When the Channel Cats Came Calling
3AM moonlight pooled like liquid mercury on the riverbank. My thermos of bitter coffee had gone cold two hours ago, but the chicken liver rig bobbing near the submerged log kept me rooted. 'Just fifteen more minutes,' I whispered to the fireflies, my words dissolving into the chorus of bullfrogs.
The first tug came as a hesitant tap-tap against my bootlace-thin line. Then nothing. Reeling in revealed cleanly severed bait – the telltale dentistry of channel cats. My headlamp beam caught something glinting underwater. Leaning closer, I discovered a submerged car hood carpeted with mussels, its edges swarming with whiskered shadows.
Redesigning my rig with surgical precision, I added an ounce of lead to combat the current. The next cast sent my circle hook skittering across the metal surface. Before I could blink, the rod arched like a medieval longbow. Line screamed off the reel as something primal surged toward midriver.
Twenty minutes later, waist-deep in the ink-black water, I cradled a 15-pound blue catfish iridescent with moonlight. Its gills pulsed against my palm like a stolen heartbeat. The fish slipped back into darkness, leaving me standing in the shallows with trembling knees and a newfound respect for urban waterways.
