When the River Whispers at Midnight

Moonlight silvered the Deschutes River as my waders kissed the 48°F water. That familiar chill crawled up my spine – not from cold, but anticipation. My grandfather's battered fly box clinked in my vest pocket, its 夜光拟饵 glowing like witch's teeth in the gloom.

'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, watching my breath dance with midges above the riffle. The third cast landed perfectly, 编织钓线 singing through guides as it drifted. Then nothing. For hours.

When the osprey cried at 2:17AM, I nearly jumped into the current. That's when I noticed the dimpling rise forms upstream – not the splashy takes of dinks, but the polite sips of something wiser.

My hands shook rigging the tandem nymphs. The strike came as I blinked sleep from my eyes – rod doubling over like a question mark. Twenty yards downstream, the beast porpoised, showering me in liquid mercury. Reel drag screamed protest as I stumbled over slick rocks, heart drumming louder than the rapids.

At waterside, I cradled the 24-inch rainbow, its flanks reflecting constellations. 'You're somebody's ghost,' I whispered, watching it vanish into the black mirror. The river gurgled its ancient secret – sometimes the catch isn't in the net, but in learning to listen between the casts.