I peeked out my bedroom window one October night. The fog had been settling over the White River and I could barely see past a few feet.
With hesitation, I grabbed my fishing gear and waders to go fish the No Moon night. Driving to my honey spot was slow and hazardous. Visibility was zero.
The night air was still and the lack of any moon light was lost in the fog. It gave it a darker than black feel. I couldn’t even see my outstretched hand in front of me and it became unsettling as my mind began to wonder.
Being there alone, late at night, I got got an uneasy felling as I listened to the gentle sound of the water against the shore. An old news story began replaying in my mind about the ghost of past fisherman who had droned in this exact location.
I had to shake the The White River Wader tragedy from my head as I began to enter the dark water. So slowly I waded out to a chest deep depth about about 100 yards from the shore, right to my favorite sweet spot.
As I began to make my first cast, I quickly turned my head to my right finding myself face to face with a man no more than just three feet away. We both were surprised and screamed simultaneously, then regained our composure and both began laughing.
After we introduced ourselves to each other, we started fishing the foggy, moonless night. I asked him what he thought of the fog. “I actually enjoy it,” he said.
Then I asked him if he was from the nearby area. When he hadn’t replied, I turned toward him. But there was nobody there.
I fled the water that night as fast as I could. And I never fished there again.