Whispers in the Fog

The predawn mist clung to my waders as I stepped into the shallows of Willow Creek. My thermos of bitter coffee steamed in the crisp air, its aroma mixing with the damp earth smell unique to April mornings. I always start with a spinnerbait here - the redear sunfish usually tear it up, but today the water felt different. Cold seeped through my neoprene gloves as I made the first cast.

For forty-seven minutes exactly (I checked my water-resistant watch), nothing disturbed the concentric rings of my lure. Then came the faintest tug during a slow retrieve. 'Bluegill,' I muttered, until the line suddenly zinged through my fingers. My baitcasting reel's drag screamed like a tea kettle as the unseen force headed for submerged logs.

Two heartbeats later, a bronze flash broke the surface. 'Smallmouth!' I yelled to the mist, though my only audience was a disinterested heron. The fish dove deep, bending my rod into a trembling crescent. When I finally lipped the 18-inch fighter, its spotted flanks glistened like tarnished silver.

By noon, the fog burned away to reveal five more bronze backs breaking the current seams. Each strike came when I least expected - during a yawn, while retying a knot, once when a dragonfly landed on my rod tip. The creek didn't care about my schedules or expectations, only the ancient rhythm of predator and prey.

Driving home with an empty cooler but full memory card, I realized why I keep returning to these misty mornings. It's not about what we bring to the water, but what the water decides to reveal.