When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM. The dashboard thermometer blinked 52°F as I rolled down the pickup window. Pine resin and damp earth flooded the cab - someone had been burning cedarwood nearby. My lucky spinnerbait clicked rhythmically against the passenger headrest, its chartreuse skirt glowing under passing streetlights.

Lake Crescent's mirror surface shattered as my first cast landed. For ninety silent minutes, the only action came from coffee sloshing in my thermos. Then the fog came - thick cotton swallowing my bass boat whole. I was reaching for the anchor when laughter echoed across the water. Not human laughter. The gurgling chuckle of a largemouth breaking surface.

Blind casting through the mist, my line suddenly went electric. The rod arched like a question mark, braided line singing against rain-chilled fingers. Something massive rolled ten yards off the stern, creating a whirlpool that sucked in fog and daylight together. When the mist cleared twenty minutes later, only a single scale glittered in my net - mercury bright and wide as a silver dollar.

The lake never gave up its ghost. But sometimes I still taste that morning's cold air, metallic and urgent, when checking my tackle box at midnight.