When the Fog Betrayed My Lunker

The dock boards creaked beneath my waders as pre-dawn mist swallowed my flashlight beam. Somewhere in this pea soup fog, Lake Mendota's smallmouth were staging their morning ambush. I tightened the drag on my spinning reel, the cold metal making my palm tingle – a sensation that always jumpstarts my fishing instincts.

My first cast with a nuclear craw jig landed with a satisfying *plop*. Then nothing. Not even the usual bluegill nibbles. By sunrise, I'd cycled through three rods and developed a nervous habit of checking my line for phantom snags.

'Maybe the thermocline shifted?' I muttered, squinting at the suddenly glassy water. That's when I noticed the bubbles – clusters of tiny, urgent pearls rising near a submerged log. My hands shook as I tied on a drop shot rig, the fog now so thick it dampened the line's hum.

The strike came like a freight train. My rod tip dove toward the water as 10lb braid started singing off the reel. 'Not today, princess,' I growled through clenched teeth, thumbing the spool as the smallmouth breached in a silver arc. When I finally lipped the 21-inch beast, its gills flared against my wrist like live current.

As I released her, the fog lifted with dramatic suddenness, revealing my empty coffee thermos... and six boats anchored exactly where I'd been blind-casting. Sometimes the lake doesn't just give up fish – it teaches humility.