When the River Started Whispering

3:17AM. My thermos of bitter diner coffee sloshed against the floorboards as the truck hit another pothole. Somewhere along this muddy Mississippi tributary, smallmouth bass were slamming their heads against limestone - or so Old Man Turner swore at the bait shop yesterday. My soft plastic lure box vibrated in rhythm with the gravel road, crawfish scent still clinging to my fingertips from last night's rigging.

Dawn arrived as smoke rather than light. Fog pooled in the river bends where my waders hissed through dew-heavy grass. Third cast snagged something that wasn't submerged timber - the rod doubled over like a question mark. 'Come on now,' I muttered to the unseen fighter, 'let's see if you're worth losing Turner's secret spot.'

By noon, three bronze-backed beauties lay documented in my phone. The fourth struck during that dangerous hour when fishermen start believing they've mastered the river. My spinning reel screamed like a tea kettle as line peeled downstream. Kneeling in shale shallows, I tasted iron where I'd bitten my cheek during the fight.

When the leader finally snapped, I swear I heard laughter ripple through the cottonwoods. Could've been the wind. Could've been the river. Could've been Turner chuckling from his wheelchair back at the shop. I left the broken jighead hanging from a sycamore branch - payment for next time.