When the Fog Hid My Trophy

The predawn chill seeped through my waders as I stepped onto the dew-slick dock. Lake Chelan's surface breathed wisps of mist that curled around my flashlight beam like ghostly fingers. My spinnerbait box clicked rhythmically against my hip - a metronome counting down to first light.

'Should've brought the thermal gloves,' I muttered, watching my breath mingle with the fog. The third cast sent my lure kissing the water near submerged timber. Nothing. By the tenth retrieve, even the crayfish had stopped inspecting my offerings.

Noon sun burned through the haze, revealing ripples I'd mistaken for wind. My line jumped, then screamed. 'Not another snag!' The rod arched dangerously as something primal surged toward deep water. Forty yards out, a silver flash breached - smallmouth bass turned freshwater torpedo.

Twenty minutes later, cradling 22 inches of spotted fury, I noticed the fluorocarbon line had etched its signature into my palm. The bass flipped back into the lake with a mocking splash, leaving me grinning like a fool. Sometimes the fish don't bite - they teach.