When the Fog Lifted at Lost Lake

3:17AM showed on my dashboard clock when the tires found gravel. Headlights cut through mist so thick it looked like steam rising from a kettle. My fingers drummed the wheel - this ephemeral window between night owls and early birds is when spinnerbaits become magic wands.

The aluminum boat creaked underfoot as I pushed off. Water swallowed my anchor rope in gulps, disappearing into tea-colored depths. First casts sliced through the silence with satisfying *plinks*. By sunrise, my cooler held nothing but melted ice and regret.

'Should've brought the damn bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at mosquitoes dive-bombing my neck. That's when I noticed concentric rings expanding near submerged timber - the kind caused by feeding fish, not skipping stones. My fluorocarbon line hissed through guides as I sent a weightless worm sailing.

The strike came as a heartbeat pause followed by violent headshakes. Rod tip danced like a metronome gone wild. 'Not today, old girl,' I whispered to the bent rod, adrenaline cutting through fatigue. When net met fish, scales flashed copper in the newborn sun - a smallmouth that'd make any angler's hands shake.

Fog burned off by midday. I sat on the dock eating a squashed PB&J, watching dragonflies hover. Somewhere below, my released quarry was probably telling fish tales about the strange two-legged creature that couldn't hold its rod straight.