When the River Whispered Back

First light painted the mist in pearlescent hues as I waded into the Clark Fork River. The chill bit through my waders, but the rhythmic gurgle of current around my thighs promised rainbow trout. My grandfather's lucky hat – sweat-stained and frayed – sat low over eyes still heavy with sleep.

Three hours in, my 纺车轮 seized mid-cast. 'Perfect,' I muttered, watching my Adams fly dangle uselessly six feet upstream. That's when I saw them – fresh bear prints pressed into the mudbank, each claw mark distinct as piano keys. The hair on my neck rose in unison with the morning sun.

Rewinding the tangled line, I noticed unnatural ripples downstream. A shadow darted beneath an undercut bank. Three casts later, my rod arched violently. The trout surged toward rapids, 4磅尼龙线 singing like a teakettle. For six breathless minutes, river and fish and man became one coiled tension.

As I released the 18-inch beauty, a twig snapped in the cottonwoods. Maybe it was the bear. Maybe the river itself, reminding us all who truly owns these waters.