When the Fog Lifted

Three consecutive casts snagged on submerged timber had me muttering under my breath. The Allegheny River's morning mist clung to my waders as I waded deeper, the soft plastic lure in my trembling hands still smelling faintly of coffee from my hurried breakfast. At dawn's first blush, the water had promised smallmouth bass – now the sun climbed higher, turning the fog into a blinding curtain.

My wading belt bit into my hips as the current strengthened. Something brushed against my thigh – not fish, but a drifting oak leaf the size of my palm. 'Last cast,' I told the leaf, securing my lucky copper spinner. The blade caught sunlight piercing through fog as it arced overhead.

Impact came before the lure sank. The rod doubled over so violently my boot slipped on mossy bedrock. Cold river surged into my waders as I fought to keep tension. Twenty yards downstream, a bronze flash breached in the thinning mist – smallmouth shaking its head like a dog with a chew toy. When the spinning reel finally stopped screaming, I knelt in the shallows laughing at the leaf still stuck to my thigh.

Back at the truck, steam rose from wet neoprene as sunlight won its battle with fog. The leaf, now pressed in my field journal, carries river scent and the memory of how persistence wears disguises.