When Fog Became My Fishing Partner

The marsh smelled like wet pine needles as my waders sank into the knee-deep muck. Dawn hadn't so much broken as it had dissolved—a milky fog erased the line between sky and Florida's Everglades. I gripped my trusty spinning reel tighter, its handle worn smooth from twenty years of pre-dawn excursions.

Mosquitoes whined in stereo around my headnet. On the third cast, something slammed my topwater frog so hard it left tooth marks in the foam. My line sawed through sawgrass as the beast bulldogged toward hidden gator holes. 'Not today,' I growled, thumbing the spool until the braid burned.

When the mist finally lifted at 9 AM, I stood shin-deep in a cove that shouldn't exist. Bronze-backed peacock bass rolled in the shallows, their neon spots glowing through tannin-stained water. My hands shook as I tied on a jighead—the same copper one that failed me last season. This time, the strike came before the lure touched bottom.

Rain started as I released the fifth fish. The first drops hit my neck like cold pennies, mixing with sweat and swamp water. Driving home barefoot with AC blasting, I realized fog doesn't obscure—it reveals waters even maps forget.