When the Fog Lifted at Mossy Cove

My boots sank into the marsh mud with a squelch that echoed through the predawn stillness. The 4:15 AM air clung to my face like cold silk, carrying the mineral tang of decaying lily pads. I tightened the frayed fluorocarbon line on my reel—the same one that snapped during last month's 'big one that got away.'

'Should've brought coffee,' I muttered, watching my breath swirl with the mist. For forty minutes, my chartreuse spinner kissed the submerged logs without so much as a nibble. Then, near the cove's sunken cedar, the water erupted in a silver spray. My rod doubled over so violently the handle left grooves in my palm.

What followed was eight minutes of chaos: drag screaming like a banshee, hip boots filling with swamp water, and the heart-stopping moment when the 22-inch chain pickerel surfaced—its dagger teeth snarling around my swimbait. As I released it, dawn broke through the fog, turning the ripples to liquid gold. Sometimes the fish don't bite until the world decides to wake up.