When the Fog Lifted

The predawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I launched the kayak into still black waters. Somewhere beyond the curtain of pea soup fog, smallmouth bass were chasing shad in the rocky drop-offs. I touched the worn frog lure in my tackle box for luck – the same one that had failed me six trips straight.

Paddle strokes echoed like gunshots in the silent cove. By first light, my fingers were numb from casting jig heads into promising lies. 'Should've stayed in bed,' I muttered, watching a turtle sun itself on a log I'd sworn was a feeding bass.

The fog began burning off at 8:17 AM. I remember because I'd just decided to make 'three more casts' – the fisherman's eternal lie. On the second retrieve, line zipped sideways with the urgency of a stolen purse. My rod arched double, drag screaming like a teakettle. For seven glorious minutes, the smallmouth used current and rocks like a seasoned escape artist.

When I finally lipped the bronze-backed warrior, sunlight glinted off its flank like victory itself. The fog had lifted entirely now, revealing mountains I'd forgotten surrounded the lake. Sometimes the fish aren't the only thing we fail to see until the light shifts.