When the Fog Lifted

Three consecutive casts landed in the same coffee-colored patch of duckweed, the soft plastic worm disappearing with a satisfying plop. My left thumb still bore the raw groove from yesterday's marathon casting session. The mist clung like wet gauze, muffling even the red-winged blackbirds' dawn chorus.

'Should've brought the heavier line,' I muttered, feeling the braid dig into my index finger during another fruitless retrieve. The temperature drop overnight had turned the bass sluggish - or maybe it was the old Mercury outboard's sputtering that scared them off.

By mid-morning, the sun burned through the haze revealing what I'd missed: a submerged timber line tracing the eastern bank like skeletal fingers. Holding my breath, I sent a shaky cast toward the largest snag. The moment my spinnerbait touched down, the water erupted in a silver geyser.

Forty yards of backing disappeared before I remembered to thumb the spool. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank glittered with flecks of my shattered expectations. The release felt ceremonial, water dripping from my shaking hands onto sun-warmed gunwales.

Driving home, I kept checking the rearview mirror - not for traffic, but to watch the fog creep back across the lake, already rewriting tomorrow's possibilities.