When the River Whispers Secrets

Moonlight still clung to the pine trees when I pulled into the gravel parking lot. The Deschutes River murmured promises of steelhead, its currents glinting like smashed mercury under the predawn sky. I tightened the laces on my wading boots – the same pair that had slipped on mossy rocks last season – and touched the lucky spinnerbait in my vest pocket, its paint chipped from a hundred casts.

First light revealed suspiciously calm pools. 'Where are you hiding?' I muttered, watching my fluorocarbon line slice through fog that smelled of wet stone and dead leaves. Three hours passed with only nibbles. My coffee thermos echoed hollowly when shaken.

The splash came at high noon – an absurd time for steelhead. Something silver shattered the water's surface twenty feet upstream. Heart hammering, I waded through currents tugging at my thighs like impatient children. The spinnerbait landed with a slap. Two twitches. Then the rod arched so violently my reel handle bruised my palm.

Later, examining the sea-lice still clinging to my 14-pound prize, I noticed trembling hands weren't from cold. The river's chuckle followed me home, carrying secrets only fish and fools understand.