When the River Whispered at Dawn

Three-thirty AM smelled like stale coffee and bug spray. My waders squeaked in protest as I navigated the moonlit path to the James River, soft plastic lure box rattling like maracas in my backpack. The 'secret spot' my buddy swore by turned out to be a mosquito breeding ground with better security than Fort Knox - I nearly impaled myself on a submerged tree branch just reaching the bank.

First casts danced across current seams like ballerinas. Nothing. By sunrise, my coffee had gone cold and my line kept snagging on what felt like the river's sarcastic laughter. 'Maybe the smallmouth migrated to Cancun,' I muttered, reeling in yet another clump of aquatic weeds.

Then the water coughed.

A swirl the size of a dinner plate materialized behind my spinning rod. Heart hammering, I sent the Ned rig sailing. The tap came so fast I almost dropped the rod. Twenty yards downstream, a bronze torpedo breached in a shower of diamond droplets, bending my rod into a question mark. 'Talk to me, baby,' I crooned through gritted teeth as drag screamed its protest.

When I finally cradled the smallmouth's sunset-colored belly, dawn light revealed the mayfly hatch blanketing the river. The fish had been there all along - I'd just been too busy complaining to listen.