When Catfish Don't Read the Rulebook

Moonlight silvered the Mississippi's currents as my waders sank into the knee-deep muck. Somewhere downstream, a bullfrog croaked its disapproval. I'd chosen a tungsten sinker for the night's catfish hunt, convinced the extra density would beat the river's stubborn current. The smell of decaying crawdad shells in my bait bucket mixed peculiarly with my thermos coffee.

First cast snagged something solid within minutes—not a fish, but a waterlogged boot. 'Third left shoe this season,' I muttered, flicking my headlamp's beam across the swirling water. By midnight, the cooler held nothing but condensation and disappointment. My braided line kept humming with phantom nibbles that vanished faster than fireflies.

Dawn's first blush was staining the sky when it happened. The rod jerked so violently it nearly toppled my Coleman lantern. Twenty minutes later, I stood waist-deep wrestling what felt like a runaway bulldozer. The 'catfish' turned out to be a 40-pound paddlefish—all cartilage and prehistoric defiance, a species that's not even supposed to bite on cut bait. Its leathery tail slapped my hip as I released it, leaving a bruise that lasted longer than my pride.

Now the river rats greet me as 'Paddlefoot' at the bait shop. I still can't decide if that's an insult or a badge of honor.