When the Fog Lifted More Than Morning

The thermometer read 52°F when I backed the boat into Chickamauga Lake, my thermos of bitter coffee steaming like the mist rising off the water. Three bladed jigs sat ready on the bench seat - my usual arsenal for late-spring smallmouth. By 6:17 AM, my line was cutting through fog so thick it tasted like damp cotton.

First casts met only submerged timber. The braided line hummed through my gloves as I worked a ledge drop-off. 'Should've brought the deep divers,' I muttered, watching a fellow angler land a keeper 200 yards west. My fourth cast hooked something solid - not a fish, but a waterlogged tree branch that snapped my leader.

Noon found me re-rigging when the fog bank rolled back like theater curtains. Sunlight revealed nervous shad dimpling the surface forty feet off starboard. Two casts later, my rod arced violently. 'Not a snag this time!' The smallmouth breached in a shower of gold, its tailwalking display drawing cheers from nearby boats. Scales glittered like fresh-minted pennies as I measured the 20-inch brute.

Drifting back to the ramp, I noticed my coffee had gone cold. Didn't matter. The lake served a different brew today - equal parts frustration and revelation, best consumed unfiltered.