When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM. My thermos clinked against the 纺车轮 as I loaded the truck. Full moon hung low over Lake Marion, its silver light cutting through cypress knees poking through mist. The air smelled of wet moss and something else – that electric tang big catfish leave when they're active.

By sunrise I'd already lost two rigs to snags. 'Should've brought the heavier 碳素线,' I muttered, retying for the eighth time. My lucky copper fishing coin felt warm in my palm – the one my daughter gave me after her first catch. A sudden splash near submerged logs made my neck hairs rise. Not the lazy slap of turtles. This was proper feeding frenzy.

Three casts later, something inhaled my cut bait. The rod arched like Florida orange grove branch in hurricane season. Twenty minutes of give-and-take, forearms burning from strain. When the flathead finally surfaced – easily 40 pounds – its whiskers glistened with morning dew. Released it watching those barbels disappear into tannin-stained depths.

Driving home, I realized mist had lifted without me noticing. Sometimes you just need to outwait the fog.