When the Fog Held Secrets

The pre-dawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dock. Lake St. Clair's surface breathed wisps of mist that curled like phantom fish around my waders. My grandfather's spinning reel made its familiar creak – the sound that always starts my fishing tales.

First casts sliced through pearly fog with soft plastic lures that disappeared into the void. The sixth retrieve brought a sharp tap. My heart leapt... until I reeled in a branch draped in emerald algae. 'Nature's practical joke,' I muttered, flicking water from my glasses.

Sunrise painted the fog orange when it happened – a sudden bulge behind my lure near submerged timber. I froze mid-retrieve. The water erupted in a silver explosion. My rod arched like a question mark as the smallmouth bulldogged toward deeper channels, peeling drag with terrifying strength.

Twenty eternal minutes later, I cradled the bronze battler, its tiger-striped flanks heaving. One last defiant tail slap soaked my jeans before it vanished into the still-dissolving mist. The fog had lifted just enough to show my shaking hands – and the reason I keep chasing these liquid ghosts.