When Smallmouths Ruled the Fog

4:17AM on Lake Superior's north shore, the thermometer read 48°F but my chattering teeth swore it was freezing. Morning mist clung to my beard as I rigged up a jigging spoon, its silver finish matching the mercury-colored waves lapping against the granite shoreline. 'Should've brought the insulated waders,' I muttered, watching breath clouds dissolve into the marine fog.

First casts landed with hollow plinks that echoed across the sleeping bay. My frozen fingers fumbled the reel handle - that beautiful St. Croix rod suddenly feeling like an icicle in my hands. Three hours and fourteen snagged lures later, I nearly packed up. Then I saw it: concentric rings radiating from a submerged boulder, the telltale 'bloop' of a smallmouth's surface strike.

'One last drift,' I promised, sending the spoon airborne. The fluorocarbon line sang as the lure sank. At seven-count depth, the rod jerked downward so violently my coffee thermos toppled overboard. What followed was five minutes of pure chaos - smallmouth bronzebacks porpoising in the mist, drag screaming like a banshee, cold line burning grooves in my palm.

When I finally lipped the 21-inch brute, its golden flanks glowed through the fog like submerged treasure. The fish's gills pulsed against my thumb as we stared at each other, two creatures temporarily united by a silver spoon. Its powerful tail-kick sent droplets arcing through the dawn light as it vanished, leaving me grinning like a fool with frost in my eyebrows and fire in my chest.