When the Fog Became My Guide

The pickup truck's clock glowed 4:47AM as I sipped bitter gas station coffee. Highway 12 stretched empty before me, headlights catching swirling mist that smelled of damp pine and diesel exhaust. My lucky spinnerbait rattled in the cup holder with each pothole - the same chartreuse-and-white one that fooled a 7-pound smallmouth last spring.

Clear Lake's boat ramp materialized like a ghost pier. Water lapped at the concrete as I rigged my fluorocarbon line, fingers numb from the 50-degree chill. 'Should've brought the damn gloves,' I muttered to the resident mallard ducking for breakfast crawdads.

First three casts yielded nothing but reeds. Then, at 6:12AM - the exact moment sunlight pierced the fog - my line jumped with that electric 'thunk' seasoned anglers dream about. The drag screamed like a teakettle as something massive surged toward submerged timber.

'Not today, beautiful,' I whispered, thumbing the spool. For twenty heartbeats, time dissolved into the song of bending rod and singing reel. When I finally lipped the 24-inch largemouth, its emerald flanks glistened with morning dew and defiance.

The thermos lay forgotten in the truck. Some lessons, like fog over fishable water, can't be contained.