When the Fog Lifted

4:17AM. My thermos of black coffee left concentric rings on the dashboard as the truck bounced down the gravel road. Something about pre-dawn humidity makes spider silk glow like diamond threads – I noted three such masterpieces between the boat ramp and my favorite cove. The frog lure in my tackle box clattered like loose change with each paddle stroke.

First casts landed with the precision only obsession can produce. Popper... nothing. Swimbait... a follow. Chatterbait... the heart-stopping flash of a strike that never connected. By sunrise, my shoulders remembered last week's doubleheader at Toledo Bend.

The fog came unexpected. One minute I was sight-fishing weed edges, the next trapped in a cotton ball. Water dripped off my hat's brim rhythmically. That's when I heard it – the unmistakable slurp of a topwater strike behind me.

Blind casting into milk-white emptiness, the topwater plug disappeared on third retrieve. Not with a splash, but a submarine surge that nearly wrenched the rod from my hands. For two eternal minutes, the drag sang its metallic hymn. When the fog finally parted, the smallmouth suspended in dawn's light looked more bronze than fish.

Back at the ramp, old Jim from the marina squinted at my catch photo. 'Fog fish don't count,' he grinned, coffee steaming in his calloused hand. The lie tasted sweeter than my morning brew.