When the River Whispered Secrets

My waders made that familiar squelching sound as I stepped into the Potomac's cold embrace before dawn. A mist carried the tang of wet moss and something metallic – the smell of promise to any smallmouth hunter. My lucky hair jig bounced against my chest, its deer hair collar matted from last week's adventure.

『Should've retied the leader,』 I muttered, fingering the nicked fluorocarbon. The decision haunted me when a shadow darted from under the bedrock shelf. My first cast sent bluegill scattering. The fifth drift produced a tentative tap – then nothing.

Noon sun burned off the haze, revealing water clearer than my wedding crystal. I switched to a ned rig, its mushroom head kicking up miniature sandstorms. That's when I saw them – ghostly shapes trailing my bait like aquatic paparazzi. Smallmouth aristocracy, inspecting but never committing.

The river taught me its rhythm as shadows lengthened. A mayfly hatch erupted in golden swirls. My line came alive not with a strike, but a subtle weight – like hooking a wet handkerchief. The rod throbbed as bronze lightning danced across current seams. When I finally cradled the 20-inch brute, its crimson eyes held the river's ancient smirk.

Walking back, I realized the fireflies weren't the only things winking in the twilight.