Darkside Catfishing

An owl’s hoot echoed through the night air when I felt the first gentle tap on my line.

“Here, son,” I said, handing the pole to 12-year-old Josh. “I think a big catfish is fixing to take it.”

Josh tensed with anticipation.

“Don’t get in a hurry,” I said. “Wait till he starts swimming away.”

“I feel him yanking it,” Josh said. “He feels like he’s got it.”

Suddenly, the fish surged away, putting a stiff bend in the rod. There was no doubt now the fish was on. It twisted and turned as Josh grimaced and cranked.

After a brief but exciting tussle, the fish came in, resigned to its fate and croaking softly. It was a nice channel cat, 5 pounds of muscle and mouth, and before we left the lake, it would be joined by nine more of its whiskered brethren. For Josh, this was a little like heaven.

I’ve been fishing for catfish since I was big enough to hold a cane pole. Now I have six sons who share my enjoyment of the sport. When possible, we make our catfishing forays at night. That’s when cats bite best, and a nightfishing junket is far more memorable for the boys than a daytime outing.

If your idea of a fun summer outing is sitting around the motor home sipping sodas and watching TV, then nighttime catfishing is probably not for you. But if you don’t mind a snake dropping in for a visit now and then; if you don’t mind reeking of shad guts and limburger stinkbait; if the hummingbird drone of a million mosquitoes fighting over the tender cuts of your face doesn’t drive you bonkers; if you’re not repulsed by the feel of catfish slime and bottom ooze between your digits; then, maybe, just maybe, a witching hour safari for cats is your ticket to happiness.

A catfishing adventure is the best of all ways to scratch your fishing itch. You’re almost sure to catch a few fish for the frying pan, and there’s always a good chance you’ll hook a big flathead or blue cat that outweighs any fish you’ve ever caught.

Be Prepared

Mosquitoes are night creatures, too, so insect repellent is a must (on you, but never your bait). You’ll need a good lantern, and if you’re bank fishing, a lawn chair and some rod holders. Pick a body of water where catfish are abundant (your state fisheries department can recommend some), and carry plenty of bait. Good all-around choices include baitfish (minnows, shad or sunfish), night crawlers, crawfish, catalpa worms and stinkbaits.

Tackle Tips


Simple tackle is best for darkside catting. Most anglers use a medium-action rod-and-reel combo to better reach offshore fishing spots. Six- to 15-pound line and size 1 to 2/0 hooks are OK for the small “eating-size” catfish most folks are after.

When fishing for cats 20 pounds and up (100-pounders are possible in some waters), use a long rod, 7 feet at least, for more hook-setting and fighting power. Those constructed with graphite/fiberglass composites offer strength, sensitivity, flexibility and moderate pricing. Bait-casting reels are toughest and provide more power for cranking in big fish. Look for a solid frame, tough gears and smooth casting, plus enough line capacity for the conditions you fish. The best for night fishing also feature a “clicker” mechanism that gives an audible signal when line is pulled from the reel, thus indicating that a catfish is taking your bait.

Use big needle-sharp hooks for big fish—8/0 or better, with heavy wire construction that won’t bend. For big-cat bait, use fish and nothing but fish. My favorite is a thick chunk of shad, herring or other oily baitfish for blue and channel catfish, and a lively sunfish or bullhead for big flatheads.

Tactics

Fish on bottom, using a sinker heavy enough to carry your bait down. Or use a bobber to float the bait slightly above bottom.

Don’t get antsy; let the bait sit several minutes before moving it. Like kids after fresh-baked cookies, cats smell their treats then track them down.

You can fish from a boat or from shore, as you prefer.

A boat offers more mobility. Bank-bound anglers are limited in the choice of fishing areas. Anglers in boats aren’t. If you’ve been fishing in one spot for a while, and the fishing is unproductive or the bite stops, you can move quickly to another spot. Your range is limited only by the size of your fuel tank.


Unfortunately, boating at night can be hazardous. For that reason, most catfishermen do their night fishing from shore. A campfire is built, the rigs are baited and cast, and the rods are propped on forked sticks or placed in holders. The participants sit and sip coffee while they shoot the breeze. A cat probably will bite sooner or later, and the action starts. But if not, it’s an enjoyable outing anyway. The camaraderie makes it worthwhile.

If the action part of the outing is as important as the aesthetics, be sure to pick a bank fishing site within casting distance of prime catfishing areas. This might be a clearing on shore near the outside bend of a river, a spot under a shady tree beside a farm pond levee or a gravel bar adjacent a deep hole on a small stream. The best areas have flat, brush-free banks where casting is easy, and you don’t have to worry about ticks and snakes crawling up your britches legs.

