When the Fog Lifted at Broken Arrow Creek

The thermometer read 42°F when my waders squeaked across the frost-covered dock. Somewhere in the pre-dawn mist, cutthroat trout were rising – I could smell the distinct mineral tang of snowmelt mixing with creek water. My thermos of coffee steamed in rhythm with the fog, each sip leaving burnt caramel notes on my tongue.

Three casts with a 氟碳线-rigged nymph produced nothing but drifting pine needles. 'Maybe the mayfly hatch came early,' I muttered, watching a dipper bird dive precisely where my fly had landed. The fifth cast snagged on submerged roots, snapping off my favorite pheasant tail pattern.

Noon sun burned through the haze as I switched to a 摇摆饵. Midway through the retrieve, water bulged like mercury pushed from below. The strike came not as a tug but a sudden weight – as if the creek itself had grabbed my lure. Twenty yards downstream, the trout surfaced in an explosion of prismatic spray, its crimson gill plates flashing through droplets suspended in golden-hour light.

Releasing the 18-inch beauty, I noticed my trembling hands mirrored the creek's current – both shaped by forces beyond our control. The fog returned at dusk, this time smelling of promise.