When the River Whispered at Dawn

The truck's digital clock blinked 4:07 AM as gravel crunched beneath my boots. White River's mist clung to my face like cold spiderwebs, carrying the earthy scent of wet stones. My fingers instinctively brushed the chipped blue spinnerbait in my tackle box - the same one that fooled a 22-inch smallmouth last fall.

'You're chasing ghosts,' my buddy Jake had laughed when I mentioned the pre-spawn walleye rumor. But here I stood, casting parallel to submerged limestone ledges. For ninety minutes, only crimson-bellied bluegills nibbled my offerings. Then the water exploded.

A shadow the length of my forearm inhaled my lure. The rod doubled over as fluorocarbon line sang through the guides. 'Easy now,' I whispered, adrenaline making the coffee in my thermos taste like battery acid. The walleye's golden eyes flashed defiance when I finally netted it, its dorsal spines quivering against the mesh.

As sunlight pierced the fog, I released the fish with numb fingers. Somewhere downstream, a kingfisher's rattle echoed my racing heartbeat. The river doesn't give up its secrets - it only lends them.