When the Fog Lifted at Willow Creek

The thermometer read 43°F when I backed the boat into the mist-shrouded creek. My thermos of coffee steamed in the cup holder, its bitter aroma mixing with the dank smell of willow roots. I always keep Grandpa's rusted tackle box in the boat – call it superstition, but it's seen more fish than I ever will.

By 6:15 AM, my spinning reel had iced over twice. The third cast sent a shiver through my numb fingers as the line peeled off. 'Should've brought the damn gloves,' I muttered, watching my chartreuse spinner disappear into pea-soup fog.

Something bumped the lure at 7:03. Not a strike – more like a curious nudge. The next twitch came with a violent pull that nearly snapped my ultralight rod. For eight breathless minutes, the unseen beast dove under submerged logs, its runs echoing through the hollow channel like submarine depth charges.

When the sun finally burned through the fog at 8:17, I sat holding a 22-inch smallmouth that glowed like molten bronze. Its gills flared once before it vanished back into the tea-colored water, leaving me clutching an empty Texas rig. The thermos was cold now, but I drank it anyway, tasting dawn and diesel and second chances.