When the Rain Saved My Pride

Three cups of coffee couldn't wash away the shame from yesterday's empty cooler. The digital weather station blinked 72°F with 90% humidity - perfect conditions for the topwater frog I'd been dying to try. My waders squeaked with every step towards the mist-covered creek, the air smelling like wet pine and possibility.

First cast landed awkwardly near a submerged log. 'Splash!' A feisty 12-incher exploded on the lure before I even started twitching. 'Beginner's luck,' I chuckled, but my hands betrayed me with their shaking. By noon, seven bass had fallen for the frog's rubber legs. Then the sky turned the color of lead sinkers.

Raindrops pounded my hat brim as I fumbled with the tackle box. The fluorocarbon line turned invisible in the downpour. Something heavy inhaled my lure beneath the newly formed current. The drag screamed like a tea kettle as lightning painted the treeline silver. Twenty minutes later, I'm nose-to-gills with the biggest smallmouth of my life, its golden flanks gleaming through the storm.

Now my waterproof notebook sits soggy on the dock, ink bleeding across the page where I tried to record its weight. Maybe some memories are better measured in rainwater and pulse rates.