When the River Glowed Bronze

The Saint Johns River was breathing mist when I arrived at 5:47PM. My wristwatch thermometer read 82°F - the kind of evening when soft plastic lures turn to gummy worms in the tackle box. I chose the weathered dock as my battleground, its wooden planks creaking like an old fisherman's joints under my boots.

Three casts. Three snags. The submerged cypress knees were playing their usual tricks. 'Should've brought the weedless rig,' I muttered, watching another paddle tail lure sacrifice itself to the tannin-stained water. The spinning reel whined in protest as I snapped off yet another snagged line.

Then the river blinked.

At 6:33PM, the setting sun struck the water at precisely the angle that transforms tea-colored currents into liquid amber. In that golden moment, I saw them - shadowy torpedoes patrolling the drop-off. My hands fumbled the knot-tying, fingers remembering last week's hook puncture scar.

The chatterbait hit the glowing bronze corridor. Two cranks. Pause. The line twitched like a live wire. When the explosion came, it wasn't the fish but the river itself that seemed to roar. Twenty yards of drag-screaming chaos ended with a spotted bass that shimmered like mercury in the dying light.

As I released her, the fog returned. But for that one miraculous hour, the river and I shared a secret written in copper light and bent hook points.