When the Fog Held Secrets

3:17AM. My thermos of bitter coffee steamed up the truck windows as I navigated backroads smelling of damp pine. The spinnerbait in my pocket kept snagging on the frayed upholstery – a bad omen I chose to ignore.

Dawn at Willow Slough revealed water so still, my own breathing sounded loud. Three casts in, something hit my frog lure with the enthusiasm of a freight train... only to spit the hook with a mocking splash. 'Should've retied the leader,' I muttered, watching concentric rings erase the evidence.

By midmorning, the fog thickened into soup. My fishing partner's voice floated disembodied from somewhere left of the cypress knees: 'Think they're hitting topwater?' Before I could answer, my line zipped sideways. The drag screamed that particular metallic hymn as twenty pounds of muskie breached in a silver explosion, showering us both with marsh water and disbelief.

We never did see the sun that day. But when my frozen fingers finally released the trophy fish, its tail slap left iridescent droplets hanging in the fog – nature's Polaroid of a moment no tackle box could ever contain.