When the Fog Lifted

The digital clock glowed 4:47am as I licked salt from my cracked lips. Lake Winnipesaukee's notorious morning mist clung to my beard like phantom spiderwebs. My lucky jig head - the one that survived last season's pike attack - felt unnaturally cold between my trembling fingers.

By sunrise, I'd cycled through every lure in the box. 'Maybe the smallmouth can read expiration dates,' I muttered, eyeing my decade-old fluorocarbon line. A loon's mournful cry echoed across the glassy cove.

The miracle came as I slumped against the gunwale. Three sharp tugs nearly yanked the rod from my grip. For seven breathless minutes, the unseen beast tested my drag system and dignity in equal measure. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its golden flank shimmered like melted butterscotch.

As I released the thrashing beauty, dawn pierced the fog in laser beams. The lake whispered its eternal truth: stubbornness outlives frustration, every damn time.