When the Fog Held Secrets

The predawn mist clung to my waders as I shuffled down the moss-slick bank. Lake Chelan's shoreline disappeared into pearl-gray nothingness, the only sound my thermos clinking against the spinnerbait box in my vest pocket. 'Should've brought the depth finder,' I muttered, fingertips brushing familiar nicks on my lucky casting rod – the one that survived last summer's bear encounter.

First casts sliced through fog with whispering promise. My chartreuse frog lure landed with a plop that echoed unnaturally loud. Nothing. Not even the usual bluegill nibbles. The lake breathed cold through my flannel shirt until sunlight began gnawing at the mist's edges.

Noon found me knee-deep in defeat, rewinding snarled braided line. That's when the water blinked. A concentric ripple thirty feet out – too crisp for wind, too deliberate. Heart drumming, I sent my jerkbait arcing through dissolving fog. The strike came mid-retrieve, violent enough to sting salt into the raw groove on my index finger.

Twenty-eight minutes later – yes, I timed it – my net lifted a smallmouth so massive its tail protruded like a bronze rudder. Its gills pulsed against my palm as we stared at each other, both prisoners of the same instinct. The release sent concentric rings expanding through now-clear water, mirroring the grin cracking my windburned face.

Driving home, I kept wiping fog from the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see ripples still spreading.