One sharp tug on the pull cord of the trusty old Mercury outboard was all it took for the ancient motor to purr to life. Not waiting for instructions from my uncle, I gently shoved the boat clear of the sandbar on Middle Ground Island. The swift current of the Mississippi River caught our 16-foot johnboat and swept it out into the main channel. Using the powerful outboard, my uncle swung the bow of the boat upstream and headed in the direction of our first trotline set.

The makings of a trotline are simple but can be very effective for harvesting catfish from Magnolia State rivers. Photo by Cliff Covington.

John Butler Smith, like all my uncles on my mother's side of the family, was a seasoned trotline catfisherman on the "Father of Waters." I, on the other hand, was a true greenhorn. In fact, this was my first overnight fishing trip on the Big River. Even at the young age of 14, I knew this trip would be a life-changing experience. And I was more than ready for the adventure that lay in store.

"Shine your light over there by that clump of willows!" shouted my uncle over the rumble of the outboard. "See if you can find our flagging!"

The bright beam from my coon hunting light bounced off the muddy water as I slowly scanned the shoreline for the orange and white flagging that marked the location of our first trotline set.

"There it is!" I shouted back. "It's just to the left of that big cottonwood tree on the bank!"

With the skill of a riverboat pilot, my uncle carefully guided the bow of the boat within inches of the willow tree marked with flagging tape before hitting the kill switch on the engine. Holding onto the tree with one hand, I grabbed hold of the white nylon trotline with the other. Instantly, I felt a gentle tug on the line, then another.

"We're going to have some fine catfish fillets for supper tonight," I laughed confidently as I worked my way down the line to the first hook.

"Don't start counting your chickens too soon," my uncle shot back. "You have to get them in the boat first."

We pulled three pan-sized cats off that first trotline and 11 more off our other four line sets before heading back to our campsite.

Back at the sandbar, my two older brothers had pitched our tents, started a campfire, and begun heating a pan of oil for the catfish fillets.

"How did ya'll know that we wouldn't come back empty-handed?" I asked looking at the pan of oil beginning to sizzle on the Coleman stove.

"We figured with all the laughing and carrying on that we were hearing, ya'll had to have caught at least enough for supper," my brother Dwayne replied. "Besides, Uncle Johnny always catches fish!"

In a matter of minutes, we had our first batch of catfish fillets sizzling in the frying pan. And I can tell you from experience, there is something truly special about fresh catfish that is fried up on the banks of the water that produced them.

While my first river catfishing trip took place over three decades ago, I still feel the same sense of adventure and excitement each time I venture out onto the Big Muddy. It's like my good friend, Sydney Montgomery, who grew up fishing the Mississippi River, once said, "If a man doesn't like catfishing, then there's something wrong with him. He just ain't right!"