When the Fog Lifted at Willow Creek

3:17 a.m. found me lacing boots by refrigerator light, the fluorocarbon line in my tackle box glinting like spider silk. A barred owl's call echoed through the pines as I launched the kayak into water so still it mirrored the Milky Way.

By sunrise, my optimism dissolved with the mist. Five missed strikes on the topwater frog left me muttering to the thermos of gone-cold coffee. 'Should've brought the damn spinnerbait,' I grumbled, watching a turtle sun itself on a cypress knee.

The crunch came at high noon - not from the water, but my stomach. Reaching for jerky, I noticed concentric rings spreading beneath a submerged log. Two casts later, the rod bent double. Line hissed through guides, burning my thumb as 10 pounds of smallmouth bulldogged toward deep water. When I finally lipped her, golden scales held the whole afternoon sun.

As I released her, thunder rumbled where clear skies had reigned. The storm caught me halfway to the ramp, rain washing fish slime and pride down my waders in equal measure.