When the River Whispered Secrets

Moonlight still clung to the cypress knees as my waders whispered through dewy sawgrass. The Caloosahatchee's current carried the tang of wet limestone, that peculiar morning scent that makes bass fishermen's fingers twitch. I paused to adjust my spinnerbait, its Colorado blade glinting like a pirate's coin in the predawn gray.

'Should've brought the green pumpkin craw,' I muttered, watching a gator's nostrils ripple the surface twenty yards downstream. Three fruitless hours of fan-casting had left my shoulders burning. Even the mullet weren't jumping – usually a bad omen.

Then I felt it: the faintest vibration through my braided line, more intuition than physical sensation. My fluorocarbon leader suddenly went slack. Heart drumming against my ribs, I twitched the rod tip once... twice...

The water exploded. A bronze flash twisted midair, showering droplets that tasted of victory and river mud. Drag screamed like a banshee as the brute dove for submerged logs. I leaned back, rod forming a perfect question mark against the blazing orange sunrise.

When I finally slid the 8-pound largemouth onto the measuring board, its gills pulsed like a timekeeper's metronome. The release felt bittersweet – some stories aren't meant to be kept, only witnessed. Driving home, I realized the river never lies; we just forget how to listen.