When the Fog Lifted

03:47 blinked on my wristwatch as thermos coffee burned my tongue. The dock's wooden planks creaked beneath worn waders that had seen better days. Lake Guntersville was breathing today - not waves, but that eerie mist that makes topwater frogs skitter like ghost feet across the surface.

'Should've brought the damn depth finder,' I muttered, squinting at the tea-colored water. My third cast got swallowed by the fog mid-air. Then it happened - a gurgling slurp near the lily pads. Not the polite nibbles from yesterday's dinks. This was the sound a cinderblock would make if it could suck down ducklings.

The rod doubled over before I finished cranking the slack. 'Are you...?' The answer came as 50-pound braid started smoking off my reel. For seven glorious minutes, we danced - me scrambling to keep the bow facing north, her bulldozing through submerged timber. When the net finally sank under her jaw, I found myself laughing at the three hooks straightened like abstract art.

The fog burned off at 10:23. So did my voice, from whooping as her wake disappeared into deeper waters. My coffee's cold now. Couldn't care less.