When the Fog Lifted

The predawn chill bit through my flannel as I stepped onto the dock, breath crystallizing in air thick with the smell of wet pine. My soft plastic lure box rattled in sync with the loons' haunting calls. Lake Winnipesaukee's surface lay obscured by a spectral veil of mist, the kind that makes you feel watched by ancient fish ghosts.

Three casts in, my line snagged on what I swore was a submerged log - until it started moving sideways. 'Mud turtle,' I groaned, recalling last month's battle with a cantankerous snapper. By sunrise, my coffee thermos sat empty and my boots squelched with morning dew. The fog clung stubbornly, reducing visibility to 20 yards.

Then it happened - a sudden temperature drop made the mist evaporate like theater curtains rising. Sunlight revealed dimpling water near a submerged brush pile I'd never noticed. My spinning reel whirred as I cast a wacky-rigged worm into the chaos. The line jumped alive with the electric twitch only smallmouth bass deliver.

For twenty glorious minutes, bronze-backed demons danced on the surface. One particularly feisty fighter leaped clear, shaking its head in defiance before swallowing my offering. When I finally lipped the 4-pounder, its gills flared against my palm like a concertina's bellows.

As I released the last fish, fog fingers crept back across the water. The lake whispered its old secret: clarity always comes... eventually.