When the Fog Held Its Breath

The predawn air smelled like wet granite as my boots crunched over frost-coated gravel. I paused to watch my breath mingle with the mist rising from the Truckee River – that silvery dance where reality blurs into possibility. My lucky jighead rattled in its Tackle Warrior box, the one I'd bought at a garage sale where the old owner swore it had landed a 12-pound brown trout.

First casts sliced through water so cold it stung my knuckles. The rhythm began: cast, twitch, repeat. A kingfisher laughed at me from a cottonwood branch. By sunrise, I'd only caught three fingerling rainbows small enough to see through like living stained glass.

'Should've brought the braided line,' I muttered, watching my monofilament refuse to sink in the stubborn current. That's when the fog thickened – not the wispy morning kind, but a wool blanket swallowing sound. My reel handle disappeared at arm's length.

The take came as a sudden weight, like the river bottom had learned to fight back. Forty yards downstream, the beast surfaced in a swirl that looked more bear than fish. My drag screamed. The rod bent double. For three glorious minutes, we danced in that pearly void where time dissolves.

When the fog lifted, my hands smelled of trout musk and victory. The empty hook told the truer story.