When the River Glowed Silver

Moonlight pooled on the gunwale as I pushed off from the dock, the aluminum boat clicking with cooling metal. White River's current tugged at my waders like ghost hands. Three casts in, my fluorescent soft bait got rejected by what felt like a freight train - the line went slack before I could set the hook.

'Should've brought heavier line,' I muttered, watching mayflies hatch in the 68-degree water. At midnight's purple hour, the riffle downstream started boiling. Trout rose like champagne bubbles, slashing at caddisflies. My hands shook reloading the iridescent spinner - the one that always worked after thunderstorms.

The strike came during an impatient retrieve. Twenty yards of backing screamed off the reel as the wild rainbow cartwheeled over a submerged log. Rod tip dancing, I waded through waist-deep current that smelled of wet limestone. When my net finally cradled its emerald-flanked beauty, the fish's gills pulsed against my palm like a moth's wings.

Dawn found me sipping thermos coffee, watching my catch dart back into liquid shadows. Somewhere downstream, a great blue heron croaked - nature's slow clap.