When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM according to my waterproof watch. The dock creaked under worn boots still caked with last week's Potomac mud. I could taste the lake before seeing it - that particular blend of damp moss and soft plastic bait lingering in my tackle box. My lucky raccoon tail keychain (don't ask) tapped rhythmically against the coffee thermos with each step.

The mist hung thick as corn syrup. I nearly missed my jon boat in the milky haze, its aluminum hull weeping condensation. First cast landed with the satisfying 'plop' only a Texas-rigged worm makes. By the sixth retrieve, my fingers started remembering yesterday's blisters from that monster channel cat.

'Should've brought the damn spinnerbait,' I muttered as another bluegill stole my craw imitation. The spinning reel's drag whimpered in protest during these trivial battles. That's when the fog did something peculiar - instead of burning off, it rolled sideways like theater curtains.

Sunbeams pierced through just enough to reveal concentric rings spreading near submerged timber. Three quick casts later, my line snapped taut with the electric urgency only bass possess. The rod arched like a cathedral doorway, trembling as the fish surged toward root masses that could cut braid like dental floss.

When I finally lipped her - cold scales shimmering like liquid mercury - the fog returned as suddenly as it parted. The GPS trackback to shore became a guessing game. But for once, getting lost felt like part of the bargain.