When Bass Strike at Devil's Hour

3:17AM glowed on my luminescent fishing watch when the first droplet hit my neck. Lake Fork's notorious fog clung to the water like ghostly fingers as I rigged my Texas rig, the scent of nightcrawlers mixing with damp moss in the chilly air. My thermos of black coffee trembled slightly - not from cold, but the memory of last week's trophy bass that snapped my 20lb fluorocarbon like dental floss.

The first cast sliced through mist with a satisfying plop. By sunrise, my arms burned from repetitive casting yet my livewell remained empty. 'Maybe the Mayfly hatch messed with their feeding pattern,' I muttered, watching a dragonfly skitter across my line. Just as I reached for my lucky frog lure, concentric rings erupted near submerged timber.

Adrenaline surged as I sent my bait sailing. The spinning reel hissed like an angry cat when the strike came. For three breathless minutes, the monster bass danced between stumps, my rod tip painting frantic circles. When I finally lipped the 8-pounder, its emerald scales glimmered with dawn's first light - and my left boot squelched from stepping in last night's forgotten minnow bucket.

As shadows retreated across the lake, I realized night's last whispers often hold dawn's loudest truths.