When the Fog Lifted

3:17AM blinked on my Casio as the thermos slipped from numb fingers. Steaming coffee pooled around my boots, momentarily mirroring the full moon before soaking into the dock's weathered planks. Somewhere in the pea-soup fog, smallmouth bass were staging their pre-dawn feast – and I intended to crash it.

The 纺车轮 hissed like an angry cat as my first cast sliced through the mist. For forty-seven minutes (I counted), the lake gave nothing but taunting swirls near my topwater frog. 'Should've brought the damn waders,' I muttered, watching a spider methodically rebuild its web on my rod tip.

Then the wind shifted. Thick fog ribbons began dancing westward, revealing a submerged timber patch I'd never noticed. My third cast with a 软饵 landed flush against the biggest log. The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands.

What followed wasn't a fight – it was a demolition. The smallmouth launched itself into fog-shrouded moonlight twice, its bronze flank gleaming like molten metal. When I finally lipped it at dockside, dawn's first rays pierced through, illuminating the dime-sized scar above its gill plate – the same mark from last season's escaped trophy.

As I released the old warrior, a mosquito drilled into my neck. Some lessons, it seems, come with interest.