When the Fog Held Its Breath

3:17AM. The dashboard's neon glow illuminated empty coffee cups as my truck rolled into the Caddo Lake boat ramp. A curtain of mist hung so thick I could taste its damp metallic kiss. My lucky spinnerbait jingled in the tackle box - the same one that fooled Old Mossback last spring.

Paddle strokes sliced through liquid silence. Cypress knees emerged like ghostly sentinels. 'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, breath frosting in the chill. Three hours passed with only bluegills nibbling my soft plastic worm. Then the lily pads quivered. Not the usual breeze dance, but concentric ripples moving northwest.

My CastAway reel sang as 10lb braid peeled off. 'You're mine,' I growled through clenched teeth, rod arcing like a willow branch. The monster dove, wrapping my line around submerged timber. Heart hammering, I waded waist-deep - swamp muck sucking at waders - and reached...into the jaws of a 7lb chain pickerel.

Dawn broke as I released the emerald-scaled warrior. My shivering hands found something in the kayak's drain hole - the thermos I'd thought forgotten. Steam curled upward, mirroring the last tendrils of retreating fog.