When the River Whispered at First Light

The pickup truck's dashboard read 4:17 AM when I tasted that first hint of iron-cold air slicing through my coffee steam. White River's roar echoed in the darkness ahead as I rigged my fly rod, fingers fumbling with the 5X tippet. 'They'll be rising for caddisflies at daybreak,' I muttered to the thermos, rehearsing the guide's advice like a prayer.

Wading into the current felt like stepping into liquid mercury. My first three drifts were clumsy, the elk hair caddis skipping like a stone. Across the bank, an old-timer in hip waders nodded knowingly as my line tangled in the willows. 'Should've stayed in bed,' I growled, recoiling at the river's mocking chuckle beneath my waders.

Then came the miracle - a sudden dimple upstream where the current kissed a submerged boulder. Three casts later, the streamer disappeared in a silver flash. The rod arched like a crescent moon, drag screaming as 18 inches of wild rainbow trout cartwheeled over rifleman's riffles. For six breathless minutes, the world narrowed to singing line and pounding heartbeat.

When I finally cradled the spotted warrior, its flanks shimmering like mercury in dawn's first light, the river's whisper came clear: 'Never threaten to leave me again.' The old-timer's wink as he moved upstream said he'd heard it too.