When Dawn Bit Back

3:17AM smelled like coffee grounds and diesel fumes. My thermos clinked against the spinning reel as I backed the truck down the boat ramp, headlights cutting through mist that clung like cobwebs. Lake Martin's bass were supposed to be tearing through shad schools at first light - at least that's what the fishing forum promised.

The channel markers wobbled in my flashlight beam as I rigged up. My lucky bluegill-patterned soft plastic felt tacky from last week's sunscreen mishap. 'Should've rinsed this better,' I muttered, casting toward a half-submerged cypress knee. The lure plopped with a sound like a frog belly-flopping.

By 5:30AM, I'd perfected the art of catching leaves. Every retrieve brought back oak seedlings hugging my jighead. A gator's rumble echoed across the slough, sending concentric rings through my disappointment.

Then - subtle as a haiku - the lily pads rippled northwest. Not the wind's doing. My next cast landed soft as dandelion fluff. The line twitched once... twice... before screaming sideways. Drag whined like a teakettle as 8lbs of fury dove into root mass. Rod bent double, I waded through knee-deep muck singing 'Georgia on My Mind' to calm my shaking hands.

When I finally lipped the bronze-backed beast, dawn broke proper. Its gills flared crimson against the orange sky before slipping back into the tannin-stained water. My waders squelched all the way back to shore, heavy with swamp muck and the sweet ache of earned luck.