When the Fog Held Secrets

The predawn mist clung to my waders like cold spiderwebs as I waded into Lake Merwin's shallows. My thermos of coffee steamed in the crisp September air, its earthy aroma mixing with the lake's mineral tang. I patted the tackle box at my hip - same rusty green one Dad gave me when I turned sixteen.

『Should've brought the heavier line,』 I muttered, watching my chartreuse spinnerbait disappear into the milky fog. The third cast landed with a satisfying *plop* near submerged timber. Then nothing. For forty-seven minutes, nothing.

As sunlight began dissolving the fog curtain, something brushed my calf. Not fish - too deliberate. I froze as the water rippled around a snapping turtle's armored head. We stared at each other until it submerged with a disdainful swirl.

『Mornin' entertainment's over,』 a voice boomed from nowhere. Old Pete materialized through the mist, his bamboo fly rod cutting graceful arcs. 『Try deeper channels,』 he nodded westward before vanishing like a fishing spirit.

Following his advice led me to a submerged rock formation. On the eighth cast, my spinning reel screeched as line peeled away. The smallmouth fought like it had a personal vendetta, leaping clear twice before I guided it into the net. Its golden flank glimmered briefly before disappearing into the still-waking lake.

The fog had lifted completely when I packed up, leaving only the memory of that electric moment between man and fish - and perhaps a turtle's judgmental stare.