When the River Whispered at Midnight

2:17AM showed on my waterproof watch as waders hissed against dewy grass. The Blackfoot River's murmur carried secrets only fly fishing addicts understand. My headlamp caught mayflies dancing like misplaced constellations above riffles where I'd sworn saw a trout rise at sunset.

『Should've brought the 4-weight,』 I muttered, fingers testing the 5-weight line's tension. The chill bit through three layers of clothing as my Adams fly kissed a moonlit eddy. Three casts. Five. Then -

『Slurp!』

Rod tip dove like Excalibur returning to the lake. The rainbow trout breached in silver fury, moonlight glinting on its flanks as it cartwheeled over the current. My reel's drag screamed protest when the fish surged downstream towards logjam danger.

『Not this time,』 I growled, side pressure forcing an U-turn. When net finally cradled 18 inches of wild iridescence, I noticed my trembling knees mirrored the quivering rod. Released fish vanished with a defiant splash that soaked my left lens.

Dawn found me smiling at coffee-steam rising like phantom rises. The river keeps its best stories for those willing to lose track of time...and thermos lids.