When the Moonlight Took My Bait

3:17AM glowed on my waterproof watch as waders whispered through dew-heavy grass. Lake Fork's western bank smelled of wet limestone and decaying lily pads - the perfect cocktail for night fishing. My headlamp caught the eyes of a raccoon watching from a cypress knee, both of us frozen until my coffee thermos clanked.

'Should've brought the heavier line,' I muttered, thumbing the 10lb fluorocarbon that felt suddenly thin. The first cast sent fat ripples across moonlit water. Nothing. Second cast...third...twelfth. The rhythmic plop-plop of my crawfish crankbait became a meditation.

Dawn's first gray fingers crept in when it happened - not a strike, but the gut-punch snap of line breaking mid-cast. 'Son of a...' died in my throat as moonlight revealed the culprit: my own lure dangling 20ft up in an oak branch.

Climbing with rod still in hand, bark biting through jeans, I nearly missed the swirl below. Something massive was sipping mayflies where my lure should've landed. Heart drumming, I snipped the snagged line free and Texas-rigged a soft plastic worm one-handed.

The 8lb bass inhaled it on the fall. We danced - me straddling a tree limb, her tail slapping water into my left boot. When I finally lipped her, dawn's pink light showed my shaky grin reflected in her golden eye.

Back on solid ground, I watched her vanish into tannin-stained depths. The broken line still dangling from the oak seemed to wave goodbye - or maybe 'better luck next time'.