When the River Whispers Secrets

Three cups of coffee still couldn't warm my fingers as I launched the kayak into the misty Susquehanna. The rubber handle of my spinning reel stuck to my palm, its familiar grip offering more comfort than the steaming thermos. By the sixth cast, the chartreuse soft plastic had collected more algae than attention.

'Should've brought the jerkbaits,' I muttered, watching a mayfly hatch turn the water surface into a silver dance floor. That's when I noticed the concentric rings near submerged timber - too rhythmic for feeding trout. My next cast landed softer than a dandelion seed.

The strike pulled me halfway over the gunwale. Twenty-pound braid sang through the guides as the smallmouth launched itself airborne, sunlight glinting off its bronze flank like pirate's treasure. For three heartbeats we stared at each other, my reflection warping in its panicked eye before the headshake spit the hook.

I sat laughing like a fool, river water dripping from my sleeves. Sometimes the fish you remember longest never touch your net.