Sometime last summer...

Soon after dragging the kayak ashore I'd gathered driftwood. A lot. Much more than you would need if you were gathering firewood in the forest. Driftwood has a way of burning fiercely yet briefly and it's easy to find yourself with more night left than wood.
Behind me the wooded hillside curved creating a small amphitheater surrounding the bare rocks of a tiny dry rivulet and below that the gravel and sand bar on which I'd made camp. Out in front of camp the river bent in a bend pool with the far side deep and full of possibility.
Camp was nothing fancy. The best ones never are. Shelter was a tarp. The back side of which was bungeed to the kayak while the front edge was fastened about head high to a couple willows to create a lean to. Underneath I'd picked out the larger gravels and dug out a bit of a hollow in the sand in which to nestle the sleeping bag. Unencumbered by the superfluous it was a fine camp. My rod and my pack leaned against a big log that also served as a seat.
Next to the fire  I'd propped a large flat rock up atop two smaller rocks to create a space underneath maybe ten inches to a foot long and four inches in height. When the fire had been going nicely for a while I used a stout stick to rake hot coals into the space filling it. On top of the flat rock two channel catfish fillets wrapped in tin foil baked.
The channel had hit my grub as it swept into a tiny eddy created by the roots of a sycamore tree that had grounded just below a riffle. As the fish baked I watched the moon rise over the hilltop and the play of light from the fire on the leaves of the trees. Here and there lightning bugs blinked on and off and almost out of earshot a barred owl called, "who cooks for you, who cooks for you all".
I was very tired but it was the pleasant tired that comes from physical exertion instead of the soul robbing tired after a long day at work. Using another stick I half drug half coaxed the catfish off the rock and unto a plate. Steam and a delicious smell filled the air as I peeled back the foil and began to eat the fish, thinking of another fish. The fish.
Two logs lay half on the bank half in the water in the tail of a riffle jammed up against several large rocks. This shunted the current towards midstream where it swept around the ends of the logs and the pile of rocks into the house sized pool below. This chute of fast water created a strong line of turbulence and bubbles halfway thru the pool.
I would have had to backtrack a long ways to cross and fish this seam from the other bank, from the correct side. But it had been a long day full of fish so instead I crept along as stealthily as I could on the edge of my side of the pool and made a short underhand pitch. The three inch grub swept downstream on a tight line and then stopped.
I lifted the rod and a grand fish burst skyward. Everything seemed to just stop for a microsecond and the fish just hung there. Hundreds of water droplets backlit by the sun surrounding it like a cloud. Then time caught gear and began moving very fast with me reeling frantically to keep up and keep a bend in the rod. Twice more the fish jumped leaving me with my heart in my throat each time. Then finally after a bit of nervous fumbling I had a thumb in it's mouth and landed the fish. It was a beautiful fish. Not tiger striped like some but instead a buttery mixture of golds and browns with angry red eyes. A fast photo and a tape measure pulled a tad past nineteen and a half and she was back in the river. I worked the fish back and forth a couple times before letting go. A strong swipe of it's tail and it was gone splashing my face and glasses as it went.
The catfish now eaten, I piled a couple driftwood branches on the fire and stretched out on the sleeping bag. By now the moon was high and the lightning bugs and owl long gone. All that was left was the sound of water sliding over smooth stones and all was right in the world...

I'm ready for winter to be over.