When the Fog Lifted

The predawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dock. Somewhere beyond the pea soup fog, Lake Champlain's smallmouth bass were staging their autumn feast. My lucky coin – a 1972 quarter I'd found in a tackle box at a garage sale – felt heavy in my pocket as I loaded spinnerbaits into the boat.

By sunrise, the fog had congealed into a wool blanket. My fifth cast snagged on something that didn't budge. 'Dead log,' I muttered, until the 'log' surged sideways. The rod bent double, drag screaming like a tea kettle. For three breathless minutes, it felt like I'd hooked a subway train.

When the bronze flash finally broke surface, my whoop startled a loon. The smallmouth stretched the ruler to 21 inches – personal best. As I released her, the fog suddenly lifted, revealing mountains painted in fire-orange maples. The lake always shows its cards when it's good and ready.