When the Bass Taught Me to Listen

The predawn chill bit through my flannel as I stepped onto the mossy bank of Willow Creek. My spinnerbait box rattled in sync with the woodpeckers drumming on dead pines - nature's metronome counting down to first light.

'Should've brought the green one,' I muttered, watching my chartreuse lure disappear into the tea-colored water. Three hours and twelve casts later, the only action came from mosquitoes staging a blood drive on my neck. Even the tadpoles seemed to smirk as they dodged my presentations.

Something silver flickered beneath a sunken log just as I reached for my thermos. Heart pounding, I switched to fluorocarbon line and landed a cast so perfect it should've been illegal. The surface erupted like a depth charge. My rod arched into a trembling parenthesis as the smallmouth launched itself skyward, showering me with liquid confetti.

When I finally slid the 4-pounder back into the current, its tail slap left a wet comma on my cheek - the river's way of saying this story wasn't over.