Reflections: Fog and Fish—A Morning of Memory at Mize Point

This article was originally titled Fishing in Fog in the April-May 2023 Reflections column of In-Fisherman.

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The fog wasn’t noticeable on the drive to the lake early that morning. Perhaps it was coming off the water or was just at the right elevation. But as we backed the boat down the ramp it seemed to fade.

Once on the water, our plan was to troll deep for trout. We both had lead lines on big reels; mine was a Penn saltwater reel and Dad’s a large single-spool reel designed for lead lines. As we pulled away from the ramp, it became obvious we couldn’t see well enough to drive up the lake so we dropped our lines as soon as we passed the no-wake buoy.

This late in the season, the shad minnows were full-grown so I tied on the largest Rebel minnow in my tackle box. Dad liked to troll spoons and usually did well with them.

He watched the flasher unit to keep us in deep water while I tried to listen for other boats. Any fool running at speed would be on top of us before he could see us. Even with our running lights on I still kept an ear out.

My line trailed behind the boat and I guessed my minnow was down about 30 feet. If you troll a lot you learn such things. I had five colors out on my lead line, and according to the charts for the line it tended to level out at that distance. Once earlier that year I snagged a tree top at that depth and positioned the boat directly above the snag. Then I measured 30 feet of line to the tree top just before it broke off. So it was an educated guess.

My fiberglass rod had a permanent bow in it from hours upon hours of trolling. Still, I preferred this rod because it had just the right pressure to set the hook on a bite when trolling. It also showed how my lure was running with the flexible tip. My Rebel was wobbling just enough to cause the tip to bob like a finger tapping a typewriter steadily on the same key.

We had trolled about a mile, trying to keep off the main channel but still in deep water. I could tell by the flasher unit we were crossing a cove and I guessed correctly that we were approaching Mize Point. I never knew why it had my last name but I thought it should be a lucky spot. It hadn’t been up until that moment.

My rod bent double on the strike and I yelled at Dad to cut the motor. The fish shook its head and I let him get it out of his system. The last thing I needed was to bring a good fish to the side of the boat with too much fight left in it.

I kept a steady pressure on the fish, let it slog deep, and slowly brought it up. As it slid into the net, the spots jumped out at me. The brown trout had clearly lived well. Just under 20 inches, it had a deep belly and body disproportionate to its head. I gingerly placed the fish in the cooler and we went back to trolling.

The fog was still hovering over the water but on occasion we could see down the lake. Having quickly picked up the one fish, we trolled a large circle around the mouth of the cove in hope that more were congregating below.

I had hardly put my line back in the water when the rod bent again. This time it was accompanied by a distant splash where the hooked fish jumped.

This trout fought mostly on the surface. I could predict where the jumps were coming by watching the line cut through the water. The lead line kept about the right tension for the jumping fish as it kept making a circle around the boat.

As this one came into the net, the pink stripe down its side shone bright even in the dull light. The rainbow was slightly smaller than the brown trout, but not much. I laid it in the cooler beside the brown.

A gentle ribbing seemed in order. So I offered Dad my lure, both of us knowing he wouldn’t take it and I wouldn’t give it. We always enjoyed this part of the trip and I think he took pride in my fish as much as his. He was grinning bigger than I was.

By now the sun was a dull orb visible through the fog. We could tell it would burn off soon so we were anxious to keep fishing.

Testing our luck, we made one more circle around the mouth of the cove. In the same area as the trout had struck, my rod doubled up one more time.

This fish fought differently than the first two. It splashed at the surface after the strike, but didn’t clear the water. It pulled hard on a few runs, zigzagged a few times coming to the boat, and then rolled over to slide into the net. It was a largemouth just slightly smaller than the rainbow.

Catching each of these fish that morning was unusual because in early September the trout and bass usually found comfort in different depths. Whether we had found an underwater spring, an abundance of shad minnows, or some other reason for these fish to congregate, we never knew.

But as soon as our lines were back in the water, the fog burned off and with its disappearance the fish went with it. We tried to find the fish again but without success. The water looked like a mirror in the bright sunlight without a ripple or even another boat in sight.

After a couple more hours of trolling, we called it a morning. As soon as we got home, I grabbed a Polaroid camera and had Mom snap a photo of me with the brown trout. I planned to enter it in a Sports Afield fishing contest. As I recall, the minimum entry was two pounds and my brown weighed in at four even. I filled out the form, mailed it with the photo, and forgot about it.

Some months after the deadline for the competition, I started getting free fishing tackle in the mail. A fishing-line company sent some free line and a couple lure companies sent sample lures. I even got a few logo patches for my jacket. Then I got the certificate from Sports Afield telling me that I had registered the largest brown trout for the state.

The local newspaper sent a reporter to take my photo in the boat acting like I was fishing. I felt a little stupid reenacting the scene with the trees in the background. My classmates in school razzed me plenty over the story but it made me feel like a celebrity. I had bragging rights without even having to brag.

That certificate hangs on the wall of my cabin along with the Polaroid of me with my brown trout. Faded to shades of gray, the photo looks like the fog might be creeping into it.

I’ve not had a morning quite like that one since. I’ve fished foggy days on tailraces where the cool lake water during power generation leaves a layer of fog over the river. Sometimes at night on the lake, fog will drift in wisps by my lantern like old souls out for a stroll. But for a kid to land three nice fish that he remembers for a lifetime while the fog blocks everything else, that truly makes the trip unique.

Perhaps special mornings should never be repeated. That way, they remain special.

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Jim Mize has caught larger trout since, but none that felt better. You can find his award-winning books on Amazon or purchase autographed copies at acreektricklesthroughit.com.

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