When the River Whispered at Dawn

The thermometer read 43°F when I backed the boat into the Potomac's inky waters. My breath hung in ghostly clouds as I rigged my trusty jighead, its purple skirt barely visible in the predawn gloom. 'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, watching moonlight dance on the current.

By sunrise, the river revealed her secrets. Emerald weed beds undulated beneath the surface like sleeping dragons. Three casts in, my line jumped – then went slack. 'Bluegill bandits,' I grumbled, retying the frayed fluorocarbon leader. The fourth cast landed behind a submerged log. Two hops. A pause. Then the water exploded.

My rod arched like a willow in a hurricane. 'Not another snag,' I pleaded, until the 'snag' porpoised silver in the golden light. The smallmouth fought dirty, diving for root wads until my arms burned. When I finally lipped her, sunrise bled across her flanks like liquid fire.

As I released her, a mayfly hatch erupted. The river surface came alive with rising rings. 'Well,' I said to nobody, 'guess the thermos can wait.'