The sludge was part mud, part hay, and a lot of manure. The recent rain germinated the stench of the dirt goulash, which stuck between the fingers of Dirk Dekker, hunched for the past six hours in a dark, lonely field 70 miles west of Toronto, Canada, handpicking nightcrawlers from the mire. His back ached and his knees throbbed nonstop from the squatting, bending, and constant crabbing about. But the sun wouldn’t come up for another hour or two, and there was more money squirming on the topsoil. Most anglers don’t understand that the worms purchased in little cartons from their local tackle shop were plucked one at a time under a shroud of darkness, discomfort, and muck. But live bait doesn’t simply magically appear.