When the Fog Concealed More Than Shorelines

3:17AM. The dashboard thermometer read 47°F as I tossed my lucky Zippo lighter into the tackle box - the same one that's ridden shotgun on every fishing trip since I mistook a snapping turtle for a state record bass. Lake Monona's boat ramp dissolved into milky oblivion behind me, the fog so thick it clung to my waders like cold spiderwebs.

My spinnerbait made its sixth perfect cast toward the submerged timber. That's when the first bluegill struck with the enthusiasm of a kid grabbing free candy. 'Just stockers,' I grumbled to the thermos of gone-cold coffee. By sunrise, the rhythmic plop-plop-plop of failed retrieves had become a taunting haiku.

The fog burned off at 7:42AM according to my waterlogged Casio. That's when I saw them - concentric rings radiating from the channel marker like radar pings. My hands fumbled the rod as I switched to fluorocarbon line, the memory of last month's snapped braid still fresh. The wake boiled bronze beneath the surface. Smallmouth? Musky? My next cast landed with the precision of a sniper's bullet.

What followed was eight minutes of pure chaos. The drag screamed like a banshee as 20 yards of line vanished into the depths. The rod arched into a U-shape that would make engineers cringe. When the smallmouth finally breached, sunlight glinting off its tiger-striped flanks, I forgot to breathe.

As I released the 21-inch beast, its tail slap sent droplets arcing through a rainbow. The fog had lifted completely now, revealing shoreline cottages I never knew existed. Sometimes it takes losing visibility to truly see.