When the Fog Lifted

Three consecutive weekends of empty coolers had me questioning my spinning reel choices. The pre-dawn air bit through my flannel shirt as I launched the kayak into pea soup-thick fog, compass glowing faintly toward the submerged timber piles where smallmouth were supposed to be staging.

First casts with the jerkbait produced nothing but phantom strikes. My coffee thermos clanked against a box of tube jigs as I rummaged for alternatives. 'Should've stayed in bed,' I muttered, breath forming speech balloons that dissolved in the grayness.

The sun breached the horizon just as my line went electric. Thirty yards out, something primal tore through the mist-shrouded water. Drag screamed like a banshee as the kayak pivoted, paddle clattering overboard. Cold spray slapped my face with each headshake transmitted up the braided line.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank catching first light, I forgot to reach for the net. We stared at each other - predator and fool - before the hook dislodged itself. The splash echoed oddly in the lifting fog, as if the lake itself were laughing.