When the Fog Whispered Secrets

3:47AM. The dashboard clock's pale glow revealed coffee stains older than my waders. Route 12 stretched before me like a graphite ribbon, headlights catching frost crystals dancing in the November air. I patted the compound spinnerbait in my breast pocket - the one that outlived three tackle boxes and a divorce.

Dew soaked reeds whispered against the kayak as I pushed into Backwater Cove. My headlamp beam sliced through fog so thick I could taste its metallic tang. The third cast sent concentric rings pulsing through a liquid mirror. 'Should've brought the fluorocarbon,' I grumbled, watching my monofilament silhouette against the surface.

Sunrise came and went without so much as a bluegill's kiss. By 10AM, my thermos held nothing but regrets. That's when the mayflies came - a golden snowstorm drifting eastward. I froze mid-cast, remembering old Tom's words: 'Where the buffet line forms, the bouncers follow.'

The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands. Twenty yards of braid zipped through water screaming like a teakettle. For one surreal moment, the smallmouth breached - suspended in amber light with my spinner glittering in its jaw like stolen jewelry.

When I finally slipped the net under its emerald flanks, fog tendrils curled around us like approving ghosts. The release felt like returning a library book you never wanted to finish. Paddling back, I noticed my spinnerbait's hook was bent beyond repair. Some lessons come dear, but float home light.