When the River Whispers at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the ripples as my waders sank into the chilly embrace of the Chattahoochee. I'd promised myself this night fishing trip would be different - no checking the time, no frantic lure changes. The cicadas' buzz faded as I stepped onto my secret gravel bar, where smallmouth bass haunted the shadowy eddies.

'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, watching my breath swirl with mist. Three casts with a topwater frog yielded nothing but phantom strikes. The river played its old trick: swirling currents that teased like a half-remembered song.

At 1:17 AM, it happened. My spinning reel screeched as line peeled off like spider silk. The rod doubled over, tip kissing the water. 'Easy now,' I coached myself, though my pulse hammered louder than bullfrogs. For six glorious minutes, the smallmouth danced - tail-walking, diving deep, making my drag sing opera.

When I finally cradled the bronze warrior, its gills pulsed like a live transformer. Release sent it streaking back to the depths, leaving me grinning like a kid who'd caught fireflies. The river's secret? Sometimes you don't find the fish... you let them find you.