When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM. My thermos of black coffee left condensation rings on the tackle box as dawn's first whispers painted Lake St. Clair pewter. The spinning reel felt unusually cold in my palm - or maybe it was the tremor of anticipation running through my fingers.

By sunrise, the fog had swallowed my bass boat whole. I navigated memory alone, counting seconds between channel markers. The hollow *plop* of my jerkbait hitting water sounded unnaturally loud in the cottony silence. Three retrieves. Five. Then... a follow.

'Just dinks,' I muttered when two feisty smallmouths barely stretched the ruler. The fog clung stubbornly until 9AM, when golden shafts suddenly pierced through like spotlights. That's when I saw them - nervous water dimpling near the drop-off.

My next cast landed softer than a falling feather. The line jumped alive before I could twitch the rod tip. For twenty breathless minutes, the smallmouth used current and rocks like a seasoned brawler. When I finally lipped the bronze beauty, fog droplets glistened on its flanks like liquid mercury.

The lake gave up three more giants that morning. Each strike came precisely as mist swirls reformed - nature's metronome keeping rhythm with my pounding heartbeat.