Catfish Crackdown
Two a.m. at the spillway, water runnin' low
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Catfish Crackdown
Two in the morning at the spillway and the water is low enough to read the trotlines by. A kerosene lantern comes bobbing down the bank, a jon boat sits tied off where nobody ties off a jon boat, and the stringer going into the shallows is already longer than the law likes. Douglas sparks up on the gravel ramp while Dakota sweeps the mud with a flashlight, and the man at the water sets the stringer down. He isn't in it for the money: Friday's church fish fry is forty catfish short and the fryer is already cold. By sunrise the cooler is full, the jon boat is tied to the van's bumper, and there is a line of paper plates waiting.
Fuzzy guitars, a swampy strut and a raspy lead trade off with a loose two-voice gang shout made for yelling the chorus from a tailgate. The bridge drops to one guitar, a boot stomp and handclaps while the count gets done, and the last chorus comes back bigger than the first. Put it on for a late-night drive, a slow night in the shop, or a run to the lake that starts a little after midnight.
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