When the Fog Lifted at Dead Man's Cove

3:17AM. The dashboard thermometer read 48°F as I turned onto the gravel road leading to my secret smallmouth spot. My thermos of coffee sat forgotten on the kitchen counter - again. 'Should've tied the damn thing to my wrist like last time,' I muttered, rolling down the window to smell the damp promise of approaching dawn.

The cove greeted me with an eerie silver blanket of fog. My trusty spinnerbait felt foreign in numb fingers as I made the first cast. For ninety silent minutes, the only action came from a curious otter and my own growing frustration. Then - a sharp tap-tap on the line that froze my breath mid-exhalation.

'You seeing this?' I whispered to nobody, watching my line cut a drunken 'Z' through the mist. The rod arched suddenly, drag screaming like a banshee. Cold lake water sloshed into my waders during the chaos, but I barely noticed until later when peeling off soggy socks in the truck.

As the morning sun burned through the fog, revealing the collapsed dock I'd been casting near all along, the smallmouth's bronze flank flashed like pirate gold. Released with numb fingers, she vanished into water now shimmering with light. My forgotten coffee? Best damn iced brew I never tasted.