When the Fog Held Secrets

The thermometer read 43°F when my boots crunched on the frost-rimed dock. Lake Mendota's surface breathed tendrils of mist that curled around my headlamp beam like ghost fingers. I tightened my grip on the spinning rod – its cork handle still bore tooth marks from last season's musky encounter.

Three casts with jerkbaits yielded nothing but the hollow 'plink' of metal hitting water. My thermos of coffee had turned lukewarm when I noticed dimpling ripples near the submerged timber. 'You seeing this?' I whispered to empty air, threading a wacky rig onto the line. The first twitch of the green pumpkin Senko met immediate resistance.

Line screamed off the reel in staccato bursts. The rod bowed until the tip kissed the water's skin. Twenty yards out, a bronze flash breached the fog – smallmouth bass shaking its head like a dog with a chew toy. My knees pressed against the kayak's chill plastic as we danced, the fish making three heart-stopping runs beneath the kayak.

When I finally lipped it, dawn's first light gilded its flanks. The bass slid back into opacity with a contemptuous flick. As sunlight burned through the fog, I sat holding the empty net, grinning at coffee-colored water that still hid a thousand such secrets.