When the Bass Stole My Sandwich

Dawn painted the Connecticut River in streaks of burnt orange as my waders kissed the misty shallows. The water's metallic tang clung to my lips, a familiar taste of anticipation. I'd chosen a jerkbait with rainbow flecks - perfect for smallmouth in this September transition.

'Should've brought bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at the third deerfly dive-bombing my neck. The river chuckled against my thighs, its current tugging secrets from beneath tea-stained rocks. First cast landed with surgical precision near an undercut bank. Nothing. Second. Third. My shoulders tightened with each retrieve.

By noon, my PB&J sat half-eaten on a riverside boulder. That's when I saw it - a V-shaped wake slicing toward my lunch. Before I could react, a bronze flash erupted. My sandwich vanished in a splash, rye bread floating like lily pads.

Laughter bubbled up as I retied with trembling fingers. 'You want junk food?' I whispered, knotting a craw-colored tube jig. The strike came violent, the rod doubling over as current and fish staged a tug-of-war. My braided line sang through the guides, etching zigzags across the mirrored surface.

When the smallmouth finally came to hand, its defiant glare mirrored my own stubborn joy. I released it with a wink, crumbs still clinging to my shirt. Some days, the river doesn't give what you want - it gives what you need.