When the Fog Sang with My Fishing Line

3:47AM. The dashboard's green glow illuminated empty coffee cups as my truck bounced down the gravel road. Shivering not from cold but anticipation, I gripped the steering wheel tighter when the fluorocarbon line spool in my tackle box rattled like maracas. Lake Champlain's eastern shore materialized through pearlescent fog, its waters breathing steam like a sleeping dragon.

『Third cast』I muttered, watching my lucky crawfish crankbait disappear into the mist. The rod tip had barely settled when three sharp tugs nearly knocked the Shimano from my hands. 『Not again—』The protest died as line screamed off the reel. For seven breathless minutes, the unseen beast painted zigzags through fog curtains, until...

『Holy Toledo!』My shout startled a heron. There in the net thrashed a smallmouth bass wearing autumn's fire, its bronze flanks glistening with water diamonds. I traced its lateral line, feeling victory pulse beneath scales before releasing it with a kiss. The fog lifted as I packed up, revealing three more bass sipping mayflies where my lure had first landed.