When the Fog Became My Guide

3:47AM showed in neon green on my waterproof watch. The marina parking lot was deserted except for old Tom's pickup, its tailgate still down from yesterday's crappie trip. I sniffed the air – that peculiar mix of diesel and damp moss that meant spinnerbait season was coming. My thermos of bitter coffee burned going down, but I needed the warmth against the surprise April frost.

By the time I reached the submerged timber field, mist had turned the world into a snowglobe. My lucky Zippo – the one that survived Iraq – clicked three times before lighting. The flame's reflection on the fog made it look like I was floating in clouds. First cast with my go-to chatterbait produced nothing but algae. Second, third... The rhythmic casting became meditation until a bluegill stole my trailer grub.

'Should've brought the damn ned rig,' I muttered, watching my breath mix with the fog. That's when I heard it – the unmistakable slurp of big bass feeding near the bank. My fluorocarbon line hissed through the guides as I sent a wacky-rigged senko arcing toward the sound. Two twitches. The line jumped sideways.

What followed wasn't a fight – it was a demolition derby. The smallmouth bulldogged into the timber, sawing my line against bark. I thumbed the spool harder than sense allowed, smelling the burning drag washers. When the fish finally surfaced, its bronze flank bore four parallel scars – maybe from an eagle's talons, maybe from last year's spawning battles.

The fog lifted as I released her. Sunlight revealed five other boats within casting distance. All morning, they'd been right there – silent as ghosts, patient as the river itself.