When the Fog Lifted at Lost Lake

Three cups of coffee couldn't shake the chill from my bones as I launched the kayak into milk-white fog. The predawn silence was so thick I could hear soft plastic lure packages crinkling in my tackle box. My grandfather's battered brass compass - always clipped to my vest - felt colder than the 48°F air against my chest.

By sunrise, three bluegill had mocked my presentations. I nearly missed the subtle dimple near submerged timber until my fluorocarbon line twitched sideways. 'Steelheader's instinct,' I chuckled, setting the hook into empty resistance. Then the water erupted.

Forty-three seconds of chaos later, I stared at the smallmouth thrashing in my net. Its bronze flanks glowed like molten metal in the newborn sun. The compass between my collarbones suddenly felt warm.