When the River Whispered at Dawn

The chill of late September bit my fingertips as I launched the kayak into the Susquehanna's inky currents. Fog clung to the water like ghosts of last night's rain, muffling the clatter of my tackle box against the aluminum hull. My lucky copper coin - smoothed by twenty years of pocket-rubbing - felt warm against my palm as I made the ritualistic wish for smallmouth bronze.

By sunrise, the river had humbled me. Three lost lures and one snapped fluorocarbon line left me muttering curses at the orange-tinted mist. 'Should've stayed in bed,' I growled, watching a belted kingfisher mock me from its perch. That's when the shallows exploded.

A swirl the size of a truck tire erupted behind a submerged boulder. My hands forgot their frustration, automatically threading a green pumpkin jig. The cast landed softer than a lover's whisper. Two hops. Then the rod doubled over like a question mark, drag singing its metallic hymn.

For six glorious minutes, the smallmouth danced - tail-walking through sunbeams, diving for root snarls, painting my forearms with river spray. When I finally lipped her, moonlight scales shimmered through my trembling fingers. The release sent ripples echoing across the awakening river, carrying secrets only dawn anglers hear.