When the Reel Sang at Dawn

The eastern sky was bleeding crimson when my waders squelched onto the muddy bank. Mosquitoes hummed their thirsty chorus around my ears, but I barely noticed - the 纺车轮 in my hands felt unusually alive, its gears whispering promises of monsters beneath the tea-colored water.

First casts with the crawfish-printed 软饵 produced nothing but snagged hydrilla. 'Should've brought the topwater,' I grumbled, watching concentric circles betray feeding activity twenty yards beyond my reach. That's when the morning breeze died suddenly, leaving the lake surface polished like antique glass.

The strike came violent and wrong. Not the sharp tug of a bass, but a steady, dreadful pull that bent my rod into a horseshoe. The reel's drag screamed like a banshee, burning my thumb when I instinctively pressed the spool. For three terrifying minutes, I became a marionette dancing to whatever primal force lived below.

When the line finally went slack, I found my knees shaking. The broken 10lb fluorocarbon told its own story. As sunlight pierced the cypress knees, I realized the reel's song hadn't been a promise, but a warning.