When the River Whispers at Midnight

The thermometer read 87°F even at 11pm when I parked by the old sycamore. My waders stuck to sweat-dampened legs as I rigged my father's vintage fly rod, its cork grip worn smooth from thirty years of smallmouth battles. A barred owl's call echoed through the holler - nature's confirmation that night-bite conditions were perfect.

Moonlight silvered the riffles where Tygart Creek funneled into deeper pools. My first cast sent mayfly imitations dancing across current seams. 'Come on, show yourselves,' I muttered, retrieving line through calloused fingers. Three drifts later, the neon-green butt section of my leader disappeared in a swirl that smelled of freshwater and crushed mint leaves.

Then the skies opened. Not rain, but a squadron of kamikaze June bugs bombarding the water's surface. I fumbled for my beetle pattern when lightning flashed westwards. The sudden illumination revealed dark shapes porpoising near submerged logs - smallmouths feeding like piranhas.

My hands shook threading 5X tippet by headlamp. The custom fly landed with a soft 'plip', immediately engulfed by an explosion that nearly knocked me off the rocky shelf. The fish ran downstream, backing singing off the reel as thunder rumbled in sync with my pounding heartbeat.

At 2:17am, I cradled a bronze-backed beauty still thrashing with wild fury. Its release sent concentric circles fading into the storm-darkened current. Somewhere upstream, another owl called - or maybe it was the river laughing at my drenched clothes and triumphant grin.