When the River Whispers at Midnight

The air smelled of wet moss and diesel fuel as my waders sank into the Mississippi's muddy bank. Three a.m. finds most sane people in bed, but catfish hunters know this is when cut bait becomes irresistible. I adjusted my headlamp, its beam catching pairs of glowing eyes in the shallows - bullfrogs judging my life choices.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at the third mosquito drilling into my neck. The Coleman cooler held two pounds of chicken liver slowly turning into science experiment. First cast sent my circle hook skidding across current seams. The rod tip stayed stubbornly still for forty minutes, until...

Something primal happens when your line starts moving upstream at 2 mph. The Abu Garcia reel's drag screamed like a banshee as I stumbled over river rocks. 'Is this the logjam monster Old Man Jenkins warned about?' The rod doubled, my forearms burning as 50-pound braid sawed through water. When the flathead's whiskered mug finally surfaced, its tail slap sprayed me with river mud and triumph.

Dawn found me rinsing slime off my lucky fishing pliers - the ones that survived the Great Kayak Flip of '18. The river doesn't care about our schedules or bug bites, but sometimes, if you stand still enough in the dark, it'll let you in on ancient secrets written in catfish mucus.