As I’ve said, when you’re set up on a good hole that hasn’t been heavily fished, it’s unusual not to get action during the first hour after dark. That usually is a hot time for flatheads, too, so I usually also have a livebait such as a lively bullhead set out for flatheads. If nothing’s happening during the first hour into the second, chances are it’s going to be a long night. Sometimes I just take a three-hour snooze by the fire through the middle of the night, in order to be ready for the peak period that usually begins about the time light begins to crack the eastern horizon.

By this time, your baits having been set for several hours, it’s time to freshen them, then stir the fire and make coffee. I’ve often gone an entire night without any serious fish, only to get into a few nice ones just before dawn. If they don’t bite then, chances are you’re on a real bummer of a hole, at least until the water rises again and cats have a chance to move back in. This pattern continues into early October in the North Country, and well into early November in parts farther south.

Fishing after dark, in my estimation, only modestly increases the odds of catching larger channel cats, and then only in a few predictable situations. Still, those situations are an important part of the game, especially if you have access to rivers and perhaps reservoirs where flatheads dominate. Don’t expect to catch many channel cats in those waters, but the ones you catch likely will be good ones.

Reasons for fishing at night go well beyond the slightly improved chances it provides for taking larger channel cats. Our ancient ancestors ended each day sitting around a campfire. You can almost feel the vibrations across the ages as you consider the stars, the night sounds, the catfish, and have a chance to cross paths with critters the likes of old Bojangles, and characters the likes of Zacker and Toad Smith.

Bojangles, I have to tell you, was the next morning looking the worse for wear. The old boy was still snoozing sprawled on his side, tail pointed south, legs headed east, as I began to poke the fire. “Maybe he’s dead?” Toad wondered, as he looked out from his bag. Then a leg twitched, his head raised, and the old boy righted himself. “Just hung over,” Zacker said. Such a sad-looking raccoon. Face still matted with chocolate and sand, he began a long slow shaky walk down the sandbar, tail no longer raised jauntily, but dragging in the sand.

“Probably never eat another piece of chocolate cake,” Toad said.

“Been there, done that, lesson learned,” Zacker said.

Only on a sandbar in the wilderness with these guys, I said to myself. Oh my, it was always hard to tell what another day would bring.