When the Fog Lifted at Willow Creek

The thermometer read 43°F when I scraped frost off my truck's windshield, that peculiar crunching sound that only happens during pre-dawn cold snaps. My thermos of coffee sloshed in rhythm with the gravel road's potholes, the familiar route to Willow Creek imprinted in my muscle memory. Three failed trips this season gnawed at me – maybe the old man at the bait shop was right about these 路亚饵 needing warmer water.

First casts sliced through mist rising off the water like ghostly fingers. My frozen hands fumbled the 纺车轮, sending a spinnerbait crashing into skeletal sycamore branches. 'Classic Mike move,' I muttered, breath visible in the lavender dawn. For two hours, the only action came from bluegills nibbling my trailer hooks.

The sun climbed but brought no warmth. I was reeling in for the thousandth time when the fog bank rippled – not with wind, but with the telltale swirl of predator fish corralling shad. Heart pounding, I sent my crankbait arcing toward the disturbance. The strike came mid-retrieve, rod doubling over so violently my line sizzled through the water's surface.

What followed wasn't a fight but a negotiation. Each surge toward submerged logs required careful side pressure, the drag's protest echoing off limestone bluffs. When I finally lipped the 22-inch smallmouth, its tiger-striped flanks glistened with river secrets. Held in the current's embrace, the fish vanished with one powerful kick, leaving me clutching empty hydraulics.

Driving home, I noticed my hands still smelled of fish slime and river moss – the only proof it wasn't another fisherman's daydream.