Dawn's Deception: When Hardbaits Outsmart the Skeptic

Three espresso shots sloshed in my gut as the bass boat sliced through pre-dawn mist smelling of wet pennies. My lucky spinnerbait rattled in the tackle box like a prisoner – Hank still owes me twenty bucks for losing its twin to Bandy's midnight heist. 'Focus, Jack,' I muttered, thumbing the braided line's abrasive kiss against my callus. The lake breathed cold through my flannel, its surface smoother than Hank's poker face after a royal flush.

First cast sailed a crankbait deep into the gloom. The 'clack-clack' of diving lips echoed like a metronome. 'Too mechanical?' I imagined the bass yawning. Switch to jerkbait made my wrist ache – five twitches, pause...nothing. 'They're sulking like Hank after last night's trout bet,' I told a curious loon, its red eyes judging my fading confidence.

Sunlight stabbed through clouds just as my swimbait plopped near submerged timber. The line jumped alive before sinking – not weeds. 'This ain't no bluegill, folks!' The drag screamed like a banshee as a bronze shadow boiled the surface. Two heartbeats later, Bandy's beady eyes watched from shore as I lipped a 4-pounder, its gills flaring like angry accordions. 'Told ya hardbaits don't lie,' I crowed to the empty boat, spitting out a scale that tasted of victory and lake water.