When Dawn Broke the Bass Code

The pickup truck's clock glowed 4:47 AM as I coasted down the gravel road to Lake Fork, tires crunching like cereal in milk. My thermos of jet-black coffee sloshed in rhythm with Hank Williams' twang on the radio. 'They're hitting topwater today,' I muttered to the empty passenger seat, thumb rubbing the chipped paint on my lucky spinnerbait tied to the rearview mirror.

Fog clung to the water like cobwebs as I launched the jon boat. The familiar gurgle of the trolling motor shattered the silence. I cast toward submerged timber, the 10-pound fluorocarbon line singing through rod guides. For ninety maddening minutes, bass played coy - follows without commitment, swirls without strikes.

'Should've stayed in bed,' I grumbled, recasting toward a duckweed patch. The lure plopped...then disappeared in a volcanic eruption. Rod bent double, drag screaming like a bobcat. 'That's no dink!' I yelled to the mist-shrouded lake. The brute jumped twice, showering me in spray before sliding into the net. As I held the spotted warrior, dawn finally broke through purple clouds, glittering on its emerald flanks.

The fish-kiss I planted on its belly left iridescent scales stuck to my stubble - nature's glitter. The old lake had whispered its secret: sometimes you don't find fish, they find you.