When the Fog Lifted

The predawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dew-covered dock. Somewhere in the pea-soup fog enveloping Cedar Creek Reservoir, smallmouth bass were slurping mayflies off the surface - I could hear their slurps echoing like ghostly kisses. My thermos of bitter coffee suddenly tasted inadequate against the creeping mist that blurred the line between water and sky.

'Should've brought the topwater lure,' I muttered, fingers fumbling with a shaky head jig. The third cast produced nothing but weeds. By the seventh, even the rhythmic plop-swish of line through guides felt like a metronome counting down failure.

Sunlight pierced the fog bank at 8:17 AM. That's when I saw them - nervous water dimpling near the submerged timber I'd been ignoring. My fluorocarbon line sliced through the sudden glare as the jig landed with surgical precision. Two hops. Then the rod doubled over like a question mark demanding answers.

What followed was 200 yards of drag-screaming chaos. The smallmouth breached twice, shaking its bronze armor in defiance. When my net finally engulfed the 4-pounder, I found three mayflies stuck to its jaw - nature's receipt proving breakfast had been interrupted.

As I released the fish, fog fingers crept back across the water. But this time, their embrace felt less like a blindfold and more like a curtain rising on tomorrow's act.