When the Fog Hid My Biggest Catch

3:47 AM. My thermos slipped from numb fingers, clattering on the dock. The September chill already bit through my flannel, but I grinned watching steam rise from spilled coffee - the soft plastic bait in my tackle box didn't need caffeine to wake up.

Moonlight silvered the mist over Lake Champlain. My waders hissed through dew-soaked grass as I approached the rocky point. 'Should've brought the heavier line,' I muttered, fingers brushing the scar on my casting hand - souvenir from last year's pike surprise.

First three casts yielded nothing but reeds. The fourth snagged. As I cursed and yanked, the water exploded. Not my snag - a massive smallmouth had struck the lure meant to free my rig. The spinning reel screamed like a teakettle as line vanished.

'Easy girl, easy-' I crooned, rod tip dancing. Then she jumped. Moonlight flashed on bronze scales bigger than my forearm. My knees actually wobbled.

When the headshake came, it happened in slow motion. The line went slack. Just before sunrise, the fog lifted to reveal my trophy lure dangling from a birch branch... six feet above water.