When the Fog Lifted

3:17AM. My thermos of bitter coffee steamed up the truck's windows as I navigated backroads slick with dew. The frog lure in my tackle box rattled with each pothole - a green-painted talisman that never failed me on lily pad waters.

Misty Hollow Reservoir lived up to its name. Fog clung to the water like cobwebs, swallowing my headlamp's beam. I nearly stepped on the bullfrog guarding the dock; its indignant splash echoed in the gray stillness. First casts sent concentric ripples through mirrored sky, my popper disappearing into the vapor.

By sunrise, my optimism had dissolved with the mist. Bluegills nibbled my patience thin. I was reeling in to leave when sunlight pierced the clouds, revealing a submerged log I'd sworn wasn't there before. Three casts later, the water exploded.

My rod arched like a crescent moon. The bass breached twice, showering me with lakeweed and defiance. 'Not today,' I growled through clenched teeth, fingers burning as braid sawed through calluses. When net met scales, we both paused - me panting, it glaring with prehistoric eyes.

The walk back felt lighter, though my creel remained empty. Somewhere beyond the treeline, a heron's wings beat rhythm with my footsteps. Sometimes the fish you keep aren't the ones you catch.