When Dawn Whispers to the Bass

The digital clock glowed 4:47AM as I licked coffee grounds off my thumb. Through the cabin window, mist curled over Lake St. Clair like phantom fingers. My lucky spinnerbait clicked rhythmically against the rod holder - the same silver blade that fooled last season's trophy smallmouth.

By sunrise I stood knee-deep in the shallows, water seeping through worn neoprene. Mayflies hatched in golden clouds as my first cast sent concentric rings across the mirrored surface. 'Perfect conditions,' I muttered. But three hours later, the fish disagreed. My waders grew heavy with defeat, the thermos long emptied of its bitter fuel.

'Why's your shadow twitching?' The question startled me. A carp's tail broke the surface twenty feet upstream. Then another. And another. My hands shook as I tied on a jerkbait the color of bruised peaches.

The strike came on the pause. Line screamed off the reel as something primal bent my rod into a question mark. 'Not today,' I growled through clenched teeth, feeling the headshake through my bones. When I finally slid the 21-inch smallie onto the measuring board, its golden flank matched the autumn maples alongshore.

As I released the fish, a mayfly landed on my still-trembling hand. Somewhere beyond the mist, another angler's tackle box lid slammed shut. The lake's language needs no translation.