When the Marsh Comes Alive

Dusk was painting the cypress trees in burnt orange when my waders squelched into the mud. The Everglades' evening chorus - gator bellows and mosquito whines - usually sets my teeth on edge. But tonight felt different. My weedless frog lure bobbed in the tea-stained water as fireflies began their lantern dance.

'One last cast,' I muttered, though the lie tasted familiar. The submerged log I'd been targeting all evening suddenly rippled. Not the lazy swirl of a turtle, but the nervous V-wake only a predator makes. My thumb hovered over the spinning reel's lip, heartbeat syncing with the distant woodpecker taps.

The strike came as twilight surrendered to dark. Line screamed off the reel like a scalded cat. The rod doubled over, tip digging angry circles in the water. For three breathless minutes, the marsh grass whispered secrets I couldn't decipher. When my headlamp finally illuminated the thrashing bronze shape, I laughed at the 40lb fluorocarbon leader stretched nearly transparent.

Unhooking the snook's jaw, I noticed my lucky copper fishing whistle glowing in the moonlight - still hanging untouched around my neck. The fish vanished with a contemptuous tail slap, leaving me knee-deep in water that suddenly felt warmer. Somewhere beyond the sawgrass, an osprey cried twice. Could've been mockery. Could've been approval.