When the Fog Lifted More Than Mist

The monofilament line felt like spider silk through my calloused fingers as I rigged up in the marina's yellow glow. Toledo Bend Reservoir's pre-dawn fog clung to my beard, each breath tasting of damp earth and dying campfires from last night's shorebound anglers.

My trolling motor hummed as I sliced through vapor curtains toward the flooded timber. Eighteen months ago, this submerged oak grove gave up a 9-pounder that still smiles at me from the garage wall. Today, the fishfinder showed only phantom blips beneath skeletal branches.

By 9 AM, my coffee thermos held nothing but regrets. The spinnerbait's blades sparkled uselessly in filtered sunlight. 'Should've brought the crankbaits,' I muttered, watching a water moccasin ripple past. That's when the fog bank rippled against the wind.

Three casts later, the rod doubled like a green sapling in a hurricane. The drag screamed as line peeled toward deeper water. 'Not today, old friend,' I growled, thumbing the spool until the monofilament burned through my glove. When the smallmouth breached, its bronze flank threw sunlight like a flipped coin.

I released it facing east, where the fog had dissolved into diamond-bright waves. Sometimes the lake doesn't give answers - just reminds you to keep squinting through the haze.