When the Fog Held Its Breath

The predawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dock. Lake St. Claire exhaled wisps of mist that clung to my beard, carrying the faint petrichor of last night's rain. My fingertips brushed the spinnerbait in my tackle box - the one with the chipped blue paint that always seems to whisper 'try me.'

First casts sliced through mirror-still water. A barred owl's call punctuated the rhythmic plop-plop of my lure. By sunrise, I'd cycled through every bait except the junkyard-dog spinnerbait. 'Should've listened to Karen,' I muttered, remembering my wife's eye-roll when I packed my 'lucky' lure.

Noon found me re-tying leaders with trembling fingers. That's when I saw them - subtle dimples behind a submerged log, the kind of movement that makes a fisherman's nape hairs stand at attention. The spinnerbait hit water with the grace of a falling acorn. Three twitches. Then the strike nearly wrenched the rod from my hands.

Twenty yards of fluorocarbon line screamed off the reel. The smallmouth breached in a shower of liquid diamonds, shaking its armored head. When I finally lipped the bronze battler, our eyes met briefly. Its gills flared once, twice, before it vanished in a swirl of victory.

As I motored home, the fog lifted to reveal a double rainbow. The lake always collects its debts - today, it took my favorite lure. But in return? It gave me a story that'll grow taller with each retelling.