When the Fog Lifted

Moonlight still clung to the pickup's windshield as I bounced down the gravel road toward Lake Marion. The thermos of coffee between my legs did little to warm my knees – autumn mornings in Minnesota bite harder than a northern pike. My lucky spinnerbait rattled in the cupholder, its red blades dull in the predawn gloom.

By 5:30 AM, my waders were sucking at the muddy bank. Fog swallowed the lake whole, turning my headlamp beam into a milky sword. 'Should've brought the compass,' I muttered, squinting at the identical-looking stands of cattails. The first cast sliced through the mist with a satisfying plop. Nothing. The tenth cast. Still nothing.

Sunrise came as a pale smear. I was reeling in yet another weed-cloaked lure when the cold front hit. Northwest wind ripped the fog away like a tablecloth trick, revealing concentric circles twenty yards offshore. My hands fumbled the rod – were those...? Three more casts landed uselessly short. 'Time for the big guns,' I growled, tying on the weighted swimbait I'd sworn not to use after last month's snagging disaster.

The thump traveled up the line before I saw the strike. Drag screamed like a banshee as something massive bulldozed toward the sunken timber. 'Not again,' I choked, remembering the monster that snapped me off here in July. Rod tip dancing near the surface, I side-pressured hard. When the smallmouth finally broached, its bronze flank glittered with challenge. The net barely contained it.

Back at the truck, I stared at the trembling scale needle. 4.8 pounds. The fish had taken my last swimbait. The fog had taken my morning. And somewhere in St. Paul, my wife's tomato plants were probably still waiting for their promised trellis. I grinned, wiping fish slime on my jeans. Some lessons sink slower than others.