When Darkness Gives You Bass

Moonlight rippled across the reservoir like shattered mercury. My fluorocarbon line glowed faintly as I cast toward the flooded timber, the 3/8 oz jig making a satisfying plop that sent bullfrogs leaping from lily pads. September nights in Kentucky smelled of decaying algae and promise.

'You're nuts,' my buddy Jeff had scoffed when I proposed night fishing. 'Bass don't bite after sunset.' But the water temperature gauge read 68°F - perfect for smallmouth roaming shallow rock beds.

Two hours. Three missed strikes. My coffee thermos emptied as constellations wheeled overhead. Just as I considered switching to a topwater frog, the line jumped alive with electric urgency. Drag screamed like a banshee as something powerful zigzagged between submerged boulders.

'Easy girl,' I whispered, thumbing the spool, heart hammering against my waders. The smallmouth breached in a silver explosion, moonlight glinting off its bronze flanks. My scale later read 4lbs 9oz - not a monster, but warriors aren't measured in ounces.

Driving home with muddy boots propped on the dashboard, I chuckled at Jeff's text: 'Still think night fishing's dumb?' The headlights illuminated a lone raccoon washing its paws by the roadside. We both knew the answer.