When the Fog Lifted

The alarm clock read 4:17AM when my waders brushed against the screen door, releasing the faint smell of mildew that always follows rainy autumn nights. My thermos of black coffee sloshed rhythmically against the spinnerbait boxes in my tackle bag as I trudged toward the dock. Lake Erie's surface breathed like a sleeping dragon, exhaling wisps of fog that clung to my beard.

By sunrise, I'd already lost two good lures to the submerged timber. 'Should've brought the braided line,' I muttered, watching another pike ghost through the algae-stained waters without biting. The third cast snagged something solid - not a fish, but a sunken canoe paddle crusted with zebra mussels. I nearly tossed it back until noticing the fresh scratch marks along its edge.

Noon found me thigh-deep in the cove, water seeping through a seam in my waders that numbed my left leg. The fog had burned off, revealing a V-shaped ripple moving against the current. My hands shook as I tied on the last jig, the brass weight clicking like a casino token against my wedding band. The strike came not as a tug, but as sudden weightlessness - then the rod bent double.

When the muskie finally rolled onto the pebbled shore, its gills flared crimson against olive scales. I measured the curve of its jaw with my thumb, feeling ancient ridges worn smooth. The release sent glittering droplets arcing through sunlight, each containing a miniature rainbow. My coffee had gone cold hours ago, but for once, I didn't mind.