When the Ripples Betrayed the Giant

First light painted the Calcasieu River in molten gold when my waders kissed the shallows. I paused to watch mayflies dance above the surface – their fragile wings catching fire in the sunrise. My fluorocarbon line hummed as I false-cast, the rhythm syncopated by bullfrogs croaking from the cypress knees.

Three hours in, my coffee thermos lay empty beside the half-opened tackle box. 'Should've brought the spinnerbait,' I muttered, watching another bluegill steal my craw imitation. The river chuckled as it carried my frustration downstream.

It happened when I switched to a topwater frog – that sudden bulge beneath the lily pads that makes your heart skip. The strike came violent, bending my rod into a question mark. 'Not today, old friend,' I growled through clenched teeth as the beast surged toward submerged logs.

When I finally hoisted the mottled patriarch onto the bank, his girth eclipsed the ruler on my fishing mat. We stared at each other, breathing the same humid air, before he vanished in a swirl of bronze defiance. The river kept flowing, but something in me had anchored.