When the River Whispers Secrets
Three a.m. moonlight pooled in my thermos of coffee as the truck tires crunched over gravel. The White River's fog clung to my waders like cold breath, carrying that damp moss scent that always makes my tackle box feel lighter. By the third cast, my fingers memorized the braille of braided line—smooth, then jerky, then nothing.
'Should've brought the damn bug spray,' I muttered when mayflies began dive-bombing my headlamp. My trusted spinnerbait kept snagging on phantom branches, each retrieve louder than a dinner bell. Dawn blushed pink when it happened—a guttural *pop* near the undercut bank. The water didn't ripple. It rippled.
Rod butt pressed against my sternum, I sent the lure whispering across current. The strike didn't tug—it yanked my soul forward. Twenty yards downstream, the smallmouth breached in a shower of liquid diamonds, its tailwalk echoing off canyon walls. When I finally scooped her into the net, rainbow scales stuck to my shaking palms like stardust.
Driving home, I kept checking the rearview—half expecting to see the river winking beneath the morning traffic.
