When Fog Became My Fishing Partner

3:47AM. The alarm clock's buzz blended with bullfrog croaks outside my trailer. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, fingertips catching on yesterday's fluorocarbon line cut. Lake Guntersville's pre-dawn chill seeped through my worn flannel as I loaded the jon boat.

By 4:30, mist had swallowed the entire cove. My headlamp beam reflected back like fishing in a milk jug. 'Should've brought the compass,' I muttered, thumb tracing the chipped edge of my grandfather's lucky jighead in my pocket. The first cast's plop sounded unnaturally loud.

Three hours. Twelve lure changes. My coffee thermos empty. The sun should've burned off the fog by now, but the white curtain held. Just as I considered tying up to a ghostly cypress knee, my swim jig stopped mid-retrieve. Not snagged - this was the electric pause before...

Zzzzzzz! The drag screamed like a banshee. The rod bent double, handle digging into my hipbone. For seven glorious minutes, the fog transformed into a shaking, silver-flanked mirror that finally rolled into my net. Its gills pulsed against my palm as I removed the hook.

The fog lifted exactly as the bass slid back into the water. Sometimes nature gives you exactly the blindfold you need to truly feel the fight.