When the Reel Sang at Dawn

3:47 AM. The dashboard clock's glow revealed frost patterns creeping across my truck windows. I rubbed calloused fingers over the 纺车轮 in my lap - this Shimano had survived three seasons, its bearings humming stories of every trophy that got away.

Lake George's boat ramp groaned under my waders. Moonlight silvered the lily pads where smallmouth bass were supposed to be staging. My first cast sent a 软饵 gliding between submerged timber. Nothing. By the fifth retrieve, coffee sourness climbed my throat.

'Maybe the front's pushing them deeper,' I muttered, squinting at still water. That's when the thermos slipped. Hot liquid seared my thigh as the stainless steel cylinder plunged overboard. I lunged, rod tip kissing the surface - and saw the V-shaped ripple approaching my floating thermos.

The strike bent my rod into a question mark. Drag screamed like a tea kettle as line peeled off. 'Not this time,' I growled, thumb pressing the spool. For twelve heartbeats, man and fish danced across reflected constellations. When nets finally lifted 4 pounds of bronze fury, dawn's first light gilded its flanks.

Driving home, I smiled at the thermos dent. Some days, the fish don't care about perfect presentations - they just want to play.