When the River Glowed at 2 AM

The dashboard clock glowed 2:47 when my boot slipped on the dew-covered dock. Mississippi fog clung to my beard as I loaded the jon boat, the glow stick on my rod tip painting eerie circles in the mist. Catfish don't care about human schedules - that's why I was here when decent folks were dreaming.

My thermos of bitter coffee left stains on the bench seat as the trolling motor hummed. The river breathed tonight, current whispering secrets to half-submerged logs. On my third cast, something brushed the chicken liver bait hard enough to make my Shakespeare Ugly Stik dip. 'Just a gar,' I muttered, but my palms already felt slick.

By 4:15, the fog had thickened into soup. My headlamp beam bounced off a sudden swirl near submerged roots. Three quick clicks engaged the baitcaster's clutch. The strike came violent - rod bent double, braided line singing like a banjo string. For twenty thunderous heartbeats, the river itself seemed to fight me.

When the net finally lifted my personal-best flathead into the boat, its whiskers glistened with moonlight the fog had hidden. The digital scale blinked 48.2 lb before I released her. Driving home, I realized night fishing isn't about seeing - it's about learning to listen.