When the Fog Lifted at Cedar Creek

Three consecutive casts snagged on submerged logs had me muttering curses into my coffee thermos. The pre-dawn mist clung to my waders as I waded into Cedar Creek's familiar bend, where smallmouth bass were supposed to be chasing crankbaits at first light. My trusted rod felt heavier than usual - maybe from yesterday's marathon tying session with those new feathered jigs.

By sunrise, my tackle box lay scattered across a flat rock. I'd cycled through topwaters, jerkbaits, and even the neon-green spinnerbait that worked miracles last season. 'Maybe the drought changed their patterns,' I told a curious blue heron stalking the shallows. The bird blinked slowly, unconvinced.

It happened when the fog started burning off. A concentric ripple fifty yards upstream - too big for turtles. My wrist flicked automatically, sending a weightless worm rig toward the disturbance. The line came alive before I finished counting to three.

What followed wasn't so much a fight as an aquatic bulldozer testing my drag system. Twenty-pound braid hissed through guides as the smallmouth breached, shaking morning dew from its bronze flanks. When my net finally slid under it, the ruler showed 21 inches - personal best.

Walking back to the truck, I noticed the heron again, now spearing its own breakfast. We nodded in mutual understanding. Sometimes the fish don't change - just our patience wears thin before the fog lifts.