When the River Whispers at Midnight

Mosquito repellent mingled with the damp earth scent as I waded into the shallows. My headlamp caught a thousand silver dashes - shad fleeing from something bigger. The football jig felt heavier than usual in the moonless dark, its silicone skirt brushing my wrist like ghost fingers.

'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, shivering as November wind knife through my waders. The third cast snagged on submerged timber. While wrestling free, water splashed my cheek - not from my movements. Something bronze-colored broke surface downstream.

Two hours of fruitless casting later, the owl-shaped pocket watch my daughter gave me glowed 2:17AM. As I turned toward shore, the rod nearly leapt from my grip. Line screamed off the reel in staccato bursts. 'Not snagging this time,' I wheezed, thumbing the spool until it burned.

When the 42-pound flathead finally rolled onto the bank, its barbels quivered in my headlamp beam. The prehistoric creature carried three separate hooks in its jaw - trophies from anglers past. I removed mine carefully, watching it vanish into ink-black waters with a tail slap that sprayed my boots.

Driving home, I kept tasting river mist and smelling that peculiar musk hybrids leave on your hands - the kind no soap washes away.