When the Fog Lifted at Willow Cove

3:17AM blinked on my truck's dashboard as I pulled into the deserted boat ramp. The August air smelled of wet moss and diesel, clinging to my skin like cellophane. My lucky nickel – the 1972 Eisenhower dollar I always keep in my wader pocket – felt unusually warm against my thigh. 'This is it,' I whispered to the empty thermos rolling on the passenger seat.

Mist swirled above the water like phantom dancers. I rigged up a soft plastic craw, its claws catching moonlight as I threaded the hook. The first cast sliced through the gloom with a satisfying *plop*. For forty-seven minutes, the only action came from persistent bluegills nipping at my lure's appendages.

'Should've brought the caffeine,' I muttered, recasting toward a submerged log. The line hesitated mid-retrieve. Not a snag – that electric tremble only living weight creates. My spinning reel sang its high-pitched aria as the beast surged toward open water.

Dawn broke during our dance. Crimson light revealed the smallmouth's golden flank flashing beneath the surface. When I finally slipped the net under its jaw, the fog had dissolved – along with last week's doubts. The coin in my pocket felt light as a mayfly wing as I watched her disappear into the sunlit depths.