When the River Whispered Secrets

Three hours before sunrise, my waders crunched over frost-kissed gravel along the Snake River. The spinnerbait in my tackle box clinked like wind chimes—my only company in the charcoal darkness. I always start with the gold blade here; something about its wobble makes smallmouth bass lose their minds come November.

By first light, my fingers had gone numb through the gloves. 'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, watching my breath swirl with mist rising off the water. Three missed strikes left me questioning the retrieve speed. Then I saw it—a V-shaped ripple cutting across current behind a submerged boulder.

Switching to a drop-shot rig, I sent the soft plastic worm dancing along the rock's shadowy edge. The line twitched once, twice... then screamed sideways. The rod doubled over as if hooked on a subway train. For six glorious minutes, the smallmouth tail-walked through dawn's orange haze, its gills flaring like molten copper when I finally lipped it.

As I released the fish, a bald eagle's cry echoed off canyon walls. The river had whispered, and for once, I'd listened.