When the Fog Lifted at Deadman's Bend

The thermometer read 43°F when my boot soles crunched on the frost-covered dock. Somewhere in the pea-soup fog covering Lake Verret, a loon cried – nature's alarm clock for stubborn anglers. I instinctively touched the jerkbait in my vest pocket, its paint chipped from last season's battles.

By sunrise I'd already snagged two lures on submerged cypress knees. 'Should've stayed in bed,' I muttered, rewrapping frayed braided line. That's when the water erupted 20 yards west – not the delicate swirl of feeding perch, but the thunderclap splash of something that belonged on a taxidermist's wall.

Three casts later, my rod arched like a question mark. The fish dove deep, burning drag as it raced past submerged logs. 'Not today,' I growled, thumbing the spool until the smell of heated line filled the air. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank glittered with drops that looked like liquid mercury.

The fog vanished with the morning, taking my secret coordinates with it. But sometimes I still taste that metallic tang when the barometer drops.