When the Fog Lifted at Mossy Cove

3:17AM. The dashboard clock glowed like a conspirator as I sipped bitter gas station coffee. My waders crunched through frost-coated gravel at Mossy Cove, where soft plastic worms had outsmarted last season's bass. The fog hung thicker than my grandmother's chowder, swallowing the beam of my headlamp.

'Should've brought the fog horn,' I muttered, nearly tripping over a muskrat hole. First casts disappeared into the gray void with muted plops. By sunrise, my coffee thermos held more action than my tackle box - just two nibbles and a lost jig.

Then the sun burned through. Fog retreated like a stage curtain, revealing concentric ripples near submerged timber. My spinning reel sang as a bronze-backed warrior inhaled my Texas-rigged worm. For three glorious minutes, the world narrowed to throbbing rod arcs and the musk of swamp mud.

When I finally slid the 4-pounder back, it kissed my palm goodbye with a defiant tail slap. The fog rolled back in at noon, but my grin stayed sunlit all the way home.