When Dawn Painted the Ripples

The thermometer read 54°F when I stepped onto the dock, my thermos of coffee leaving ghostly trails in the predawn air. Lake Fork's notorious stumps lurked like submerged sentries as I rigged my soft plastic worm, its junebug tail catching the first faint light. 'Twenty casts,' I promised myself, a superstition born from last month's trophy catch on the twenty-first retrieve.

By the fifth cast, mist began rising like steam from a kettle. The rhythmic plop-plop of lures became hypnotic until—snap!—my line went slack. 'Not the damn spinning reel again,' I groaned, remembering last week's backlash disaster. As I fumbled with the tangled braid, concentric rings appeared near a submerged brush pile. Something bronze flashed beneath the surface.

Three quick knots later, I sent the worm sailing. It kissed the water just as the sun breached the pines. The line twitched once...twice...then surged sideways. 'Holy hell, she's heading for the timber!' The rod arched like a drawn longbow, drag singing its metallic hymn. When the 7-pounder finally surfaced, its gills flared crimson against the sunrise.

Back at the ramp, a teenager eyed my catch. 'What'd you get her on?' I simply held up the ravaged worm, its tail chewed to ribbons. The grin we shared said more than any fishing report ever could.