The Dance of Shadows

Three forty-five AM finds me lacing boots by refrigerator light, the hum of the ice maker keeping rhythm with my racing thoughts. My trusted spinning reel waits in the truck bed, its drag system still bearing scars from last month's carp battle. The Des Plaines River doesn't forgive impatient anglers.

First light reveals mist curling off the water like ghostly fishing line. I wade through shallows where mayflies perform their dawn ballet, the river's chill biting through worn waders. Three casts with my favorite crawdad crankbait yield nothing but suspicious ripple patterns. 'Maybe the smallmouth have moved downstream,' I mutter, watching a muskrat slap its tail in disagreement.

The sun climbs higher, turning my polarized lenses into golden filters. Just as I consider switching to a jig head, twin shadows dart beneath the railroad trestle - the telltale glide of predator fish. My next cast lands precisely where current meets calm, the lure's wobble sending concentric promises across the surface.

The strike comes violent and sudden, bending my rod into a question mark shape. Twenty yards downstream, a smallmouth breaks surface wearing my lure like silver jewelry. We duel through eddies and sunken logs, its tail-walks spraying rainbows in the morning light. When I finally cradle the bronze warrior, I find my grandfather's battered wristwatch - lost weeks ago - clinging to its pectoral fin.

Releasing the fish, I notice my hands smell of river moss and second chances. Somewhere upstream, another angler's reel sings the ancient song of line peeling through water.