When the Fog Lifted at Crane Creek

The predawn air smelled like wet pennies as I launched my kayak into the mist-shrouded creek. My thermos of bitter gas station coffee trembled in the cup holder – the same dented green one I've carried since high school. 'Today's the day,' I whispered to the fog, though the spinning reel on my rod felt unnervingly light without its usual lucky sticker.

Ghosts in the Mist

For three hours, the creek gave up nothing but snagged branches and self-doubt. My soft plastic worm collected more algae than strikes. Then, as sunlight pierced the fog, a symphony of swirls erupted near the submerged oak. I nearly dropped my rod when the first smallmouth launched itself airborne, its bronze flank glinting like a pirate's treasure.

The Take

Line screamed off the reel so fast it burned my thumb. 'Easy girl,' I croaked, though my pulse roared louder than the current. When the 19-inch brute finally slid into my net, I noticed my knees were shaking. The release felt bittersweet – her final tail slap left creek water dripping from my nose.

Drifting back downstream, I watched mayflies dance in the golden light. The coffee tasted different now. Sweeter, maybe. Or perhaps I'd just forgotten to hate the bitterness.