said, “I have Bo Whoop in my possession and would like to find a buyer.”

The rest were similar, but when the people who sent them were pressed for details, they could not or would not provide them. As best I can tell, the Bo Whoop’s whereabouts remains unknown, or if someone does have it, they’re not talking.

If the gun were to turn up, and its existence was verified, there’s little doubt it would create a stir in the gun world. Bo Whoop, perhaps the most famed shotgun ever, might be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

I like to think, however, it’s still out there somewhere waiting to be found.

I often hunt and fish in the White River bottoms around Clarendon that Buckingham ennobled in his books. Each time I do, on the drive to and from the area, I wonder if I might be passing near the place where Bo Whoop now rests. I gaze at the windows of the old shotgun shacks and wonder if the gun might hang on one’s wall, the owner quite ignorant of the gun’s value. I watch the road ditches, too, and fancy Bo Whoop might still be laying in one covered in muck and grass, hidden away for more than half a century.

What a treasure it would be if one could find it.

Hunting Camp Pranks

If you’re looking for pranks and practical jokes, a hunting camp is the place to go. Maybe that’s a faulty impression on my part, but it sure seems that way. I’ve never visited a camp that didn’t have a rubber snake in it.

The pranks run the gamut from salt in the sugar bowl and porcelain eggs in the refrigerator to hot pepper juice smeared on the mouthpiece of a dog man’s horn. Then there are more elaborate bits of monkey business that are long remembered in camp as masterpieces of tomfoolery. Here are a few of them.

Bad Glands
At an Alabama camp, everyone gathered to watch as the veteran hunter showed his greenhorn buddy how to dress out his first deer. The old hand gutted the whitetail, then opened the body cavity and showed his rookie friend the location of the tenderloins on each side of the backbone.

“See these here,” he said to the young tyro. “They’re glands, and you gotta remember to take ‘em out or they’ll spoil the rest of the meat. Put ‘em in a plastic bag so they won’t contaminate anything, then drop ‘em in this here cooler we keep special for the purpose.”

The naïve hunter had been tricked into giving away the choicest cuts of venison.

Attack Duck

Bennie, the camp cook, was always up later than the hunters in camp. After everyone went to bed, he would finish cleaning the kitchen, turn out the lights and make a trip to the toilet where he’d sit and read before turning in.

The noises Bennie made in the john late at night were a source of insomnia for some of the men, one of whom decided to play a prank. A wounded mallard retrieved by the man’s Lab was brought back to camp, and just before everyone retired that night—everyone but Bennie, that is—the bird was placed inside Bennie’s toilet with the lid down.

Bennie didn’t suspect a thing. When he sat on the can, the mad mallard struck like a snake. A blood-curdling scream shook the bunkhouse, followed by loud quacking and cussing.

Bennie has yet to exact his revenge, but to this day, everyone in camp examines their food closely before eating. Are those really raisins in that pie?

Shooting Blanks

Two pheasant hunters told a friend about a prank they pulled on their longtime hunting companion Joe. Seems they always loaded all of Joe’s shotshells for him, and for several years, they had given him shells filled with sawdust. Then they got to shoot Joe’s limit of birds.

“When a pheasant flushes,” one said, “I shoot about the same time as Joe. Then Joe runs out and grabs the bird and claims it. Of course, we know he hasn’t killed a single bird, but by the end of the day, he’s got most of them in his game bag.”

“But what happens when a pheasant goes down and Joe doesn’t shoot?” the friend asked.

“He always shoots,” one man replied as the other nodded in agreement. “A week after pheasant season is over, there isn’t a sawdust pile in the county more than a foot high.”

