When the River Whispered at Dusk

The air still smelled of ozone when I waded into the Baptiste River, my waders crunching on storm-washed gravel. Three hours earlier, lightning had split the sky above these Montana waters. Now the fading light turned rainbow trout into liquid mercury beneath the surface. I touched the olive woolly bugger in my vest pocket - my grandmother's last Christmas gift to me, its feathers worn smooth from a hundred casts.

'Just till the bats come out,' I promised myself, watching mayflies perform their evening ballet. Three drifts yielded nothing but refusals. Then came the subtle 'pop' only seasoned anglers recognize - not a strike, but a trout rising downstream where the current kissed a submerged log.

Kneeling in the shallows, I false-cast upstream until the line whispered through my fingers. The fly landed softer than dandelion fluff. Two heartbeats. Three. The world disappeared in the silver explosion that followed.

Ten minutes later, breath fogging the cool air, I cradled a 20-inch cutbow hybrid. Its crimson stripe glowed like neon against the twilight. As I released my prize, a whip-poor-will's call echoed through the canyon - nature's standing ovation.