When Dawn Broke the Surface

The digital thermometer read 62°F when my waders kissed the lake's edge. Silver fog clung to cypress knees like cotton candy, muffling the 纺车轮's rhythmic whine as I spooled fresh braid. Somewhere beyond the mist curtain, a gar's prehistoric snout broke the surface with a sound like a shotgun shell hitting water.

'Should've brought the kayak,' I muttered, watching coffee steam swirl with fog. My third cast landed near submerged timber, the 软虫 sinking through liquid shadows. Nothing. The lake held its breath.

By sunrise, I'd cycled through jerkbaits and chatterbaits. A bluegill stole my last ned rig. That's when the herons started – three great blues lifting from the shallops in unison. Fish on the move.

The strike came vertical. Line zipped upward, rod tip dancing with something heavy shaking its head beneath lily pads. Twenty-pound test sang against cypress bark. 'Not today,' I growled, thumbing the spool as moss rained down. When the smallmouth breached, sunrise gilded its bronze flanks like some ancient treasure finally surfacing.

Back at the truck, picking Spanish moss from my reel, I found new blisters overlapping old calluses. The lake's surface now mirrored cloudless sky, hiding every struggle beneath perfect blue.