The grass was wet as I trudged down the hill from the cabin. The sun was just breaking the mountain tops. If Ole Thunderhead was not on my mind, I would have paused to enjoy the view.
Thunderhead had been spotted three of the last seven mornings. Rumor said Thunderhead was least 26 inches long and 20+ pounds. One of the fishermen said that he had gotten Ole Thunder to the shore just before he had spit out the lure.
I had my folding-tripod stool and tackle box in my left and my rod and reel in my right. My landing net and camera were hung over my shoulder. Ole Thunderhead was going to be mine this morning.
I had dreamed about him twice last night. In the first dream, I saw him airborne and seemingly waving his dorsal at me before diving back into the depths. The second dream was stranger: Ole Thunderhead spoke. I snagged him by the gills and dragged him to the shore. Just before jumping loose, he promised that if I let him go, I could have his picture. Tired of being the myth of the river, he had chosen me to provide proof of existence.
A Pop-tarts breakfast. A change of batteries for the camera, I was off. If Ole Thunderhead wanted publicity, I was the one that has going to give it to him.
Written for Sunday Photo Fictioneer: Requirements: Using the photo prompt, create a story of under 200 words. (I went a little over the word count: 231.)