When Mist Embraced the Spinning Reel

The alarm clock showed 3:47 AM when my waders brushed against dew-laden grass. Lake Casitas breathed out silver fog that clung to my lucky baseball cap – the one that survived three seasons of bass wars. My spinning reel whined as I cast into the halo of my headlamp, its spool swallowing the predawn silence.

For ninety minutes, the watergrass mocked me. Twice I snagged on submerged timber, losing a soft plastic bait to the lake's toothy secrets. 'Should've brought coffee,' I muttered, watching ripples from a bream's jump melt into mist. Then the hydrilla shivered – not with the wind, but with purpose.

My next cast landed softer than a spider's sigh. The line jumped alive before I finished counting down. The reel screamed its metallic hymn, drag protesting as something primal surged toward open water. Rod bent double, I tasted adrenaline sharper than the lake's iron scent.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its golden flank glittered like molten dawn. We measured time in heartbeats – twenty-three pulses from gill grab to release. The fish vanished in a swirl of bubbles and my reflection, leaving me grinning at empty hands stained with lake mud.