When Dawn Breaks, the Bass Bites

The scent of decaying algae prickled my nostrils as mist curled off Lake St. Clair like ghostly fingers. My 硬饵 box lay open, its contents gleaming under my headlamp - jerkbaits with cracked paint jobs from last season's pike ambush, a lipless crankbait still bearing Bandy the raccoon's tooth marks. 'Hank!' I hissed across the fog-shrouded dock, 'You still believe in that lucky blue spinnerbait?' His raspy chuckle cut through the damp air: 'Better than your wedding gift 鱼线, Jack. That 8-pound test snapped faster than your marriage counseling.'

First casts sliced through water colder than my ex-wife's goodbye kiss. The rhythm began: twitch-pause-twitch, rod tip dancing like a conductor's baton. My fingers registered every vibration through the braid - a skill learned through years of mistaking weeds for strikes. When the wake explosion came, it wasn't subtle. A bronze-backed torpedo launched vertically, showering us with droplets that tasted like victory and swamp water. The drag screamed its metallic hymn as the bass tried to bury me in cabbage beds. 'Talk to her, Hank!' 'She's your date, Romeo. Just don't propose again!' Thirty-six inches of pure muscle later, my shaking hands cradled gills flecked with gold. The release felt bittersweet - like watching your best riffle disappear under ice.