Doug Stange, In-Fisherman Editor In Chief: A small fire is the center of the universe as darkness falls and anglers like you and me sit silently, patiently, on a sandbar opposite a big riverbend hole, listening for a reel clicker to call out evidence of a whiskered intruder. Some nights the action begins at dark and continues for hours. Occasionally, the action peaks late at night, while at other times it never begins and the night is tempered by no more than a fish here and there. A final short round of action is typical, if not guaranteed, during those hours before sunrise, the increasing light apparently signaling a last chance to feed before another day dawns bright and hot.

Lots of you have asked, so I thought I’d take time to answer: Fishing at night has for me never been a consistent connection to larger channel cats, even during the hottest portion of summer. Occasionally, yes. Most times, no. So after more than 30 years of spending hundreds of nights on the prowl, I believe that no overwhelming big-fish pattern prevails. A minor pattern here. A minor pattern there. Just depends. Fishing at night is, however, good enough to be worthy of note. And even if it weren’t, I’d still do it just for the excitement and the chance to share a campfire with friends.

Now, I know a few of you like a little story with your catfishin’, particularly if it includes my old buddies Zacker and Toad. Well, one night we’d had ourselves a big ol’ midnight feast of cold Kentucky Fried, and the bone piles built up pretty good here and there around our campsite on a sandbar. Feeling fat and sassy, we all settled in for a snooze before morning light broke.

Round about first light I heard rustling in camp, peeked out of my sleeping bag, and there was a big ol’ raccoon, butt toward me, tail waving high in the air, not 10 feet away, digging in one of the bone piles. A big dominant male he was, with a set of bojangles like an old Hereford bull; so it wasn’t any surprise that when I tried to shush him out of camp, he would have none of it—would just turn, bare his teeth and hiss. He was diggin’ those chicken bones, doing the breakfast shuffle, counting his blessings, such as they were.

Soon enough everyone was awake and watching this old boy chewing bones. Funny thing was he’d get grease on his paws—even his feet—and sand would stick to them when he walked. Annoyed, he’d stop and then stick way out and up, toes pointing straight as arrows, first one back leg, then the other, and would try to kick off the sand by doing a pathetic three-legged dance—all the while his tail, big butt, and those old bojangles shaking left-right, up-down. Well, we all got to laughing so hard Zacker finally had to get up and water the bushes, or else.

We fished the next day and didn’t think much about our buddy Bojangles until we set camp on the same sandbar that night. Now Zacker always carried a pint XXX bottle with him for his arthritis. So just after midnight, Zacker sets this trap—three big yummy-looking chocolate brownies, frosting and all, laced with two sturdy shots of his Russian XXX, mixed neatly in a coffee can set 30 feet away on the sandbar.

Well, it didn’t take two hours for that old beggar Bojangles to hit camp. We all awoke to a ruckus and a mournful whoOOO-chip-chip-chip, whoOOOoo-chip-chip, which I guess is coon talk for, “How dry I am,” or maybe, “The last word in lonesome is me.” As we peeked out from our bags, Zacker shined a flashlight toward the ruckus. Bojangles was sitting flat on his butt, tail sticking out at an odd angle between his legs, fur all messed up with chocolate frosting along one side of his face, the can held tight between his paws and legs. His eyes shining in the light, his head would nod a little left and then nod back a little right. WhooOOOooo-chip-chip-chip. Have you ever seen a raccoon grin?

Finally, ol’ Bojangles stumbled down to the water, intent on swimming the river. He started, then hit the first part of the current, which turned him, and he swam in a circle, hitting the shoreline just about where he started. He stood there for a moment, a little wobbly, considering this odd turn of events: “But I just left here a moment ago.” After two more tries, exhausted by his circuitous activities, he just flopped himself down on the sandbar and went to sleep. Ever heard a raccoon snore?