When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM according to my battered Casio. The dock boards creaked differently in autumn darkness, their groans muffled by the cotton-thick fog swallowing Lake Fork. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, fingertips catching on the nubby wool of my lucky gloves - the ones that survived the Great Catfish Incident of '19. My thermos hissed as I poured coffee, the bitter aroma mixing with diesel fumes from the idling boat.

The lipless crankbait felt heavier than usual when I tied it on. First cast sliced through the mist with a satisfying plop. For twenty-three minutes exactly (I count between strikes), nothing. Then - a tap so delicate it could've been a bluegill nibbling algae off my fluorocarbon line.

'You're imagining things,' I muttered, reeling in slack. The rod bent double before I finished the sentence.

What followed wasn't a fight - it was a debate. The fish surged left, I begged right. My drag screamed protest as line scorched through fog-damp fingers. When the monster finally surfaced, its bronze flank glittered like molten daylight breaking through the haze. The scale needle swung to 8lb 2oz before settling at 7lb 9oz - typical Lake Fork math.

Now the mist's lifting. So is that stubborn notion that mornings should start with alarm clocks instead of heart-stopping strikes.