When the River Whispers Secrets

Three forty-five AM: The smell of coffee mixes with damp pine needles as I lace my boots. White River's fog clings to my face like cold spiderwebs. My lucky spinnerbait – the one that caught my PB smallmouth – rattles in the tackle box with each step toward the kayak.

First casts land where the current kisses a submerged log. My line twitches... then nothing. By sunrise, I've cycled through jigs and crankbaits until my fingertips ache. 'Should've brought the damn topwater frog,' I mutter, watching a heron mock me from the shallows.

The miracle happens at slack tide. A swirl near the bank – too subtle for anyone but a caffeine-wired angler to notice. Heart pounding, I send my Ned rig sailing. The tap comes soft as a lover's whisper. Then chaos: rod arching double, drag screaming, water exploding.

Twenty minutes later, I'm chest-deep in the river, cradling a bronze-backed beast. Its gills pulse against my wrist like a secret promise. When I release it, the smallmouth disappears in a golden flash that mirrors the rising sun.

Drifting downstream, I notice my shadow stretching across the water. Funny how fishing mirrors life – you chase shadows until the real thing bites.