When the Fog Whispered Secrets

3:47AM. My thermos clanked against the boat's aluminum hull as pre-dawn mist clung to my beard. Lake St. Claire was breathing today - warm vapor rising to meet the cold front, creating a spectral dance across the water. I adjusted the fluorocarbon line on my baitcaster, its invisible strand disappearing into the milk-white atmosphere.

'Should've brought the depth finder,' I muttered, squinting at water so opaque it could've been concrete. My bare fingers traced the edge of the tackle box until they found the familiar banana curve of a jerkbait - chartreuse belly glowing like radioactive algae in the gloom.

First cast sliced the mist with a surgeon's precision. Then nothing. Not a nibble through seven color changes, three lure types, and half a pack of cinnamon gum. The sun began bleeding through the fog when it happened - two concentric ripples forming exactly where my last cast had landed.

Rod tip twitched before my brain registered the line tension. The drag screamed like a bobcat as something monstrous breached in the fog, showering me with lake water and disbelief. For three pulse-pounding minutes, 10lb test became a live wire humming with primal energy.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flanks glistening with victory, I didn't reach for the net. Just leaned down, removed the hook with trembling hands, and watched my reflection warp in its obsidian eye before it vanished. The fog lifted an hour later, taking with it all evidence of the encounter - except the cinnamon taste still burning my tongue.