When the Bass Danced at Moonlight

The moon hung low over Lake Champlain like a silver spinnerbait when I loaded my tackle box. My waders squeaked in the midnight stillness - a sound that always made our terrier howl, though tonight he just watched from the porch. I patted the jig in my shirt pocket, its rubber skirt still damp from last week's skunking.

Bullfrogs stopped croaking as my kayak cut through the lily pads. I cast toward the submerged timber, the 10-pound fluorocarbon line whispering through the guides. Three hours. Six locations. Nothing but bluegill nipping at my trailer hooks. The lake surface mirrored the stars so perfectly I felt upside-down in the cosmos.

'Should've brought coffee,' I muttered, reeling in yet another clump of weeds. Then I heard it - the liquid thwack of a predator striking prey. My headlamp beam caught concentric rings spreading near the north cove.

Shadows writhed beneath my next cast before the jig even sank. The rod doubled over like a question mark, drag screaming as my kayak started pivoting. 'Talk to me, girl,' I breathed, feeling headshakes telegraph up the line. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, moonlight glinted off its bronze flank like liquid courage.

I cradled the 4-pounder, watching its gills flare in the cool air. The release felt like returning a stolen star to the sky. Paddling home, I realized night fishing isn't about seeing - it's about listening to the water's dark symphony.