Place your fishing combo in a rod holder properly set in the ground, put the reel in free-spool, flip on your bait clicker and relax until the action starts. This technique is excellent when targeting trophy catfish that tend to roam in search of prey at night.

As Different as Night and Day

Some folks say you can catch as many catfish during the day as you can at night. And maybe some folks do. I’m not one of them.

My best catch ever came on a dark, moonless night in spring while fishing from a Mississippi River sandbar. In just four hours, a friend and I caught more than 150 catfish—mostly flatheads, a few blues and channels, several over 20 pounds. I’ve had 100 cat nights more times than I can remember.

I catch lots of catfish in the day, too, and nowadays, I must admit, most of my fishing is done when the sun is up. But my best daytime excursions have never equaled my best night-fishing trips.

I still fish at night when time permits. The number of catfish I catch doesn’t really matter, though. I fish at night for reasons that have nothing to do with mathematics.

I go to listen to the whip-poor-wills and owls. I go to smell the freshness of the night air. I go to feel a cool twilight breeze rustling my hair. I go to see the heavens ablaze with countless stars.

Mostly, I go to relax and enjoy some time with friends and family. If we catch a mess of catfish now and then, that’s a bonus. If we don’t, none of us really cares. What’s important is the companionship an after-hours catfishing excursion provides.

The Bass and I

The Bass was my Moby Dick. Like Captain Ahab in Herman Melville’s classic, I was obsessed by her. I was determined to take her, no matter what the cost.

The story begins in my seventeenth year. Like many teenage boys, I was bitten by the bass fishing bug. Bluegills, crappie and bullheads no longer satisfied my youthful desires. Bigger fish were needed. Powerful fish. “Meaningful” fish. And so, I started stalking the local farm ponds for largemouth bass.

I caught a 4-pounder in Pieri’s Pond, but during dozens of visits, nothing larger turned up. Flentje’s Pond had a big one or two. Indeed, I caught a pair one day—a 5-pounder, and one just under 6. But that was the cream of the crop. I widened the scope of my search for a real hawg, a largemouth over 7 pounds, and started asking around about big bass honeyholes.

One day I struck paydirt. One of the elderly statesman who frequented the pool hall told me about a huge bass he’d hung and lost in Pitts’ Pond. “She was a hawg all right. Eight or 10 pounds if she was an ounce. Exploded on my Lucky 13, then wrapped me in a tree and busted me off. Nearly broke my heart when I heard my line snap. She was quite a fish.”

That afternoon I visited the pond for the first time. It didn’t look much different from the dozens of other ponds in the area. The surface area was a couple of acres perhaps, and the water held plenty of standing snags and inundated timber.

On the south end near the levee, a shallow flat broke off into deep water. A big oak, victim of a lightning strike, had toppled off the bank and into the water on the dropoff. That was where I first hooked The Bass.

My favorite lure—a battle-scarred, red-and-yellow Lucky 13—didn’t work. The Bass was wise to that. A purple Jelly Worm, however, almost proved her undoing. I dangled it in her treetop, and she couldn’t resist. The Bass grabbed the lure as it fell, and raced away. When I saw my line moving off, I set the hook and felt solid resistance.

The Bass fought hard, but she never showed herself. The battle had persisted for a minute or so when she did a loop-de-loop ‘round a sunken limb and snapped my line. There was no doubt, however, she was huge. I couldn’t get her out of my mind.

I fished for her every afternoon during the next week, but The Bass refused all offerings. I tried every color of plastic worm imaginable, but they proved untantalizing. Live minnows hooked just right and dangled beneath a bobber couldn’t beguile her. Live crawdads and salamanders didn’t work, nor spinners, jigs, slush baits and eels. The Bass, it seemed, could not be tempted.

Then, on day eight, she struck again. A Crippled Minnow topwater proved irresistible. As it wobbled across the surface, The Bass rose, and I saw her for the first time. Her mouth was as big as a cereal bowl, and when she snatched the lure, I set the hook firmly in her jaw. For a moment, it seemed I might have her. She jumped twice, shaking her massive head like a bulldog shakes a rat, but I kept her out of the treetop. Then, suddenly, she darted to the left and wrapped me on a stump. The line snapped.

We fought several times in the following months, but The Bass won every skirmish. I fished at the pond daily, if only for an hour or so, ignoring all other fish. I wanted her, and her alone. And so I cast to the treetop, time and time again, thousands upon thousands of casts with dozens of lures and baits.

