When Dawn Broke the Surface Tension

3:47AM. The digital clock's glow mirrored the stars still clinging to Montana's Big Sky. I tightened my wading boots with chapped fingers, coffee steam fogging up the truck's rearview mirror. My go-to jerkbait jingled in the vest pocket like loose change - a nervous habit I'd developed since losing that trophy brown trout last spring.

Rock Creek's waters hissed rather than flowed, mercury-slick under my headlamp. I paused midstream, suddenly aware how the cold seeped through neoprene seams. 'Should've worn the thicker socks,' I muttered, watching breath crystals dissolve into the pre-dawn murk.

First cast: perfect drift. Second: snagged on submerged timber. By the fifth fruitless retrieve, even the mayflies seemed to mock my technique. Sunrise painted the canyon walls copper when it happened - that electric tap-tap-tap traveling up the fluorocarbon line.

The rod doubled over like a question mark. Twenty yards downstream, silver flashed through riffles. I stumbled backward, reel handle imprinting crosshatch patterns into my palm. For three breathless minutes, man and fish debated ownership of the river.

When net finally met rainbow trout, its gills flared crimson against the morning light. I knelt in the current, releasing pressure along with the fish. The water carried my relieved laughter downstream where another angler's line sliced through mist.