When the Wind Told Secrets

My thermos of black coffee steamed in the crisp 54°F dawn at Choke Canyon Reservoir. I always fish the northwest cove when fluorocarbon line starts clinging to morning dew like spiderwebs – that's when the bass ambush shad near submerged mesquite.

'Should've retied these knots yesterday,' I muttered, tasting copperhead spray on my chapped lips. The third cast with my lucky rooster-tail produced only a defiant clump of hydrilla. By sunrise, even the bullfrogs had stopped laughing at my spinnerbait presentations.

Then the north wind came – not the gentle kind, but that sawtooth gust that makes duck hunters check their blind bags. It blew my cap into the water just as a wake erupted behind it. 'Son of a... wait...' My trembling hands rigged a white spinnerbait exactly where the ripples converged.

The strike bent my rod into a question mark. Twenty yards of drag screamed like a banshee before I felt the headshake – that glorious side-to-side struggle only lunkers make. When I lipped the 7-pounder, its gills smelled of victory and aquatic moss.

Now the thermos sits empty, but my livewell holds a story. Sometimes the fish don't bite until the wind steals your hat... and your doubts.