When the River Whispers Secrets

The predawn air clung to my skin like wet silk as I waded into the Mississippi backwater. My spinnerbait box rattled in rhythm with the bullfrogs' croaking – nature's own countdown to first light.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, slapping my neck as fireflies danced around my waders. The water breathed against my thighs, carrying the musk of decaying cypress. Three fruitless casts later, my line snagged on submerged timber.

As I wrestled with the knot, the surface erupted twenty yards upstream. Not the lazy swirl of a carp, but the violent J-stroke of a predator. My hands forgot their fumbling as I tied on a chatterbait, its blade catching the first peach-colored streaks of sunrise.

The strike came as prayer meets answer – sudden and humbling. The drag screamed like a teakettle as something primordial surged toward open water. 'Not today, old friend,' I whispered, thumb pressing the braided line until it burned.

When I finally cradled the 8-pound smallmouth, its leopard-spotted flanks heaving, we both paused – predator and prey sharing the same air. The release sent concentric ripples through time itself.

Walking back through goldenrod fields, I realized rivers don't give up their children easily. They make you earn every secret.