When the River Whispered at Dawn

The truck tires crunched over gravel as I pulled into the James River access point at 5:17AM. That peculiar predawn chill clung to my flannel shirt - cold enough to see your breath, but promising the warmth that makes smallmouth bass chase soft plastic baits in the shallows. My lucky copper flask (always filled with hot cocoa, never whiskey) clinked in the tackle box as I assembled my rod.

Fog fingers danced across the water's surface where the warm current met the autumn air. On my third cast, a pulsating tug nearly ripped the rod from my hands. 'This is it!' I whispered to the mist - only to reel in a waterlogged branch wearing my Yamamoto grub like a crown.

By midday, the river played tricks. Shadows became strikes, leaves transformed into surface boils. Just as I considered swallowing my pride, two quick taps transmitted through the braided line made my calloused finger twitch instinctively. The rod arched like a willow in a hurricane as chrome flashes exploded beneath the surface.

When I finally lipped the 21-inch smallmouth, its gills flared in protest, speckled flanks glowing like liquid bronze. We stared at each other, predator and prey, before the river reclaimed its jewel. The cocoa had gone cold, but my hands still trembled with electric warmth.