I don’t know the name of the lure I finally caught her on. It was a little chugger, red and white, with a single treble hook on one end. My uncle gave it to me and told me how to work it. “Cast it out, and wiggle it just a little,” he said. “Then let it sit. It’s caught many a big bass for me. Maybe it’ll work for you.”

I cast to the treetop and wiggled the plug. Ripples spread as the lure settled. I let it sit, and watched.

The Bass rose slowly, in clear view beneath the tea-colored water, and inhaled the lure. I was ready. I set the hook as she turned her head back down, and we began our final battle.

She tried the same trick she’d worked on me time and time again—a rush for the tangle of branches in the treetop. But I was prepared for that. I had respooled my reel with 25-pound-test mono so I could hoss her away from her hideout, and hoss her away I did. I waded into the water and made my way down the bank until I had The Bass in open water. She protested, but it was all for nought.

I remember thinking, this is it, this time I’ve got her. Then there she was, lying in the shallows at my feet. The Bass was mine.

Thinking back on it now, she must have weighed at least 10 pounds. But fish like that have a way of growing in our memories. There’s no doubt, however, she was the biggest bass I’ve ever caught, the biggest I’ll ever catch more than likely.

I can’t say for sure how heavy she was, though. Without lifting her, I removed the hook from The Bass’s jaw. Then I turned her head toward the treetop and watched her swim away.

I still have the rod and reel I caught her on, and that red-and-white chugger that proved her undoing. Best of all, I still have the memories.

Call me Ishmael.

Cook the Bait and Let's Eat!

Some folks love eating crawfish; others can’t bring themselves to taste something that looks so much like a bug. It’s been that way for centuries.

Consider this passage from Wild Sports in the Far West, written by Frederick Gerstaecker, a German adventurer, who arrived in Arkansas in 1837 for a five-year visit. In this book about his travels, he describes catching and cooking crawfish on the bank of an Arkansas river.

“The lucky fisherman excited my curiosity,” he said. “I went to see what he was catching, and could hardly believe my eyes when I found that they were crawfish. So long was it since I had tasted them, that they made my mouth water; I soon got my fish-hook to work, and in the course of half an hour Uhl and I with two of the boys had caught half a pailful. The old lady looked at us with astonishment as we seized a saucepan, put in the crawfish with a little salt, filled it up with water, and set it on the fire; they had always thought them only fit for bait. The crawfish soon began to show their red noses, and, when done, we set to work on them. The meal itself was no slight treat, but our enjoyment was much heightened by watching the countenances of the Americans, expressive half of merriment, half of disgust, for they had never dreamt that people could eat such nasty animals with such zeal.”


Among my own experiences eating crawfish, one in particular stands out. My son Josh and I joined our friend Jim Spencer for “the spring crawfish run,” as Jim calls it, in the bottomlands along Arkansas’s lower White River. After motoring a few miles downstream in a johnboat, we tied the craft to some old cypress steps on the river bank, then made our way up and walked to a small oxbow off the beaten path. A bit of water still flowed through the runouts connecting the river and oxbow lake, but in a day or so, as the water continued falling, the connection between river and lake would be severed.

Only days before, the woods around the lake had been inundated beneath 12 to 18 inches of water. As the White River dropped, however, the water was pulled out, leaving behind wet, muddy, leaf-strewn ground. But even now, with the water gone, the ground was hard to see, for thousands upon thousands of crayfish covered the damp earth. You couldn’t step without mashing them beneath your feet—huge rusty-red crustaceans with pincers like Maine lobsters.

“Look, Dad!” Josh screamed in excitement. “They’re everywhere! There must be a million of them!”


We had toted a 100-quart cooler to the lake’s edge, and each of us carried a wire fish basket in which to place our catch. Walking through the woods, we gathered crawfish—adozen here, a dozen there—and when our basket was full, we returned to the cooler and dumped the catch in. Little yelps emanated from the collection crew whenever a crawfish found its mark with those big pincers, but in less than an hour, the cooler was overflowing.

“This is the best of two worlds,” Jim said. “We’ve got catfish bait and dinner, too, all in one cooler.”

The catfish liked the crawfish almost as much as we did. That night, fishing with crawfish tails in the runout between river and lake, each of us caught a dozen or more cats, and before the sun rose, the three of us had polished off more than ten pounds of spicy fresh-boiled crawfish apiece. I decided then and there that catfish, crawdads and bottomland rivers form a minor trinity.

