When the Fog Lifted

The predawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dock. Lake St. Clair's surface breathed wisps of mist that clung to my 纺车轮 like ghostly fingers. My lucky copper compass weighed heavy in my chest pocket - never start a trip without checking the bearings.

'Should've brought the neoprene gloves,' I muttered, watching my breath materialize. Three casts with a jerkbait produced nothing but phantom strikes. The sun rose as a pale disc behind woolen clouds, turning the water into liquid pewter.

By midmorning, desperation made me rummage through the tackle box. My fingers closed on an old 硬饵 - banana-colored with rusted hooks. 'Really? This relic?' The memory surfaced: Dad's voice saying 'Chartreuse fools them when they're sulking.'

The first twitchy retrieve met resistance. Line hissed through the guides as a bronze shadow boiled the surface. 'Not another snag!' The rod doubled. Drag screamed. For six heartbeats, man and smallmouth became partners in a water ballet, until my net intercepted the pirouette.

As I released the thrashing bronze beauty, the fog dissolved to reveal Canada's shoreline. The compass needle quivered north. Some lessons only rust and time can teach.