When Dawn Fish Mock Your Bait Selection

Pre-dawn mist clung to my nostrils like a jealous lover as I stepped onto the creaking dock. The lake breathed cold vapor that made my coffee taste like victory soup. My lucky 路亚竿 – the one Bandy the raccoon once tried to bury with my car keys – twitched in anticipation. 'Today's the day, Hank,' I whispered to the thermos, pretending my poker-obsessed buddy hadn't bailed for a blackjack tournament.

First casts sliced through water smoother than Hank's casino lies. My 复合亮片 danced its metallic tango, all flash and sass. Nothing. The lake played mute professor as I cycled through tackle: jerkbaits that darted like nervous minnows, topwaters that gulped air like rookie smokers. A bluegill nipped my lure with the enthusiasm of a toddler eating broccoli. 'Attaboy,' I lied, 'you'll be seven pounds after breakfast.'

Sunlight burned off the mist, revealing Bandy's pawprints on my bait box. The furry thief had struck again – and left a walnut as apology? I pocketed the nut, superstition overriding logic. My next cast arched skyward, the 1943 dime I use as line guide humming like a struck tuning fork. The lure plopped where cattails whispered secrets. Three twitches. Five. Then...THUMP. My rod bent double, drag screaming like a banjo string. 'Hank owes me a cigar!' I yelled to disinterested herons.

Twenty minutes later, a smallmouth bass as long as my regret list rolled in the net. Its gills flared crimson, matching the burn in my forearms from the fight. I tongued the walnut – suddenly tasting like triumph – before releasing the fish. Bandy watched from shore, probably calculating the lure-to-walnut exchange rate. As engines echoed across the awakening lake, I scribbled today's lesson in mental ink: fish don't care about your schedule, but they'll always bite on stubborn hope.