When the Fog Lifted

3:17AM showed on my weathered Casio as thermos coffee burned my tongue. The pre-dawn chill made my fluorocarbon line stiffen like guitar strings. I always fish the old railroad trestle this time of year – the smallmouths gorge on mayflies here, or so I'd convinced myself for the third straight week.

'Still nothing?' My fishing partner Marty's voice cut through the mist. We'd been casting spinnerbaits into ink-black water for hours. My third snag of the morning ripped off another blade. 'Next time we're using bottom bouncers,' I grumbled, picking at the bird's nest in my reel.

First light revealed our mistake – the 'trestle' we'd anchored near was actually a duck blind. Marty's snicker died when my line suddenly went submarine. The water erupted in a silver spray as a pike launched itself like a Polaris missile. My rod arced violently, drag screaming like a banshee.

Twenty minutes later, we stared at the toothy 38-inch monster thrashing in the net. 'Well,' Marty said, eyeing the rising sun glinting off the trestle we'd actually meant to fish, 300 yards east, 'wrong landmark, right fish.' The pike's gills flared as I released it, leaving us both grinning like fools with bleeding thumbs.