When the Fog Lifted
When the Fog Lifted
3:17AM showed on my wristwatch when the thermos cap slipped from my frozen fingers, clattering on the dock. November air smelled of decomposing cattails and distant snow. I tightened my lucky keychain – the one shaped like a bluegill – against my tackle box, like I'd done every trip since finding it snagged on a log last spring.
The johnboat rocked as I stepped in, disturbing a great blue heron's silhouette. By the time I reached the submerged timber pile, fog had swallowed the shoreline. My first cast with spinnerbaits sent ripples through the silver mist. 'Should've brought the depth finder,' I muttered, squinting at featureless water.
Two hours later, caffeine jitters set in. The sun burned through fog just as my line snapped on what felt like a log... or was it? Re-tying the fluorocarbon line, I noticed concentric rings expanding near a half-sunken birch. 'Last cast,' I lied to myself.
The strike came violent and sudden. For eight breathless minutes, 20lb test sang against something primal. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank glistened like molten metal. I waded knee-deep to release it, numb to the icy water. From the disappearing fog emerged the heron again, wings beating in time with my still-racing pulse.