When the Fog Lifted at Willow Creek

The thermometer read 43°F when I clicked off my headlamp. Dawn came wrapped in pea soup fog that morning at Willow Creek Reservoir, the kind of mist that turns familiar landmarks into ghostly silhouettes. My thermos of coffee steamed in the crisp air as I rigged my spinnerbait – the gold blade had outsmarted smallmouth here last November.

By 7:30 AM, my optimism started wavering like a bobber in choppy water. Three bass follows, zero commits. The fluorocarbon line hummed through my fingers on another futile retrieve. 'Maybe the front messed with their patterns,' I muttered, watching a loon dive where my lure should've drawn strikes.

Everything changed when the sun burned through the fog. Streaks of gold revealed a submerged timber pile I'd never noticed. My first cast parallel to the wood brought a savage strike that nearly yanked the rod from my hands. For twenty breathless minutes, I dueled with a smallmouth that fought like it had personal vendetta against my tackle box.

As I released the bronze-backed warrior, its tail slap sprayed water across my grinning face. The fog had lifted in more ways than one – sometimes you don't find the fish until the lake decides to show you where they're hiding.