Early to Bed, Early to Rise

A good friend of mine went to bed early in turkey camp a few seasons back. Bad mistake. When he started snoring, his “friends” reset his alarm clock, his watch and the kitchen clock to 30 minutes before wake-up time. Then they turned out the lights, crawled in bed and waited for the alarm to go off. When it did, my friend jumped out of bed, got dressed, scarfed down some cereal and fussed at his campmates for being slow getting up. (They rose from bed and began dressing.) Then my friend left camp and went charging out onto the plantation on his four-wheeler at 10 p.m., thinking it was almost sun-up.

It was he, though, who had the last laugh. He didn’t return until late the next morning, when he brought in a fine gobbler. He also never said anything to anybody about where he went and what he did when he realized the sun wasn’t coming up when it should. This prevented his buddies from laughing at him, and as far as I know, they’re still waiting for retaliation.

The Backward Scope and Sweet Revenge

A hunter in an Arkansas deer camp—we’ll call him Pete—shot a Winchester .270 with a scope that looked the same either way. By that I mean it was the same size on each end, and aside from the click-screw being on the wrong side, you probably wouldn’t notice it was on the rifle backward

Sure enough, Pete didn’t notice. He rode to his stand as usual, in the back of a pickup with the other hunters, and when he got out, the other men bit their lips. Everybody was in on the joke except Pete.

There were no shots from Pete’s stand that morning. When the men picked him up at noon, he was shaking his head and grinning.

“Ever try to shoot a buck through a scope that made him look like a gnat?” he asked. All the hunters said no, they hadn’t, and that was all Pete said about it.

Eventually, Pete’s buddy Larry ‘fessed up, and there was much merriment made of the imagined spectacle of Pete peering the wrong way through his scope at a miniature buck. Pete took it well, laughing with everyone else. Larry walked on eggshells the rest of week, but nothing happened—not right away, anyhow.

When next year’s season opened, Pete was unusually jovial when everyone rode to their stands. He had checked his scope, he said, and found it to be pointing in the right direction. When Larry got off at his stand, Pete wished him a good hunt, and if he sounded a bit too jovial, no one noticed it right then.

A little after dawn, the hunter whose stand was closest to Larry’s was jolted awake by a booming rifle shot. A few seconds later, there was a second shot. Three more shots soon followed. The hunter was about to go investigate when he heard another series of five shots. The interval between volleys was roughly equal to the time required for a man to hurriedly slap a fresh clip in his rifle.

After the tenth shot, there was a long silence, then a thunderous oath. Larry’s buddy thought his friend must have flipped his gourd and hurried toward him. He found Larry leaning against a tree halfway up the slope from his stand.

“Come here! Come here!” Larry screamed hysterically. “You gotta see this.”

It was something to see all right. For starters, there was a mounted, eight-point deer head hanging from a nail on a tree. The head peered cautiously around another tree, looking downhill toward Larry’s stand. Behind the tree were two hay bales stacked one on the other; covering them was a tanned deer hide. From Larry’s stand at dawn, the whole thing must have looked like a big buck silhouetted against the sky.

“I saw this thing as soon as the sun rose,” Larry said. “It didn’t move, so at first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. But later, I looked back and the buck was still there. He was looking right at me.

“I bet it took me five minutes to get my gun to my shoulder,” he continued. “I took careful aim and shot, and I couldn’t believe he didn’t go down. So I shot him again. I shot the whole clip out and then went through my spare clip. Still he didn’t go down.”

So Larry reloaded, he said, and then he started stalking the deer.

“I got halfway up the hill before I figured it out,” he said, handing the man a neatly printed note. “This was tacked to the back side of the tree.”

The note said: “Gotcha back, you scope-switching S.O.B.”

Deer Scent

And finally, a Minnesota prankster wasn’t really surprised when the cover scent he sprinkled onto his boots and around his deer stand turned out to be perfume. His camp buddies had gotten even for past pranks while he was sleeping the night before, pouring out the buck scent and replacing it with ladies’ fragrance.

To contact Keith “Catfish” Sutton, send an e-mail to catfishdude@sbcglobal.net. Autographed copies of his books are available at www.catfishsutton.com.