When the Fog Lifted

Three cups of bitter coffee still couldn't shake the November chill from my bones. The pickup's headlights cut through pre-dawn fog as I turned onto the gravel road to Lake Meridian, my trusted spinnerbait rattling in the tackle box like a nervous prayer.

Docks materialized like ghost ships in the mist. I nearly stepped on a great blue heron frozen in hunting stance - we both jumped, the bird's indignant squawk scattering droplets from cattails. First cast sent concentric rings blending with rain patter. By the tenth retrieve, my fingers had memorized the braid's crosshatch texture.

'Should've brought the damn thermos,' I muttered when the drizzle intensified. That's when the 'chuk...chuk...' rhythm changed. Line hissed through guides as something solid headed for submerged timber. Rod doubled over, drag singing the high note from Mozart's Requiem.

For three suspended heartbeats, the world reduced to pulsating rod tip and heartbeats. Then sunlight pierced the clouds as the smallmouth breached - a copper projectile trailing liquid diamonds. Its gills flared against my palm before disappearing in a kick of defiance.

Back at the truck, I found my thermos cap floating in a puddle. The coffee was cold, but tasted like victory.