When the Fog Lifted
4:17AM. The dock's weathered planks creaked under my waders as mist coiled around my headlamp. Superior's surface resembled liquid obsidian, swallowing the pebbles I tossed to test the current. My thermos of bitter gas station coffee suddenly felt inadequate against the Great Lake's autumn bite.
Three casts with my trusted jerkbait yielded nothing but phantom nibbles. 'Should've brought the damn nightcrawlers,' I muttered, watching fog swallow a fishing buoy whole. The gulls agreed - their laughter echoed off cliffs still holding last night's moonlight.
Dawn arrived as gray sludge. I was retying a leader when the depth finder lit up like Christmas. Sweat mingled with lake spray as I sent a swimbait into the marked zone. The strike came vertical - rod tip kissing water as 30lb braid screamed through guides. For eight glorious minutes, man and fish became pendulum swings across steel waves.
When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank mirrored the sunrise breaking through mist. I knelt to revive my prize, fingertips reading Morse code in fading gill pulses. The fish lingered before vanishing, leaving me holding lake water and possibility.
Superior doesn't give endings - only intermissions between casts.
