When the River Whispered at Dawn

The air smelled like wet moss and yesterday's rain when I parked my Tacoma by the Sugar Creek bridge. My lucky spinnerbait rattled in the tackle box as I stepped over frost-heaved asphalt. 'Should've worn thicker socks,' I muttered, feeling February's bite through my waders.

First casts sliced through mist rising like phantom fish. Nothing. Then a subtle tap—not the smallmouth I expected, but a feisty creek chub that bent my ultralight rod into a candy cane. 'Warmup act,' I told the rusted coffee thermos. For three hours, the river played coy while cardinals mocked from sycamores.

Sunlight hit the limestone bluffs when my fluorocarbon line jumped. The drag screamed that particular melody only wild brown trout evoke. 'Eat your heart out, Hemingway,' I wheezed, knee-deep in current and adrenaline. Those twelve ounces fought like twelve pounds, gills flaring bronze in my trembling hands.

The release sent ripples toward a rising mayfly hatch. Back at the truck, I found my abandoned spinnerbait box swarmed by chipmunks—nature's reminder that even empty-handed moments hold treasure.