When the River Glowed Amber

The last rays of sun were dripping honey over the Wisconsin River when my waders hit the water. I'd promised myself to quit after the mayfly hatch ended, but the way those smallmouth bass were dimpling the surface last week... well, some promises are made to be broken.

My spinnerbait landed with a kiss beside a half-submerged log. Three retrieves. Nothing. The fourth cast sent a bluegill darting sideways - that telltale flinch when predators are near. My thumb brushed the braided line, feeling for vibrations through the fluorocarbon leader.

'Should've brought the heavier rod,' I muttered as a shadow the size of my forearm engulfed the lure. The rod doubled over like a question mark. Drag screamed. For five glorious minutes, the river became a chessboard - yield here, reclaim there. When I finally cradled the smallmouth's golden flanks, its gills pulsed against my palm like a stolen heartbeat.

Twilight faded to star map. Somewhere downstream, a beaver slapped its tail in disapproval. I released the fish, watching it vanish into water now black as spilled ink. The river keeps its secrets best in darkness.