When the Fog Lifted at Willow Creek

Dew clung to my waders like liquid mercury as I stumbled through pre-dawn darkness. The marsh smelled of decaying cattails and something sweeter – maybe wild mint crushed underboot. I'd promised myself not to return after last month's skunking, yet here I was, spinnerbait box clinking against my thermos like a drunk's pocket change.

'Still chasing ghost bass?' The marina attendant's chuckle followed me onto the dock. I pretended not to hear, focusing instead on the way fog swallowed my headlamp beam whole. First casts plopped into nothingness. By sunrise, even the bullfrogs had stopped mocking my efforts.

It happened when the mist began to blush pink. A swirl near submerged timber – too subtle for eyes, but my vintage St. Croix rod transmitted the vibration through cork handle. Three twitches. Wait. The strike nearly yanked me overboard. Drag screamed as line carved neon trails through lingering fog.

When I finally netted the smallmouth, its bronze flanks glowed like embers in the newborn light. The fish inhaled once – a sound like parchment tearing – before vanishing into tea-colored depths. My trembling fingers found the lucky Roosevelt dime I always rub during releases. This time, the 1945 date felt prophetic.