When the River Sang in Moonlight

Eight thirty-seven by my waterproof watch, the exact moment when twilight surrenders to the dark. My waders whispered against the bank's gravel as I stepped into the Deschutes, breath visible in the sudden chill. A barred owl's call echoed downstream – the river's overture.

Three casts with my favorite streamer, nothing. The fourth snagged on an underwater ghost branch. 'Damn thing's cursed,' I muttered, imagining my fishing partner Chuck's laughter. By the tenth retrieve, even the mayflies seemed bored.

Midnight approached when the water rippled differently – not current's dance, but purpose. My spinning reel hummed as I cast upstream. The strike came halfway through the drift, violent as a slammed door. Twenty yards downstream it leaped, moonlight glinting on rainbow flanks.

We danced for eternity – my aching arms against primal muscle. When I finally cradled the 24-inch steelhead, its gills pulsed like a metronome counting stolen seconds. Released, it vanished like mercury through fingers.

Dawn found me still waist-deep, not casting, just listening. Somewhere downstream, an owl called again. Or was it the river laughing?