When the River Whispers Secrets

The predawn mist clung to my waders as I stepped into the Suwannee's tea-colored water. My spinning reel clicked softly, its rhythm matching the barred owls calling from cypress knees. I always start with a soft plastic craw here – the bass treat these dark eddies like all-you-can-eat diners. Or so they did yesterday.

By sunrise, I'd changed lures three times. My coffee thermos lay empty, its stale smell mixing with riverbank decay. 'Maybe the front's got them spooked,' I muttered, watching a gator's nostrils ripple nearby. That's when I felt it – not a strike, but the electric awareness of being watched by something smarter than reptiles.

The line twitched sideways. Not the usual tap-tap of curious brim. I counted Mississippi's – one...two... – before setting the hook. The rod arched like a question mark, drag screaming as the beast surged toward submerged logs. Knees trembling, I side-pressured hard. For three breathless minutes, we danced across current seams.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank glowed like buried treasure. I cradled the exhausted warrior, marveling at leopard spots along its jaw. The release sent concentric rings across the still pool – nature's standing ovation.

Driving home past orange groves, I chuckled at my morning frustration. Rivers don't give up secrets; they let you borrow them, sometimes, when you stop counting minutes and start listening.