When the River Whispered Secrets

3:17AM found me knee-deep in mist that clung like cobwebs. The Chattahoochee's current tugged at my waders as I flicked a jighead toward the submerged cypress stump. My grandfather's battered thermos - always filled with chicory coffee - sat unopened in the canoe. 'Catfish don't care about caffeine,' I muttered, though the ritual comforted me.

First light revealed circular ripples downstream. My fingers froze mid-cast when three car-sized shadows materialized beneath the surface. The braided line hummed as something colossal tested my drag. For twenty breathless minutes, the river became a chessboard - every calculated pump met with primal fury. When the flathead finally rolled into the net, its whiskers brushed my forearm like wet reeds.

Dawn broke proper as I released the leviathan. The thermos' stainless steel felt warm against my palm, though I'd never unscrewed the cap.