When the Reel Sings at Dawn

Fog clung to the cypress knees like wet cotton as my kayak sliced through the tea-colored water. Somewhere in the mist, a bullfrog croaked its disapproval of my spinning reel clicking through the stillness. I paused to wipe condensation off my rod guides – that humid Florida morning already sticking to my skin like plastic wrap.

'You're chasing shadows,' my fishing partner Mark muttered when I'd insisted on launching before first light. But I knew what September bass do in Lake Istokpoga's lily pads. Or thought I did, until three hours of fruitless casting left sunburn stripes on my neck and doubt in my gut.

The screech started on my fifth cast – a metallic banshee wail from my reel's drag system. 'Not now,' I pleaded, watching my Texas rig plop uselessly short of the submerged logs. That's when the water erupted. Not a strike, but a full-blown piscine riot as a bass pod cornered shad against my kayak's hull.

Frantically stripping line with the malfunctioning reel, I felt the hit before seeing it – that electric tug traveling up 12-pound fluorocarbon to burn my fingertips. The rod doubled over as a linebacker-sized shadow breached, shaking its head with the vigor of a dog drying fur. For two glorious minutes, man and fish performed our strange dance until my trembling net hand secured victory.

Back at the ramp, Mark eyed my empty stringer. 'All that for catch-and-release?' I just smiled, picking bits of lily pad from my still-screaming reel. Some songs are worth the noise.