When the Fog Lifted

Three cups of coffee still couldn't warm my fingers as I launched the kayak into pre-dawn darkness. The lake exhaled wisps of mist that clung to my fleece jacket like ghostly fingers. Somewhere in the gloom, smallmouth bass were staging their fall feed – or so the old marina attendant had sworn yesterday.

'Should've brought the heavier rod,' I muttered, watching my shaky casts disappear into pearly nothingness. For two hours, the only action came from persistent bluegills stealing my crawfish lure. Then, as first light bleached the eastern sky, the fog bank rippled unnaturally. Not wind – something subsurface was herringboneing through the shallows.

Swapping to a topwater frog, I sent it skittering across newly visible rock beds. The strike came violent and wrong – no bass ever inhaled a lure sideways. The drag screamed as my ultralight rod formed a parabolic curve that mirrored my raised eyebrows. When the smallie finally surfaced, its bronze flank bore the jagged scar of a musky attack.

Releasing the battle-worn fish, I noticed my thermos floating 20 yards out. The lake giveth, the lake taketh away.