When the River Whispered at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the mist rising off the Potomac when my waders broke the water's surface. I always fish the third bend after the railroad bridge – the one where soft plastic worms seem to dance better in the current. My thermos of bitter diner coffee sloshed a rhythm with the bullfrogs as I rigged up.

'You're chasing ghosts,' my buddy Mark had scoffed yesterday. But the river's midnight chorus told a different story. My first cast sent a spinnerbait glinting through the gloom. For two hours, only the 'plink' of bluegill nibbles answered.

Then the stars disappeared. The sudden cloudburst turned my polarized lenses into waterfalls. I was reeling in to retreat when my line snapped taut with the electric jolt only big smallmouths deliver. The rod bowed like a question mark, my fingers burning against the braid. Three heartbeats later, the river reclaimed its prize with a mocking splash.

Shivering in the truck at 3AM, I grinned at my fogged windshield. Some defeats taste sweeter than victories.