When the River Whispered at Dusk

The thermometer read 68°F when I dipped my hand in the Chickahominy, watercooler-cold compared to the muggy Virginia air. Mosquitoes hummed their sunset serenade as I rigged my spinnerbait, the metallic blades catching the last amber streaks of daylight. 'Tonight's the night,' I whispered to the battered frog decal on my tackle box - my seventeen-year-old good luck charm.

By moonrise, the rhythm became hypnotic: cast, retrieve, repeat. A barred owl's call answered the whir of my spinning reel. Then came the slap. Not the satisfying thump of a bass strike, but the sickening 'plink' of monofilament line snapping mid-cast. My lucky lure sailed into darkness as I stood frozen, watching ripples merge with star reflections.

But the river had other plans. Switching to a backup rod, I felt the line twitch during a lethargic retrieve. The surface erupted in a silver geyser as something massive breached. For three breathless minutes, the drag screamed like a tea kettle while fireflies traced neon arcs around our duel. When I finally glimpsed my opponent - a chain pickerel longer than my forearm - its emerald flanks shimmered like liquid jade.

Releasing the fish felt like returning stolen moonlight. As its wake dissolved downstream, I realized the owl had stopped calling. Or maybe I'd finally learned to listen.