When the Fog Held Secrets

The predawn mist clung to my waders as I waded into the shallows of Smith Lake. My soft plastic lure box felt heavier than usual - maybe because I'd promised my fishing buddy Dave this swampy backwater held trophy bass. Crayfish skittered sideways across limestone ledges as my first cast sliced through pearly fog.

'Should've brought the bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at mosquitoes while working the lure. For ninety minutes, only bluegills nibbled. The rising sun burned off the mist, revealing water clearer than I'd anticipated. My stomach dropped - maybe the bass could see my spinning reel line?

Reward came when shadows lengthened. A wake bigger than any turtle's swirled behind my lure. Heart pounding, I let the bait sink... One twitch. Two. The strike bent my rod double. Twenty yards of line screamed out as the bass bulldogged toward submerged timber. 'Not today,' I whispered, thumbing the spool. When I finally lipped her - solid eight pounds of spotted bass - the fog had returned, wrapping us both in cool victory.