Midnight Whispers in the Muddy Waters

Moonlight silvered the Mississippi's muddy banks as my waders sank into cold sludge. I always bring my grandfather's rusted fillet knife - not because it's sharp, but because its jingle in my pocket sounds like catfish laughter.

'Should've quit an hour ago,' I muttered when the third snag stole my sinker. The river answered with a slurping noise near submerged logs. Casting my glow-in-the-dark jig head, the line suddenly went taut... then started crawling sideways like a drunkard.

Twenty minutes later, the beast surfaced - a flathead catfish with whiskers thick as pencils. Its tail slap soaked my shirt as we measured 44 inches. But the real trophy? The moonlit wake ripples that whispered 'Pride goes upstream' as I released her.