I suppose there are still some folks who think crawfish are only good for fish bait and have yet to discover they’ve been feeding the bait to the wrong party. But experience tells me these folks are in the minority. If you’re as fond of mudbugs as I a,, here are some of my favorite recipes you really ought to try.


Crawfish Étouffée
1/2 cup butter
1/3 cup flour
1 cup chopped onions
1 cup chopped green pepper
1 cup chopped celery
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound peeled crawfish tails
2 cups chicken broth
1/3 cup chopped fresh parsley
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
Cooked rice
Melt the butter in a large heavy pot. Add flour, and stir over medium-low heat until roux is caramel-colored (20 to 30 minutes). Stir constantly.
Add onion, green pepper, celery and garlic. Cook until tender-crisp, three to four minutes. Stir in remaining ingredients, except rice, and simmer 20 minutes. Serve over cooked rice.

Beans & Mudbugs
1 pound dried pinto beans
1 pound cured ham, diced
1 pound fresh uncooked crawfish tails, peeled
1 large onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound smoked sausage, cut in bite-sized pieces
3/4 cup uncooked long-grain rice
Hot sauce to taste
Put beans, ham and crawfish in a crockpot with water to cover, and cook for 8 to 10 hours. In a Dutch oven, sauté the onion, garlic and smoked sausage. When the onions are translucent, transfer the bean mixture from the crockpot to the Dutch oven. Add the rice and simmer until rice is tender.


Cajun Crawfish Boil
25 to 30 pounds live crawfish
2 boxes salt
6 bags crab/crawfish boil
1 small bottle liquid crab boil
6 ears corn, broken in half
6 medium onions, peeled
10 small red potatoes
2 whole garlic cloves
2 lemons, cut in half
4 whole onions
1/3 cup cayenne pepper
Make sure your boiling pot is large enough to hold all the crawfish and enough water to cover them at least two inches. Fill the pot with water. Add everything except crawfish, and bring to a boil. Add crawfish to the pot, let the water come back to a full boil, cover, and allow to boil five to seven minutes. Turn off the fire. Let stand with lid on for 15 to 20 minutes. Drain crawfish and dump onto a newpaper-covered table. Chow down.

Crawfish Pasta
1 pound pasta (your favorite kind)
1 stick butter
3/4 cup chopped green onion
1 pound peeled crawfish tails, pre-cooked
1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning
1 pint half and half or light cream
Precook the pasta. Mix the remaining ingredients in a saucepan and heat until thickened, about 10 minutes. Serve the sauce over the pasta.

Crawfish Creole
2 pounds peeled crawfish tails
1-1/2 cups tomato sauce
1 (6 ounce) can tomato paste
1 can diced tomatoes/green chilies
1 medium onion, chopped
1 medium bell pepper, chopped
2 tablespoon minced garlic
1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning
Cooked rice
Combine all ingredients except crawfish and simmer until vegetables are tender. Add crawfish and simmer 15 minutes. Serve over cooked white rice.


Crawfish Chili
2 pounds lean ground beef
1 teaspoon minced garlic
1 tablespoon soy sauce
3 tablespoons chili powder
1 cup dry white wine
1 teaspoon lime juice
2 pounds peeled crawfish tails
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon cayenne
1 tablespoon dried parsley
1 (8-ounce) can tomato sauce
1 cup water
1 cup chopped onions
Brown the beef in a skillet. Combine the remaining ingredients with the meat in a large pot, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer, covered, for 1 to 2 hours.

Cane Mutiny

At most sporting-goods stores, you can buy all sorts of fancy fishing poles made from all sorts of modern man-made materials. Choose from boron, graphite, fiberglass or composites; long poles, short poles or in-between poles. Some are so tough you can tie a knot in one without breaking it. Some are so sensitive you probably could detect a gnat landing on the tip. Some are so expensive a glance at the price-tag will cause distress.

Next time you visit a tackle shop, ask if you can buy a regular, old-fashioned cane pole. You remember cane poles, don’t you? You know, the kind you used to catch bluegills in farm ponds; those long, slender pieces of bamboo you spread around your boat when trolling for crappie; that flexible, whippy-tipped piece of river-bottom cane you cut and dried yourself and used to snatch shade perch out of the crick when you were a kid.

It’s getting harder to find a retailer who sells cane poles these days. But despite the popularity of high-tech fishing gear, cane poles still find favor with many anglers. Cane poles are sensitive but have all the backbone you need to whip a feisty catfish or bass. Their extra length allows you to fish out-of-the-way hot spots without disturbing fish and provides extra reach for bank fishermen. Best of all, you can still cut and dry your own, a nostalgic adventure that adds an extra measure of fun to the fishing experience, especially for kids. Somehow it’s nice to know you don’t need a lot of expensive gear to catch a mess of fish.


