When the River Started Whispering

Three cups of coffee still couldn't warm my hands in the pre-dawn chill of the Mississippi backwaters. The aluminum boat seat seeped cold through my waders as I rigged my trusty soft plastic bait, its garlic scent mixing with the earthy smell of decaying cypress knees.

First casts sliced through fog that clung to the water like cotton candy. A barred owl's call echoed my frustration when bass rolled at my lure but refused commitment. By noon, I'd cycled through every color in my tackle box, the spinning reel humming different protest songs with each retrieve.

The revelation came when I stopped to retie. Ripples began dancing where the current kissed a submerged log - not the random pops of feeding bream, but deliberate swirls. My hands shook as I skipped the jig into the sweet spot. The strike bent my rod into a question mark, drag screaming like a teakettle. For one terrifying moment, the big girl wrapped my line around a root, her headshakes transmitting up the braid into my sunburnt palms.

When I finally lipped her, two purple worms fell from her gullet. She'd been gorging on baitfish imitators while I stubbornly threw crawdad patterns. The river's lesson crystallized as I released her: sometimes you need to listen harder than you cast.