When the Mist Cleared at Willow Creek

3:47AM. My thermos of bitter diner coffee trembled in the cup holder as the truck bounced down the gravel road. Through the fogged windshield, Willow Creek's silhouette emerged like a sleeping giant - its surface so still I could hear spinnerbait blades clicking against my tackle box with every pothole.

The first cast sliced through dawn's silver veil. I always start with a topwater lure here, chasing that heart-stopping moment when bass erupt through mirrored surfaces. But today the water remained stubbornly smooth. My wrists grew sore from fan-casting the coontail beds, each retrieve trailing ghostly spirals of algae.

'Should've brought the waders,' I muttered when my third jig head snagged on submerged timber. The sun climbed higher, baking the aluminum boat seat until it burned through my jeans. I was debating giving up when a sudden gust rippled the water - not from wind, but from a massive tail slap near the north bank.

Adrenaline sharpened my movements. Line hissed through the guides as I sent a creature bait arcing toward the commotion. Two hops. A pause. Then the rod nearly jerked from my hands as something primal surged toward deep water. For seven breathless minutes, 10lb fluorocarbon sang against rocks and roots until finally, gleaming in the sunlight, emerged the largest smallmouth I'd ever seen - its bronze flanks scarred from a hundred battles.

As I released the warrior back into the tannin-stained water, a breeze carried away the morning haze. Sometimes the creek doesn't give up its secrets until you've paid enough in sweat and doubt.