Cane grows in the understory of many bottomland hardwood forests. There are two primary types of native cane: giant cane and switch cane. Giant cane reaches a maximum height of about 30 feet, with an average of 15-20 feet. In 1778, botanist William Bartram recorded giant cane poles in Alabama’s Tombigbee River bottoms 30 to 40 feet high and three to four inches in diameter. Most poles found today rarely exceed two inches in diameter. The maximum height of switch cane is about 10 feet, with a diameter up to about one inch. Both types make excellent fishing poles.

Before cutting poles, obtain permission from the landowner. Then stick a compass in your pocket. Traveling in a canebrake is like walking through a forest of side-by-side fishing poles, and since everything looks the same in all directions, a tract of cane is a likely place in which to get lost. In some brakes, there are 40,000 cane poles per acre, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find a pole that meets your needs.


A saw or a sharp machete is better than an ax for cutting cane. Select green canes of the proper length and diameter. A pole that’s too long or too thick will be unwieldy and heavy, tiring your arm while fishing. A pole that’s too short and skinny could break if you hook a real fighter. Most anglers prefer those an inch to inch-and-a-half in diameter at the butt and 10 to 15 feet long.

Cut each cane at the base, then trim all leaves and stems close to the cane. Leave as much of the slender tip as possible, taking care not to damage it.

At home, saw through the bottom of a joint to square the butt end. Done properly, the butt will be “capped” with the piece of wood that divides the joint; the hollow space inside the cane won’t be visible. Run your hand along the pole and smooth any rough edges you feel with sandpaper or a knife.

Straight canes make the best fishing poles, but unless cured properly, the poles develop a natural bend at the tip when drying. To prevent this, hang the poles upright instead of laying them. Tie cord to each tip, and secure the end to barn rafters or a tree limb so the poles hang vertically slightly above the ground. Curing is complete when the poles take on a tannish hue, a process that usually takes several weeks to a couple of months. (Don’t dry the poles quickly in the hot sun or they’ll split and crack.) Some anglers varnish their cured poles or rub them with tung oil for extra durability.


Before fishing, test each pole by grasping it near the butt and whipping the tip back and forth. If there are any cracks or breaks that weren’t evident before, they’ll show up now, allowing you to cull inferior specimens. The best poles are whippy yet straight near the tip, with a solid inflexible butt.

Some anglers make the mistake of tying line only to the pole’s end. If the tip breaks, the fish escapes. It’s better to run line along the whole length, starting just above the “handle,” where you’ll hold the pole. Tie the line here, then wrap a piece of electrical or duct tape around the tie to secure it. Tape the line at several evenly spaced points along the pole, then wrap several feet around the tip and tie the line off, leaving a length of line beyond the tip that’s a foot or two longer than the length of the pole. When the line is rigged with terminal tackle, you can adjust the length by wrapping or unwrapping it at the tip. Use an overhand knot to tie it off.

A cane pole is great for fishing bream beds in spring. With a 10- to 15-foot model, you can keep your distance to avoid spooking the fish. Rig with a small Carlisle (cricket) hook, a split shot and a small cork, then work shallow-water cover. With a long cane pole, this can be done from the bank or a boat, as you prefer.


Cane poles are inexpensive, so they’re popular with crappie anglers who enjoy “spider trolling.” On waters where it’s legal, it’s not uncommon to see a johnboat with a dozen or more poles set around the transom, lending the appearance of a large spider crossing the water. That’s where the sport gets its unusual name.

The poles, rigged with jigs or live minnows, are secured in rod holders attached to the bow and transom. The angler then drifts or trolls, passing near underwater structure where crappie are likely to be. The poles are usually rigged at different depths until crappie are found. Then each is set at the depth where fish are feeding.

If it’s bass you’re after, try “doodlesocking” with a cane pole. Tie a surface lure to a two- or three-foot section of 20-pound line. Then work the lure around log piles, flooded brush, rip-rap and other cover. The best lures are noisy ones like poppers and propeller plugs. And you want to make as much noise with them as you can. Run the lure back and forth around the same piece of cover several times. You want to make the bass mad enough to blast out of its hole and smack your lure. Strikes are violent. The fishing is extraordinary.

How long has it been since you fished with a cane pole? Try one again this season and go back to a form of fishing where expensive rods and reels take a back seat to nature’s free and simple “bamboo.” Cane poling is a sport no one ever outgrows.