When Dawn Broke the Surface

The boat ramp's gravel crunched under my boots at 4:47 AM, the exact minute walleye start chasing shad in Lake Erie's twilight zone. I hesitated before tying on my last hair jig - the one that outsmarted that trophy smallmouth last spring. 'Third time's the charm,' I whispered to the thermos of bitter coffee sliding across the dashboard.

Fog clung to the water like wet gauze. My depth finder blinked erratically near the rock reef where smallmouth should've been stacked like cordwood. Two hours and fourteen casts later, my line only found bottom debris. 'Maybe the mayfly hatch messed with their patterns?' The question hung unanswered as my fluorocarbon line sawed through dawn's stillness.

Then the birds told the story. A tern's sudden dive three casts west sent me paddling silently. The first strike came savage - rod tip plunging toward dark water. My drag screamed protest as something massive bulldogged toward the drop-off. 'Not today,' I growled through clenched teeth, thumb burning against the spool.

When the bronze flash finally broke surface, morning sun glinted off its flank like polished armor. The smallmouth thrashed once, twice, then lay spent in the net's mesh. Its gills pulsed against my palm as I removed the hook. For three heartbeats we shared the same humid air before it vanished in a swirl of bubbles.

Back at the truck, I found coffee stains overlapping on the console - a perfect map of today's wandering journey. The ignition key hesitated before turning, as if the lake still had secrets to whisper.