When the Mist Turned Silver

03:17 AM blinked on my truck's dashboard as I pulled into the abandoned boat ramp. The Suwannee River exhaled wisps of fog that clung to my waders. My grandfather's lucky spinnerbait weighed heavy in my pocket - the red paint chipped from the time it landed a 7-pound chain pickerel in '98.

Wood ducks erupted from the slough as I made my first cast. The spinnerbait's blades stirred liquid mercury, but two hours later, my coffee thermos sat empty beside equally untouched tackle. 'Should've brought the topwater frog,' I muttered, watching a gar roll near a cypress knee.

Sunlight pierced the fog just as my line jumped. Not the sharp tug of a bass, but something primal that bent my rod into a crescent moon. Drag screamed as the unseen beast towed me through lily pads. 'Gator?' flashed through my mind before 30 inches of prehistoric bowfin exploded from the tea-colored water.

When I finally slid my hand under its gills, the fish's golden eye reflected my trembling grin. The spinnerbait fell from its jaw into the shallows as I released it. Somewhere downstream, my grandfather laughed in the ripples.