When the Fog Became My Ally

The dock boards creaked under my waders as I stepped into the predawn mist. Somewhere in this pea-soup fog on Lake Champlain, smallmouth bass were tearing through schools of shad - if only my spinning reel could find them. I sniffed the air, catching the sharp tang of decaying lily pads mixed with fresh coffee from my thermos.

'Should've brought the depth finder,' I muttered, blindly threading a green pumpkin Ned rig. The first cast disappeared into the gray void with a satisfying plop. By the tenth fruitless retrieve, my fingertips had memorized every nick in the rod handle.

Sunlight burned through the fog just as my line jumped. Not the tentative taps of perch, but the electric stutter of a bronzeback. The rod arched dangerously as the smallmouth breached in a silver spray, its tail slapping the fog-drenched surface. My laughter echoed across the suddenly visible lake - turns out the fog wasn't hiding fish from me, but me from the skittish giants.

Driving home with sun-bleached eyes, I kept glancing at the passenger seat where my lucky raccoon tail keychain lay. Maybe tomorrow it would smell less like coffee and more like victory.