When the River Whispers at Dusk

Mosquitoes hummed their twilight hymn as I waded into the Fox River's embrace, the cool current tugging at my waders like a persistent child. My grandfather's tarnished 钓钩 hung from my vest - the same one that landed his legendary 22-inch brown trout in '73.

'Should've brought the 8-pound test,' I muttered, watching mayflies dance above riffles that glittered like shattered champagne flutes. Three hours in, my 软饵 had only attracted curious bluegills. The river played its old trick - showing just enough promise to keep me prisoner.

Then came the whisper. Not with my ears, but through the 8-foot graphite rod vibrating like a tuning fork. Line hissed through guides as the beast ran downstream, peeling backing in seconds. Knees bent against the current's pull, I smelled wet stone and adrenaline.

When moonlight finally revealed the steelhead's lavender flank, its tail sent water diamonds cascading over my wristwatch. The hands read 8:47pm - precisely when Grandad always said rivers remember their keepers.