When Mist Becomes My Fishing Partner

3:17AM showed on my waterproof watch when the truck tires crunched over the gravel parking lot. Silver Creek in October smells like wet limestone and desperation – the good kind that makes fishermen check their fluorocarbon leaders twice. My thermos of black coffee steamed in the predawn chill as I rigged up a ned rig, the purple flakes on the soft plastic barely visible in my headlamp's halo.

The river murmured secrets as I waded in. Smallmouth bass should've been stacking near the submerged limestone ledges, but after forty-three casts, my only companions were the water striders skating across the still pools. 'Maybe the cold front messed everything up,' I muttered, watching my breath mingle with river mist. A barred owl's call sliced through the gloom – or was that a splash?

Sunrise came as a pink blush behind the sycamores. Something silver flashed near the opposite bank's root ball. Three casts later, my line jumped like a live wire. The drag screamed its metallic hymn as the smallmouth breached, morning light glinting on its bronze flanks. For one suspended moment, man and fish shared the same heartbeat.

When I finally slid the 20-incher back into the current, my fingers trembled not from cold but revelation. Sometimes the fish aren't biting – they're waiting for you to become part of the river's rhythm. The mist, now burning off, carried my laugh downstream.