When the Fog Lifted

3:47 AM. My thermos of bitter coffee steamed up the truck's windows as I navigated backroads slick with dew. The spinnerbait in my tackle box kept clicking like an impatient metronome - my grandfather's old Super Strike, its copper blades still shining despite twenty years of toothmarks.

Misty Hollow Reservoir lived up to its name. Fog clung to the water so thick I nearly missed the dock. My first cast sliced through the pea soup atmosphere with a satisfying *plop*. Then nothing. For ninety minutes, nothing.

'Should've brought the depthfinder,' I muttered, reeling in another empty line. That's when the morning breeze shifted. Through dissipating fog, concentric rings appeared near submerged timber. My pulse did the funny double-thump it always does when the dance begins.

The flurocarbon line hissed through guides as I sent a jig arcing toward the rings. Two hops. A tentative nibble. Then the rod nearly kissed the water. What followed wasn't a fight - it was a demolition derby. The smallmouth bulldogged toward the logs, jumped thrice spraying dawn light from its flanks, and finally came aboard wearing my jig like a golden earring.

As I released the bronze-backed beauty, fog completely burned off to reveal the reservoir's true shape - a mirrored question mark. Appropriate, considering all the mysteries still swimming beneath.