When the Fog Lifted

The dock boards creaked under my waders as I loaded the canoe. 3:47am according to my phone's glare, the exact minute walleye eyes stop glowing under flashlight beams. I always bring that cursed spinnerbait from my first tournament loss - call it masochistic nostalgia.

Mist clung to the river like cobwebs. By the third bend, my thermos of bitter coffee warred with the swamp's algae scent. Nothing bit through the pea-soup fog, not even the stubborn perch that usually plague my fluorocarbon line. 'Maybe the catfish are napping,' I muttered to a disinterested heron.

Sunrise came as orange streaks through thickening clouds. I was re-tying a leader for the eighth time when the water blinked. Not a ripple, but a metallic flash three feet wide. My hands forgot 20 years of muscle memory, fumbling the cast. The spinnerbait plopped two feet left of the mystery.

Then the river came alive. My rod arced like a carnival ride as something bulldozed into submerged timber. 'Snag?' I wondered until the 'log' surged upstream. Drag screamed. My thumb burned from spool friction. When the smallmouth finally rolled at boatside, rain began pocking the water's skin.

Its golden flank disappeared with a mocking slap. I sat dripping in the downpour, laughing at the universe's punchline: sometimes you don't land the trophy, but the story sticks anyway.