When Dawn Whispers to the Fish

The truck tires crunched over frost-bleached gravel as I pulled into the deserted boat ramp. 3:47 AM glowed on the dashboard - that magical hour when soft plastic lure boxes rattle louder than your conscience. My thermos hissed as I poured coffee, steam merging with mist rising from Chickamauga Lake like ghostly fishing line.

By the fifth cast, my fingers had memorized the rhythm: twitch-pause-twitch. The spinning reel's drag whined softly as my jerkbait danced through submerged timber. 'Should've brought the waders,' I muttered, watching dawn bleed across the water. A bluegill's leap shattered the mirror surface.

Three hours later, sweat glued my shirt to the boat seat. I'd cycled through every lure except the neon frog mocking me from the tackle tray. The sun burned off the mist, revealing a cove fringed with cattails. Something silver flashed beneath the duckweed.

The frog landed with a smack that echoed. One heartbeat. Two. Then the water erupted in a shower of green confetti. My rod arced like a question mark, line singing as the beast dove. 'Not today,' I growled through clenched teeth, thumb pressing the spool. When the 8-pound bass finally surfaced, its gills flared like war paint.

I sat on the dock at twilight, nursing a beer as fireflies mimicked bobbers. The lake whispered secrets in fish-slap rhythms - lessons only learned through burnt mornings and stubborn hope.