When the Fog Held Secrets

3:47AM. My thermos clicked open with a sound that echoed across the silent dock. Lake St. Clair's September fog clung to my beard like cold spiderwebs. I adjusted the spinnerbait on my line, the metallic blades catching moonlight that shouldn't have penetrated this thick haze.

'You're chasing ghosts,' my buddy Matt had scoffed yesterday. Now his empty coffee cup rocked in the boat's cupholder, a pale witness to my stubbornness. Three hours in, my fingers had memorized every groove of the fluorocarbon line.

Sunrise came as a gray smear. Just as I considered retreating, the line twitched with the rhythm of something breathing underwater. Not the sharp tug of bass - this felt like a metronome. The rod bent double when I set the hook. For seven pulse-pounding minutes, the fog absorbed every curse and whoop.

When the muskie finally surfaced, its prehistoric jaw snapping at the mist, I understood why these waters guard their secrets. The ruler showed 48 inches before she torpedoed back into opacity, leaving my shirt splattered with lake and adrenaline.

Back at the truck, I found Matt's note under the wiper: 'Next time, wake me.' The thermos, still warm, tasted like victory and unfinished business.