Midnight Whispers in the Catfish Cathedral

Mosquito repellent mixed with the tang of algae as my boot sank into riverbank mud. The full moon turned the Mississippi backwaters into liquid mercury, perfect for 夜钓鲶鱼. My grandfather's Coleman lantern hissed beside me, casting tiger-striped shadows through the cypress knees.

'Should've brought the heavier rod,' I muttered, eyeing my trembling tip-up. Three hours in, the only action came from bullfrogs cannonballing off lily pads. The river played its old trick - just when you think you've decoded its rhythms, it turns stone silent.

A gurgle upstream made me freeze. Not the lazy pop of bubble nests, but the hungry slurp of something massive. My hands forgot their mosquito-slapping duty as I lobbed the chicken liver rig. The 铅坠 sank with a throaty 'glunk' that echoed under the moon.

Then nothing. Ten minutes. Twenty. The river stretched time like taffy. I was reaching for thermos when the drag screamed. My rod bowed toward Orion's belt as 40-pound 编织线 sawed through black water. For twenty primal minutes, man and beast spoke the oldest language - muscle against instinct, breath held between heartbeats.

When the flathead finally rolled into moonlight, its whiskers glowed like silver threads. No scale, no photo - just two creatures returning to their elements, wiser for the dance. The river kept its secrets, but left me this: sometimes the trophy isn't in the landing, but in the moment before the strike.