When the River Whispered at Dawn

The pickup truck's headlights sliced through predawn mist as I pulled into the gravel lot. My thermos of bitter gas station coffee sloshed in the cup holder, its acrid smell mingling with the damp earthiness of the Chattahoochee riverbank. Rigging my rod by headlamp light, I paused to rub the soft plastic worm between thumb and forefinger - that peculiar mix of slickness and resistance that always made my pulse quicken.

By first light, I'd already lost two lures to submerged logs. 'Should've brought the braided line,' I muttered, watching a blue heron glide past like a judgmental specter. The sun climbed higher, turning the water from slate gray to liquid gold. That's when I noticed the dimples upstream where current met eddy, those telltale ripples that shout 'buffet line' in bass language.

On the third cast, something inhaled my bait with a vengeance. The rod doubled over as my spinning reel screeched its metallic protest. 'Easy now,' I breathed, feeling the line burn grooves into my fingertip. Twenty yards downstream, a smallmouth erupted from the water, shaking its head like a dog with a hated bath. When I finally lipped the bronze-backed fighter, our eyes met briefly - mutual respect between aging warriors.

The drive home found me picking glittery scales off my shirt, each one catching sunlight like miniature disco balls. Sometimes the river doesn't give you answers, just better questions.