When the Fog Lifted

Three successive casts landed precisely where the lily pads kissed open water. My jighead disappeared into the coffee-colored water, trailing smoke-colored plastic that always made bull bluegills curious. For twenty minutes the rhythm held: cast, twitch-twitch-pause, retrieve. Then the fog came.

Visibility dropped to thirty yards. The world became cotton batting soaked in motor oil fumes. My Thermos of black coffee turned lukewarm as I debated staying. That's when the swirl happened – not the polite glup of bream feeding, but the watery explosion of something that should be in saltwater.

Line screamed off the spinning reel like a teakettle left on the stove. The rod doubled over, tip dancing circles in the thickening mist. 'Not today,' I growled through clenched teeth, thumb burning against the spool. When the beast finally surfaced, its bronze flank glistening with marsh pollen, I forgot to breathe.

The fog burned off at 10:07 AM. My ruler showed 22 inches. The lake gave me back my lure – barbless hook slipped out as easy as morning slips into day.