When the Fog Lifted

Three consecutive casts ended in disappointment, my spinnerbait returning with nothing but tangled weeds. The digital thermometer read 62°F - perfect smallmouth conditions, yet the river seemed deserted. Just as I debated moving upstream, a sudden splash downstream revealed concentric rings spreading beneath overhanging willows.

My waders hissed through waist-deep current as I approached. Three careful steps, then my boot dislodged a sandstone slab. The metallic clang sent two emerald-winged mergansers skyward, their indignant squawks echoing off limestone cliffs. 'Well played, river,' I muttered, watching my last decent lure disappear with the fleeing ducks.

But redemption came at high noon. The sun burned through lingering mist just as my line jumped alive. Twenty yards downstream, chrome flashes betrayed a bronze-backed warrior. The fluorocarbon leader sang its taut melody as current and fish conspired to test my drag system. When I finally cradled the smallmouth's mosaic-patterned flanks, its gills pulsed with the river's ancient rhythm.

Back at the truck, I found orange monarch wings stuck to my cooler - nature's ironic seal on a morning when persistence outwitted perfection.