When Dawn Bites Back

3:47AM. The digital clock's glow reflected in my waders' rubber surface as I triple-checked my tackle box. Lake Monroe's pre-dawn chill carried whispers of last night's rain and dying campfires. My thumb brushed the cracked epoxy of a soft plastic worm - same one that landed my PB smallmouth. Some call it superstition, I call it insurance.

First casts sliced through fog so thick it muffled the spinning reel's whine. 'Should've brought the umbrella,' I muttered, watching coffee steam merge with mist. Two hours in, my knuckles scraped raw from rebaiting, the cooler held nothing but melted ice and regret.

The sun breached pines just as my line twitched. Not the usual nibble - this felt like someone yanking a fire alarm. Rod bent double, drag screaming. 'You're not snag,' I told the thrashing shadow, boots skidding on dew-slick rocks. When scaled bronze flashed, my knees actually wobbled.

Later, examining the walleye's dagger-like teeth under sunrise, I noticed my lucky worm lodged sideways in its jaw. The fish had struck so hard, the lure's tail torn clean off. Sometimes the lake doesn't give trophies - it leaves receipts.