When the Fog Lifted

The predawn chill seeped through my waders as I navigated the mist-shrouded bank of Willow Creek. My thermos of coffee long emptied, I paused to listen - that telltale spinnerbait plop from across the water meant old Tom was already working his magic.

Three hours later, my fluorocarbon line had seen more algae than action. I was re-tying my rig for the ninth time when the morning stillness cracked. A monstrous splash erupted near the sunken logs, sending a great blue heron skyward in protest.

'That's no bluegill,' I muttered, hands suddenly steady. The Yamamoto Senko hit the water with a whisper. Two twitches. Then the line came alive, screaming through the fog that suddenly felt charged with electricity. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank glinting like pirate's gold, I realized my shaking knees had baptized themselves in the shallows.

The walk back to the truck smelled of wet earth and second chances. Sometimes the fish don't bite until you've nearly forgotten why you came.