When the Fog Held Secrets

4:17 AM. The dock creaked beneath my waders as pre-dawn mist clung to my beard. Lake Champlain's surface breathed like a living thing, each ripple whispering of smallmouth bass lurking below. I checked my carbon fiber rod for the third time - its familiar weight against my palm still felt like shaking hands with an old friend.

'Should've brought the damn bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at mosquitoes drawn to my headlamp's halo. First casts sliced through pea soup fog, spinnerbait blades throwing sparks of moonlight. Nothing. Then nothing some more.

Sunrise came and went without a tap. My thermos of coffee turned to bitter memories. Just as I considered retreat, the fog bank rippled - not with wind, but with the distinctive bulge of predator fish corralling baitfish. Heart drumming against my ribs, I sent a drop shot rig sailing into the chaos.

The hit nearly wrenched the rod from my hands. Twenty yards of braid disappeared before I remembered to thumb the spool. For three glorious minutes, the smallmouth danced on its tail, painting silver arcs across mirrored water. When my net finally cradled its bronze flanks, dawn's first proper light gilded its stripes like war paint.

I released the fighter with numb fingers, watching it vanish into lingering mist. Somewhere beyond the fog line, a loon laughed. Or maybe it was the lake itself.