When the River Whispered at Dawn

The truck's clock read 3:47 AM when I parked by the willow grove. Mist clung to the Kankakee River like spider silk, muffling the clatter of my graphite rod case. I always lick my fingertips before tying knots—the salt makes the line grip better, or so Grandpa claimed.

First casts sailed into obsidian water. My spinnerbait blades caught moonlight, throwing disco-ball reflections on the bank. 'Three rotations, pause,' I muttered, repeating the rhythm that fooled a 4-pound smallmouth last spring. But the river kept its secrets.

By sunrise, my coffee thermos tasted like regret. Then it happened—a concentric ring rippled behind my lure, so faint you'd miss it blinking. The hair on my neck stood up. Casting beyond the ring, I counted: one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi... The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands.

Twenty minutes later, I cradled a bronze-backed warrior in the shallows. Its gills flared against my palm, river scent clinging to iridescent scales. The release felt bittersweet—some battles are too precious to replay.

Driving home, I realized rivers don't give up fish. They lend them, when they trust you'll appreciate the magic.