When the Fog Lifted

Three cups of coffee still couldn't shake the November chill from my bones as the truck tires crunched over frost-rimed gravel. Lake Superior's shoreline materialized like a ghost painting - pines bleeding into mist, water merging with sky. I nearly tripped over my own wading boots hauling gear to the spot where steelhead were supposed to be chasing spawn bags.

'You're chasing ghosts,' my buddy Mark had laughed last night. But here in the numbing quiet, even skepticism froze solid. First cast sent my orange spawn sack arcing through air so cold it crackled. Then nothing. For hours.

Until the fog lifted with the sun.

A sudden tug nearly wrenched the rod from my stiff hands. 'Holy--!' The words froze in my throat as silver erupted from mirrored water. My spinning reel screamed protest as the steelhead bulleted downstream. Rocks slipped beneath boots; icy water flooded my waders. Twenty minutes later, breath coming in white plumes, I cradled the iridescent warrior - its gills pumping steam into crisp air.

The truck's heater never felt so good. Though somewhere beneath seat heaters and numb toes, I knew - next time I'd bring extra socks.