When Dawn Breaks and Lines Sing

3:17AM. My thermos of tar-black coffee vibrated against the jerkbait box as the truck bounced down the familiar gravel road. The air smelled of wet limestone and impending trouble - Bandy's trash panda gang had been particularly bold this week. My lucky copper spinner (tarnished since '09) clinked against the dashboard like a metronome counting down to first light.

'Switch to fluorocarbon yet?' Hank's gravelly voice crackled through the Bluetooth earpiece. I eyed the spool of fluorocarbon line glowing moon-white on the passenger seat. 'Still married to my braid,' I lied, fingering the fresh bird's nest tangle from yesterday's walleye disaster.

The lake greeted us with skin-prickling stillness. My first cast sent concentric rings rippling across ink-black water. Twitch-pause-twitch. The jerkbait's erratic dance should've triggered explosive strikes. Instead, my line went slack as disappointment. 'They're sulking deeper,' I muttered, stripping off my windbreaker as the sun bullied through cloud cover.

Noon found us nursing lukewarm beers and bruised egos. That's when the drag screamed. Not the staccato taps of panfish, but the soul-stirring ZZZZZZZZ! of something primordial. The rod arched like Excalibur being pulled from stone. 'Steer him left!' Hank barked, nearly capsizing the canoe in his excitement. For seventeen glorious seconds, man and beast spoke through taut monofilament...until the line went dead.

Folks, that phantom fish still haunts my dreams. But here's the kicker - examining the broken leader revealed parallel abrasions. Not a snap, but a clean bite through 20lb test. The lake had taught its favorite pupil a new vocabulary word: muskie.