When the Logs Came Alive

Three cups of coffee still couldn't shake the chill from my bones as the johnboat sliced through predawn mist. Lake Martin's famous submerged logs lurked beneath the surface like sleeping crocodiles, their moss-covered backs glinting in the flashlight beam. I rigged my trusty braided line with trembling fingers - not from cold, but from that electric feeling every angler knows when the water whispers secrets.

'Should've brought the heavier rod,' I muttered, eyeing the dense timber to my left. First casts landed with pistol-shot precision between the logs. Nothing. As the sun breached the horizon, a bronze shadow flickered beneath a half-sunken sweetgum. My jerkbait hit the water just as a mayfly hatch erupted, creating living raindrops on the mirrored surface.

The strike came vertical. Line screamed off the reel, burning a groove in my thumb. 'Log!' I barked to empty air as 10-pound test sang against submerged bark. Then the 'log' surged sideways, showering me in spray. Twenty minutes later, I cradled a bronze warrior whose tail spanned my forearm. The release felt like returning Excalibur to the lake.

Drifting home, I noticed fresh claw marks on that sweetgum log. The lake always leaves its signature - if we're patient enough to read the scratches.