When the Fog Lifted on Willow Creek

My waders crunched through frost-kissed grass as the truck's headlights revealed the mist hovering over Willow Creek. I always bring Grandpa's tarnished lucky spinnerbait in my tackle box, though today it clinked against the new jerkbaits with judgment.

The river breathed. Fog swirled above eddies where smallmouth bass should've been hunting. Three casts with a crankbait yielded nothing but algae. 'Maybe the mayflies hatched early,' I muttered, swapping to a fluorocarbon leader. My coffee thermos hissed steam into the 38°F dawn.

By third sunrise, numb fingers fumbled another lure change. Then - the guttural splash. Not the polite nibble of trout, but the thunderclap strike of something that bends rods. My line sliced through mist as the drag screamed. 'You're towing the whole damned river!' I shouted to the unseen fighter, boots skidding on slick stones.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flanks glowed like molten metal. The hook fell out before my trembling hands could reach it. I stood there grinning, river soaking my jeans, realizing the best trophies sometimes exist only between rod tip and memory.