When the River Came Alive

My paddle sliced through mist so thick it felt like rowing through cotton candy. Somewhere beyond the gray curtain, smallmouth bass were staging their annual breakfast banquet. I'd been tracking the mayfly hatch for weeks, timing this pre-dawn canoe trip like a nervous concert pianist.

'Should've brought the heavier rod,' I muttered as the canoe scraped gravel. The rasping sound sent two beavers slapping their tails in disapproval. By first light, my frog lure had already been mugged by three overenthusiastic bluegills.

Sunlight hit the water just as the mayflies began their suicidal dance. The river's surface boiled bronze. My next cast landed behind a boulder shaped like Eisenhower's profile. The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands.

Twenty yards downstream, the smallmouth breached in a shower of amber droplets. Its gills flared like Venetian blinds in a hurricane. The drag screamed as it dove under the canoe, making the aluminum hull sing like a Tibetan singing bowl.

When I finally lipped the fighter, mayfly wings stuck to my sunscreened arms. The fish's marble eyes seemed to say: 'You're late to the party.' I watched it vanish into the coffee-colored depths, leaving my hands smelling of river moss and rebellion.