When Steelhead Whisper Through the Mist

Pre-dawn air clung to my face like wet spiderwebs, the musk of decaying alewives mixing with Folgers brewing on the Coleman stove. My lucky tungsten bullet weight — salvaged from Bandit's last heist — warmed against my collarbone as I rigged the finesse jig. 'Hank bet his truck I couldn't outfish last season's count,' I muttered, watching breath fog dance with gnats under the dock light.

First casts sliced through liquid mercury. The St. Joseph River sighed as my gloved index finger traced braid vibrations — deadstick...twitch...then BAM! A primal thrum shot up the rod. 'Steelhead don't nibble, they argue!' Hank's raspy voice echoed in memory as the drag screamed like a banshee. Forty yards downstream, the silver bullet breached, dawn light fracturing in its aerial revolt.

By noon, fog surrendered to sunbeams that exposed my rookie error. 'Switching to ned rig when they want chaos?' I scoffed, recalling the ice hole incident. The correction came swift — a hair's-width adjustment in wrist snap transformed hesitant taps into savage strikes. When Bandit finally stole my sandwich at takeout, the cooler held fourteen chrome warriors glistening with river secrets.