When the Fog Lifted at Willow Creek

The pickup truck's clock glowed 4:47AM as I pulled into the gravel lot, headlights catching wisps of mist rising from the creek. My thermos of black coffee left bitter warmth on my tongue - the exact same flavor as that fluorocarbon line fiasco last spring. Tonight would be different.

Moonlight silvered the water as I waded in, the cold biting through neoprene waders. Three casts with my trusty spinnerbait, three follows from shadows that melted back into darkness. 'Should've brought the jerkbaits,' I muttered, watching my breath mingle with the fog.

Sunrise came as an orange smear behind thickening clouds. Just as I considered retreat, a violent swirl erupted twenty yards upstream. Heart drumming, I sent my lure arcing toward the commotion. The strike came mid-retrieve - not the sharp tug of bass, but the determined pull of something ancient.

Twenty minutes later, waist-deep in swirling current, I cradled the 44-inch muskie's mottled flank. Its gills flared once, twice, before vanishing in a kick that soaked my favorite cap. The rain started as I reached the bank, washing fish slime from trembling hands. Sometimes the river gives lessons, not trophies.