When the River Whispers at Dawn

The chill bit through my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dew-soaked bank. Somewhere in the predawn gloom, smallmouth bass were slamming mayflies against the limestone outcroppings – I could smell the faint fishiness mingling with wet earth. My spinning rod trembled in anticipation, or maybe that was just my cold fingers shaking.

First casts sliced through mist that clung like cobwebs. 'Should've brought the green popper,' I muttered, switching from frog lure to crawfish pattern. The river answered with snags – three lost jigs in twenty minutes. 'You paying rent down there?' I growled at whatever rock held my tackle hostage.

Sunrise came crimson. Just as I considered moving spots, concentric rings bloomed near submerged timber. My next cast landed softer than a falling leaf. The strike nearly wrenched the rod from my hands. 'Holy hell, it's peeling braided line like dental floss!' The smallmouth breached in a shower of gold, tailwalking across current seams. When I finally lipped the 19-incher, its gills pulsed against my thumb like a live engine.

Now the coffee's cold in my thermos, and seven fish later, I can't feel my toes. But the river's whispering secrets to those willing to listen before the world wakes.