When the Reel Sang Its Swan Song

The alarm clock's buzz merged with bullfrog croaks as I stumbled toward my truck. Kettle Creek's fog clung to my beard like cold spiderwebs, that peculiar dampness that makes fluorocarbon leader curl like overcooked bacon. My lucky spinnerbait jingled in the tackle box - the one with the chipped paint that always seemed to tempt smallmouth.

First casts kissed the mirrored surface as mayflies performed their dawn ballet. Three feisty juveniles fell for the silver blade in quick succession. 'Easy pickings,' I chuckled, adjusting my threadbare baseball cap. Then the reel handle came off in my palm.

'Of all the...' The drag spring pinged into the water with comedic precision. My $300 setup now resembled abstract art. From the depths of my pack emerged Grandpa's ancient baitcaster, its gears grinding like coffee beans. 'Should've retired you with honors,' I whispered, oiling the mechanism with a french fry from breakfast.

The old warrior sang its battle cry when the lunker struck. Twenty yards of backing disappeared before I remembered the sticky thumb bar. River water soaked through my waders as the smallmouth breached, morning sun glinting on its bronze armor. The bent hook held.

As I released the thrashing trophy, the vintage reel finally seized up for good. Left it on a sycamore stump like a war memorial. Sometimes the best gear is what survives the beating.