When the Moonlight Revealed the Ripples

My waders made that familiar squelching sound as I stepped into the shallows of Lake Chelan. Midnight air carried the tang of pine resin and something metallic - a storm brewing behind the Olympics. The spinning reel felt colder than usual in my palm, its clicker set loose for silent operation. Three casts in, my chartreuse popper got ambushed by what felt like a freight train.

'That's no smallmouth,' I whispered to the darkness, rod tip quivering as the unseen fighter surged toward submerged timber. My thumb burned against the braided line, smelling faintly of saltwater despite being two states inland. When the headshake came - three violent jerks followed by eerie stillness - I knew this dance could end two ways.

The moon chose that moment to rip through clouds. Silver light revealed V-wakes converging on my position. My laughter startled a heron into flight. 'You brought friends,' I told the thrashing shadow beneath my boots, reaching for the jaw grippers with adrenaline-numbed fingers. The smallmouth's crimson gills pulsed like emergency flares in the moonglow, its defiance melting into resignation halfway through the hero shots.

Driving home with empty coolers and full memory cards, I kept glancing at the passenger seat. My trusty tackle box sat slightly ajar, moonlight glinting off the single scale stuck to its hinge - a pearlescent reminder that sometimes, the trophy is the story itself.