When the Fog Lifted at Lost Lake

The thermometer read 48°F when my waders squeaked across the dock planks. Somewhere in the pea-soup fog, smallmouth bass were staging their fall feed - and I intended to find them. My thermos of coffee sat forgotten on the kitchen counter, but the adrenaline already buzzed in my fingertips.

By sunrise, I'd cycled through three jigging spoons without a nibble. The mist clung to my beard like wet spiderwebs. 'Maybe the fish slept in too,' I muttered, re-tying a fluorocarbon leader with numb fingers.

The epiphany came with the first crack of sunlight. As golden rays pierced the fog, I noticed dimpling waves near a submerged boulder field - the telltale breakfast buffet. My swimbait landed with a surgical plop. Two twitches. Then the rod buckled hard enough to sting my palm.

Twenty yards of line screamed off the reel before I felt the headshake - that glorious vibration signaling a bronzeback worth bragging about. The fish porpoised at boatside, its flanks glowing like hammered copper in the newborn light. My net swallowed victory whole.

Walking back past the dockmaster's cabin, I tossed my untouched coffee grounds into the weeds. Some mornings, it turns out, cold fingers and clearer minds make the best brew.