When Dawn Whispers to the Water

The crunch of frost beneath my boots sounded louder than a foghorn in the predawn stillness. Lake Superior's shoreline stretched before me like a sleeping giant, its breath forming wisps of steam where 38°F water kissed 20°F air. I rubbed my lucky Buffalo nickel—worn smooth from twenty years of pocket travel—as the first slate-blue light seeped over the horizon.

My spinning reel whined in protest as I cast into the glassy expanse. For ninety silent minutes, the only action came from my coffee thermos and a curious mink doing shoreline surveillance. 'Should've brought the damn hand warmers,' I grumbled, watching my soft plastic lure emerge untouched yet again.

The sun breached the tree line just as my numbness turned to resignation. Then—a liquid explosion shattered the morning. My line tore sideways, drag screaming like a banshee. The rod's cork grip bit into my frozen fingers as chrome flashed beneath the surface. 'Not a coho...not this shallow...can't be—'

When the steelhead finally slid onto frost-rimed gravel, its flanks glowed like mercury in the newborn light. I watched it vanish into the amber depths, my trembling hands stained with fish slime and victory.

Somewhere behind me, a chickadee chuckled. The lake always gets the last laugh.