When Dawn Mist Became Bass Breath

The pickup truck's digital clock glowed 4:47AM as I spit out peppermint gum - my ritual since that time catfish stole my lunch. Lake Martin's boat ramp floated in spectral fog, its wooden planks creaking under boots still caked with last week's red clay. I tightened the fluorocarbon leader with teeth, tasting yesterday's forgotten coffee.

'Should've brought the green pumpkin craw,' I muttered, watching my black-blue jig sink into liquid shadow. Three hours later, twelve color-changed lures dangled from my hat brim like metallic dreadlocks. The thermos bottom scraped hollow when the hydrilla patch rippled - not the lazy sway of current, but that electric shudder every angler knows.

My spinning reel's drag screamed like a tea kettle as the beast surged toward submerged timber. Knees braced against the kayak's tremor, I imagined the graphite rod manufacturer's promise: '90 million modulus fibers'. Right now, it felt like holding lightning in a pool noodle. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank mirrored the sun breaking through fog - 5 pounds if it was an ounce.

The released fish vanished with a defiant splash, leaving me grinning at water rings that looked like question marks. My vibrating phone lit up with a text: 'Dinner ready when U R'. For once, I didn't mind the microwave meatloaf waiting home.