When the River Whispered at Dawn

The truck tires crunched over frost-rimed gravel as I pulled into the deserted boat ramp. My breath hung in the air like ghostly spinnerbait lures, the predawn chill biting through my worn flannel shirt. Somewhere in the coffee-stained darkness, smallmouth bass were staging their autumn ambush.

My waders squeaked as I entered the river's embrace, current tugging at my thighs like an impatient child. The first casts sent fluorocarbon line slicing through mist that smelled of decaying leaves and promises. 'Where are you hiding?' I muttered, watching my popper float undisturbed past submerged boulders.

Sunrise painted the riffles gold when it happened - a sudden 'pop' behind my lure that sent heartbeats crashing. The rod doubled over, drag screaming as unseen fury raced downstream. 'Not through the logjam!' I begged, fingernails biting into cork grip. For three breathless minutes, the river played puppeteer with my soul.

When I finally cradled the bronze-backed warrior, its gills flared in protest. The release sent droplets arcing like liquid amber. As numbness crept into my water-whitened fingers, the river's chuckle seemed to say: 'Come back tomorrow, and I'll show you where the big ones dance.'