When the Fog Lifted on the Mississippi

The predawn air clung to my skin like a wet wool blanket as I launched the jon boat into coffee-colored waters. My lucky bucktail jig - the one that caught my personal best smallmouth - rattled in the tackle box with each wave. By the time I reached the submerged rock ledge, dawn's first blush painted the fog in peach tones.

Three casts with my trusty spinnerbait yielded only river grass. 'Should've brought the craw-colored crankbait,' I muttered, watching a barge's wake slap against the bank. The gurgling water suddenly erupted with a splash that sent my heart racing. Something big was feeding under that sycamore's skeletal roots.

Switching to a weedless jig, I felt the line hesitate during retrieval. Not snag - that telltale side pull meant smallmouth. The rod doubled over as bronze lightning surged toward midriver. Drag screamed like a tea kettle while my thumb burned from line friction. When I finally lipped the 20-incher, its camo patterns shimmered with river secrets.

The fog had completely burned off when I released her. As the smallmouth vanished in golden depths, morning sunlight revealed dozens more swirls along the ledge. I reached for another jighead, suddenly noticing the coffee stain on my waders from this morning's rushed departure. The river chuckled behind me, its currents weaving stories only patient listeners hear.