When Fog Became My Fishing Partner

The dock thermometer read 48°F when my boots crunched on the frost-coated gravel. Lake Winnipesaukee's November silence was broken only by the metallic tackle box latch clicking open - that familiar sound always jumpstarts my heartbeat. I rubbed the rabbit's foot keychain in my pocket, a silly ritual since college when Sarah said it looked like a drowned squirrel.

By 6:15 AM, thick pea soup fog rolled in, reducing my $60,000 bass boat to a rubber ducky-sized world. The spinnerbait blades felt frosty between chapped fingers. 'Should've brought the thermos,' I muttered, exhaling a coffee-scented cloud that hung in the air like cartoon text.

Three hours. Twelve casts. Two bluegill stealing my nightcrawlers. The fog started playing tricks - was that a fish splash or just water dripping off the rod tip? I nearly jumped overboard when the depth finder suddenly lit up, showing a massive school at 15 feet. My Carolina rig hadn't even settled when the line snapped taut, drag screaming like a teakettle.

The fight felt like trying to lift a wet mattress with dental floss. When I finally netted the smallmouth, its bronze flank glowed through the fog like pirate treasure. Released with numb fingers, it disappeared into the mist as silently as it came.

Driving home, I realized the rabbit's foot stayed dry in my pocket all morning. Maybe the real luck was in losing visibility - when you can't see past your nose, you finally feel the tug.