When the Fog Lifted

3:17 AM. The digital clock's glow illuminated my frayed fishing hat hanging on the bedpost. I paused at the doorway, nostrils flaring at the metallic tang of approaching rain. Lake Martin's bass wouldn't wait for perfect weather.

The dock creaked beneath my boots, each groan echoing across ink-black water. I rigged my favorite swim jig, its skirt frayed from last week's battle with a chain pickerel. 'Just one cast,' I whispered to the fog, knowing damn well that's what I'd said yesterday too.

By sunrise, my cooler held nothing but regret and a warm Dr Pepper. The fog thickened, swallowing my line's trajectory. I almost missed the dimple - that perfect concentric ring 20 feet off the lily pads. Three casts later, my rod arched like a question mark, drag screaming as the beast surged toward submerged timber.

When I finally lipped the 7-pound brute, her gills flared against my palm like bellows. The rain arrived as I released her, washing away the fish slime and my earlier frustration. Sometimes the lake doesn't give answers - it gives better questions.