When the Fog Lifted More Than the Dawn

The thermometer read 42°F when my boots crunched across the frost-kissed dock. Shrouded in pea-soup fog, Lake Champlain's eastern shore smelled of damp pine and diesel fuel from idling fishing boats. I patted the worn lucky spinnerbait in my vest pocket - the same one that fooled a 28-inch pike here three winters back.

『Think they're hugging bottom today?』 My fishing partner Marty squinted at the sonar's neon hieroglyphics. We'd been casting jig heads into the abyss for ninety fruitless minutes when the fog suddenly dissolved like stage curtains. Sunlight revealed concentric ripples twenty yards starboard.

Rod arched like a drawn longbow, the reel's drag screamed in protest as line sliced through my gloved fingers. 『Marty! Net! Now!』 The smallmouth breached in a shower of liquid diamonds, its bronze flank glittering like buried treasure. Our victory whoops startled a heron into flight, its wingbeats keeping time with my hammering pulse.

As we released the 21-inch brute, I noticed the spinnerbait's skirt had unraveled completely. The lake always claims its price.