Writing Prompt #466 “The fog rolled in, this was our first warning sign.” It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It was a beautiful, clear day. And lemme tell you, the trout were bitin’. I adjusted my G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised In The South) cap and pushed up my polarized prescription sunglasses. I twitched my rod. “Woooo!” Came my uncle’s war cry from the back of the boat. “I wouldn’t be you for apple butter!” This was a common enough phrase heard every Thursday when the weather was fair, TVA was runnin’ “big water”, and a bearded man and his redheaded niece could be found in the middle of the Clinch River in an aluminum boat. I kept my mouth shut and twitched my rod again. We slowly propelled across the river. Back and forth, back and forth. Only pausing to unhook. Which, to be honest, was happening a lot more from the stern than the bow. But as a wise person once said, “a bad day fishin’ is still better ‘an a good day at work.” The Clinch River is something to behold. It’s wide and green and swift and cold. It’s perfect for the sleek rainbow trout. It’s also home to the “elusive” yellow perch (named by me, sarcastically, after that was all I caught one afternoon and I had to make them sound more exotic and sought after), salamanders, white tailed deer, eagles, and the healthiest crop of…