When the River Whispers at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the mist rising from the Deschutes River when my waders first kissed the water. I'd promised myself this would be the night I finally outsmarted those elusive steelhead – the freshwater ghosts that haunted my dreams since moving to Oregon.

'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered as October's bite crept through my flannel shirt. My 9-foot rod cast a spear-like shadow on the boulders, the glow-in-the-dark jig disappearing with a barely audible plink. For forty-seven minutes exactly (I counted), the only action came from a curious beaver slapping its tail in disapproval.

Then it happened – that electric twitch transmitted through braided line to fingertips raw from cold. The rod arched like a question mark as something primordial surged downstream. 'Not this time,' I growled through clenched teeth, thumb pressing the spinning reel's edge until I smelled burning ceramic.

When the chrome-flashed titan finally came ashore, its gills pulsing in the headlamp's halo, I noticed the scar – a pale crescent across its flank, same as the one I'd released opening day. The river chuckled as I knelt to return its warrior, my trembling hands baptized in liquid moonlight.