When the Fog Lifted at Dead Man's Bend

3:17AM showed on my truck's dashboard when I finally found the dirt pull-off. Mist clung to the Mississippi like cobwebs, the kind of fog that turns familiar landmarks into ghost stories. I patted the tungsten bullet weights in my vest pocket – my grandmother's old thimble clinking against them like always. Some call it a superstition; I call it remembering.

River rocks slid under my waders as I waded into the chute. My first cast with the chatterbait sent a heron squawking from its perch. 'Should've brought coffee,' I muttered, watching my lure's blade stir silver spirals in the murk. Three hours and seven snags later, even the crayfish seemed to laugh at my empty creel.

The sun burned through the fog at 9:08AM. That's when I saw them – nervous water dimples upstream, the kind that makes your drag hand twitch. My swim jig hit the sweet spot between current seams. The strike didn't so much pull as erase gravity.

Twenty-three pounds of angry smallmouth turned the river into a washing machine. Line burned through my fingers, the braid's vibration humming that ancient fish song. When I finally scooped her up, her amber eyes held the same stubborn fire as the river itself. The release took seconds. The trembling lasted until lunch.

Now my wet boots steam by the truck heater, and I can't stop grinning. The river gives when it damn well pleases – today, it pleased.