When the Fog Lifted

3:47am. The numbers on my phone glowed like fireflies in the predawn darkness. My thermos of coffee steamed in rhythm with my breath as I loaded the truck, fingers brushing against the lucky jighead always clipped to my keychain. Lake Erie's surface was a black mirror when I launched, the mercury-vapor lights from the marina staining wisps of fog blood orange.

First casts plinked like coins in a wishing well. My chartreuse spinnerbait helicoptered through the water column, untouched. By sunrise, even the gulls seemed bored – until the fog bank rolled in thicker than campfire smoke. 'Going blind out here,' I muttered, squinting at the fish finder's ghostly green blips.

A sudden thump. Line screamed off the reel as something primal bent my rod into a horseshoe. 'Smallmouth!' I barked to no one, the braid slicing saltwater spray from the waves. When the bronze torpedo breached the surface, morning light glinted off its jaw like pirate gold.

As I released the 21-inch bruiser, fog dissolved to reveal shoreline cottages I hadn't realized we'd drifted past. The lake's chuckle carried on the wind – it'd been steering us the whole time.