When the River Whispered at Dawn

The truck's digital clock glowed 3:47 AM as I tightened the last knot on my fluorocarbon leader. A barred owl's call sliced through the humid Mississippi air, its haunting echo following me down the moonlit bank of the Pearl River. My waders squeaked with each step, the sound swallowed by the river's low murmur.

For forty silent minutes, my popper floated untouched in the backwater eddies where bass should've been feeding. I switched to a jighead tipped with craw trailer, then a topwater frog. 'You're smarter than them today,' the river seemed to chuckle as another cast came back empty.

Sunrise painted the sky peach when I noticed the V-shaped wake - not from any fish, but a water moccasin gliding toward my kayak. As I fumbled for my paddle, the snake's sudden U-turn revealed the reason - three fat swirls erupting near submerged cypress knees.

My Senko rig hit the water like a falling leaf. The line twitched once... twice... then bowed into a taut crescent. The drag's scream scattered sleeping ibises as the brute surged toward logjam. Knees locked against the kayak's rocking, I played it like concert piano - give tension here, yield there, until finally cradling 8 pounds of spotted bass gleaming like liquid mercury.

Releasing the fish, I noticed my lucky coin still glued to the kayak's console with dried Super Glue from last season. Maybe the river didn't care about charms, but that morning, it taught me to listen beyond what eyes can see.