The author put together this fine stringer of fat channel catfish in just a couple of hours spent exploring a Kansas stream no wider than an average highway. Photo by Marc Murrell.

Catfish don't seem to get their due respect in Kansas, or anywhere else in the country for that matter. I mean, really: You don't see catfishermen with their own television shows fishing out of shiny new $50,000 boats, complete with all the glamour and glitz. That's mainly because fishing for cats doesn't require gear or tackle the average angler can't afford, and the fish can be tricked with bait that could make a skunk gag. Catfish aren't particularly attractive, and their dining habits are a big step below those of the finicky largemouth bass.

But despite all that, catfish remain one of the most sought-after species among Kansas' anglers. And if you're looking to find a mess of them in the month of July, you need to look no farther than the nearest small stream, creek or river.

Kansas has thousands of miles of moving water -- from small no-name streams to the mighty Missouri River and everything in between. Hungry channel catfish can be found in most any of them, and catching them is often just a matter of getting out and trying it. Such was the case last summer on a memorable Fourth of July morning near my home in south-central Kansas.

My plans on that trip were to beat the near-100-degree temperatures by heading to the woods at legal shooting light for a quick squirrel hunt. I reasoned that it wouldn't take long to shoot a limit of squirrels and then head down to a small creek to catch some catfish.

I walked into the timber shortly after 6 a.m. and started calling. On the fourth stop, I hit the distress call, and immediately had a fox squirrel sound off and come running. Tree to tree he hopped, stopping only 20 yards above me. A shot from my .22 and he tumbled to the ground.

My next calling stop in the woods got an immediate response. I slipped through the timber, only to discover that the squirrel was on the other side of the creek. However, I could see him plainly at the top of the tallest tree and there was a set of riffles I could cross to get to him. It was one of the longest shots I've ever made on a squirrel, and I was quite proud of myself when he fell out of the tree.

I bagged another squirrel on the next stop, and, as I picked him up, I thought that if I managed to catch some catfish, the resulting dinner would be a redneck version of surf-'n'-turf. Granted, it's a stretch to compare squirrel to steak and catfish to lobster, but it still sounds pretty good -- and you get to kill it and catch it yourself.

I moved to the last place in which I'd call. An immediate response to my distress call yielded a quick shot, and squirrel No. 4 was on the ground. I started using the bark call and got another squirrel fired up; I readied my rifle, but squirrel fever got me, and I missed. But he made the fatal mistake of pausing during his escape; I rarely miss twice. A quick glance at my watch and a five-squirrel limit was in hand at 7:30 a.m.

My rodents bagged, I swapped my .22 and squirrel calls for a fishing rod and a bucket of Danny King's Catfish Punch Bait. I'd had the bait for a couple of months, and I was eager to give it a try. It had been sitting on a shelf in my garage, and I could tell it was good, as the lid had swollen to the point that I thought it might explode. I decided to relieve the pressure the day prior and my twin 7-year-old boys happened to be downwind.

"Ohhh, Dad!" they hollered, gagging and pinching their noses.

Anything that smells that bad and strong has to be good catfish bait -- and it was, too. Past trips to the same creek had yielded decent results with other dip-type baits and even globs of night crawlers. But I discovered that this bait worked, and right away. I fished the first two holes with no luck. Then I pitched a glob of Danny King's on a No. 4 treble hook into the third pool; within seconds I saw my line jump, and I felt a hit. I set the hook and felt the twisting pull of a fat 2 1/2-pound channel cat.

I headed to the next bend in the creek and pitched my bait near a brushpile. Within seconds I felt a thump and watched my line take off. I buried the hook but now felt more resistance. The 4 1/2-pound fish headed downstream, but after several minutes of fighting I finally beached him at my feet. Another toss to the same spot yielded instant gratification in the form of a 2-pound channel cat.

The results were the same at the next hole, except that I missed the fish on the first hookset. Dunking my treble hook again and pulling out a wad of the smelly goop, I threw to the same spot and got slammed before my offering even hit bottom; a short time later, a fat 4-pound fish lay flopping at my feet. Although I could have stayed a bit longer and tried for more, these four fish were plenty to complete the redneck surf-'n'-turf.

This catfishing scenario could have taken place in thousands of locations across Kansas. Access is the key as many streams and rivers are privately owned. Oftentimes, a polite request to a landowner for fishing privileges is all that is necessary. And if you offer to share your catch with the landowner, cleaned of course, it might pave the way for future trips.