When the Fog Lifted

Pre-dawn mist clung to my waders as I stepped onto the dock. The familiar spinnerbait in my tackle box rattled like a nervous promise. 'Today's the day you redeem yourself,' I muttered, remembering last week's skunk.

First casts sliced through water smooth as obsidian. My fluorocarbon line left temporary scars on the mirrored surface. 'Where are you hiding?' I whispered as a mayfly landed on my rod tip. The answer came as sudden as a shotgun blast - violent swirls erupted behind a submerged log.

Three missed strikes later, my thumb bled from lipping feisty bluegills. 'Maybe try slow-rolling that spinnerbait?' My own advice echoed from countless YouTube tutorials. The vibration pulsed through the rod like a heartbeat. Then - WHAM! The drag screamed as something primal bent my rod into a question mark.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its golden flanks glowed through the dispersing fog. The fish measured exactly... well, let's just say it's still growing in my memory. Sometimes the best trophies are the ones that escape the scale.