When the Fog Lifted

The alarm buzzed at 4:15 AM, its shrill tone cutting through the lingering smell of coffee I'd spilled while packing my tackle box. My fingers still smelled of soft plastic worms from last night's rigging session. Lake Champlain's eastern shore was shrouded in mist so thick, my headlights reflected back like twin ghosts.

'Should've brought the thermal socks,' I muttered, toes curling in damp boots. The first casts sent concentric rings dancing through moonlit water. By sunrise, I'd cycled through three lures without so much as a nibble. A loon's mournful cry echoed my frustration.

Then it happened - the fog bank parted like theater curtains. Sunbeams revealed bulging ripples near a submerged log pile. My spinning reel hummed as the jig landed with surgical precision. The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands.

Twenty minutes later, water dripped off the smallmouth's bronze flanks as I held it aloft. Its gills pulsed once, twice, before the kick that showered me in liquid diamonds. The fish vanished with a slap of defiance, leaving me grinning through wet hair.

Driving home, I kept checking the rearview mirror. Not for traffic - just making sure that perfect moment hadn't dissolved with the morning mist.