When the River Glowed

3:17AM. My digital thermometer read 68°F - perfect for channel cats. The Mississippi backwaters lapped at my waders with a rhythm older than time. I adjusted the catfish rig, its glow bead reflecting moonlight like a tiny green star.

'Should've brought bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at the cloud around my headlamp. The third cast landed with a satisfying *plop* near submerged timber. Then nothing. For two hours, nothing.

Dawn's first blush stained the sky when I felt it - not a bite, but the current itself seemed to breathe. My line quivered upstream. Reeling slack, I stumbled over something metallic. An old coffee can, rust blooming like bloodstains. 'My lucky day,' I chuckled, spooling line onto the makeshift holder.

The strike came violent. Rod doubled-over, drag screaming. 'Not snag!' I chanted as 50-pound braid sawed through water. For twenty minutes we danced - the monster in the murk and the fool who forgot his net. When I finally beach-dragged the 44-inch beast, its barbels wriggled in the mud like living shadows.

As I released the giant, sunrise ignited the river. That's when I saw them - dozens of glow-in-the-dark spinnerbaits caught in trees from last night's tournament. The cats had been gorging on dislodged baitfish all along.