When the Fog Lifted at Silver Creek

Dawn arrives in whispers at the marsh. My waders make that familiar squelch as I trudge through dew-soaked grass, coffee thermos knocking against the fly box in my vest pocket. Somewhere in the mist, redfish tails slap the bronze-colored water – sounds like wet applause from an invisible audience.

'Should've brought the 8-weight,' I mutter, finger testing the 10-pound fluorocarbon leader. The first cast sends my shrimp imitation skittering across flooded spartina. Nothing. By the third hour, even the herons seem to pity me, standing statue-still as my line tangles around an oyster bed.

A sudden pressure change makes my neck hairs rise moments before the fog shreds like theater curtains. Sunlight ignites a V-shaped wake trailing my now-sinking popper. The strike doesn't so much pull as erase slack from the universe. My reel handle becomes a spinning coin, drag singing high C as thirty inches of muscle paints cursive S's across the marsh.

When I finally lip the copper-sided beast, its gills puff brine-scented defiance. The release feels like returning a stolen thunderclap to the sky. Walking back, I realize marsh mud has permanently stained my lucky fishing shirt – a fair trade for wearing silver creek's secrets home.