When the Bass Bit Back

Sunlight was bleeding into the lake when I parked at Old Cypress Landing. The water held that peculiar stillness of late August evenings, the kind where dragonflies hover like suspended jewels. My spinning reel clicked rhythmically as I rigged up with a junebug worm – the same color that fooled three lunkers here last monsoon season.

First cast kissed the lily pads with surgical precision. Nothing. Second cast landed near the submerged oak skeleton. The line twitched once before going slack. 'Not today, old friend,' I muttered to the lake, adjusting my sweat-slicked grip on the rod.

Twilight found me swapping lures like a mad scientist. Crankbaits. Topwaters. A shaky head rig that cost me two good hooks on submerged logs. The mosquitoes declared open season on my neck. Just as I reached for the tackle box, the water erupted ten feet from shore. Not the delicate swirl of bream, but the violent surface smash that makes your adrenal glands kickstart.

My jerkbait hit the commotion zone. Two aggressive twitches. The strike bent my rod into a question mark, drag screaming like a banshee. For three glorious minutes we dueled – me leveraging the rod's parabolic curve, the bass bulldogging toward submerged roots. When I finally lipped the 7-pounder, its gills flared crimson against the dying light.

As I released the warhorse, something primal stirred the shallows. The wake rolled toward my boots, then vanished. The lake keeps its secrets – but tomorrow's sunrise might loosen its tongue.