When Dawn Broke the Silence

The alarm buzzed at 4:15 AM, its vibration echoing through the pine-paneled cabin. I grabbed my lucky jerkbait from the tackle box - its chipped paint a testament to last season's battles. Lake Superior's shoreline emerged from darkness as I waded through knee-deep mist, each step crunching frost-encrusted gravel.

First casts sliced through water smoother than bourbon. My fluorocarbon line left temporary scars on the mirrored surface. By sunrise, only disappointed minnows had investigated my offerings. 'Maybe the smallmouth switched breakfast menus,' I muttered, watching a loon dive where my lure had been.

The revelation came with the coffee thermos' last drops. Thirty yards east, concentric ripples betrayed movement no mayfly hatch could explain. Three false casts sent the jerkbait sailing. As it paused mid-twitch, the water erupted in a silver explosion that showered my glasses. The rod's cork grip creaked under pressure as the smallmouth bulldogged toward submerged logs.

When scales finally glittered in my net, dawn's orange fingers stretched across the lake. I snapped the ritual photo before releasing my prize. The fish vanished with a contemptuous tail flick, leaving me knee-deep in water and wonder. Somewhere beyond the departing fog, a bald eagle's cry seemed to laugh at human notions of triumph.