When the River Whispered at Dusk

Golden hour painted the Deschutes River in liquid amber. I stood knee-deep in the current, my fly fishing vest heavy with nymph boxes, watching mayflies dance their final ballet. The water felt like chilled champagne through my worn neoprene boots - a sensation that always makes me grin like a kid stepping in puddles.

'One last cast,' I promised myself, though the lie detector in my reel whirred softly. My fly rod traced lazy figure-eights overhead when the line suddenly died. Not the electric jerk of a strike, but the dull resistance of disaster. Heart sinking, I tugged gently - then harder. The 5X tippet held, but something beneath the surface held tighter.

Wading closer, I discovered my emergency hook remover would be useless against the submerged log's iron grip. As I leaned to break off the fly, water rippled where no current flowed. Three ghostly shapes materialized from the depths, their spotted flanks brushing my trapped fly with predatory curiosity.

Time stopped. I crouched until river filled my waders, rod tip trembling as the largest rainbow tilted its head. Its gills flared once... twice... then inhaled my Hare's Ear with the delicacy of a wine connoisseur. The subsequent explosion of silver and spray left me sitting in the current, laughing like a madman with 22 inches of quicksilver thrashing in my net.

Dusk found me still grinning, wet socks squelching rhythmically as I hiked back. The river's secret echoed in every step: sometimes you don't find the fish - the fish find you.