When Dawn Whispers to the Bass

The alarm clock glowed 4:47 AM as I licked coffee grounds off my thumb – my personal ritual before chasing largemouth. Toledo Bend Reservoir's shoreline materialized through dissipating fog, its surface rippling with secrets. My spinnerbait box felt lighter than usual; I'd forgotten to replenish my white chartreuse favorites after last week's tournament.

Water lapped against the kayak like a metronome. First cast: nothing but hydrilla. Tenth cast: a bluegill stole my craw imitation. By 6:15 AM, my polarized sunglasses framed identical scenes of defeat. 'Maybe the front's moving them deeper,' I muttered, squinting at sonar fish arches suspended like lost commas.

Then the rhythm changed. Three sharp taps traveled up the braided line – not the tentative nibbles of panfish, but the staccato Morse code of predator interest. My baitcasting reel sang as 8-pound test disappeared into coffee-colored water. The rod doubled over, its cork grip leaving crescent moons in my palm.

When the bass finally surfaced, dawn broke across its emerald flank like liquid gold. No tape measure needed – that defiant headshake told me everything. As I released her, a swirl of bubbles rose where she'd been, the lake exhaling its ancient wisdom. Some mornings don't give you fish. They give you hieroglyphs to decipher.