When the Fog Lifted

3:47AM. My thermos of bitter gas station coffee trembled in the cup holder as the truck bounced down the gravel road. Somewhere beyond the headlights, Lake Mendota waited under a blanket of September mist. The jerkbait in my pocket felt heavier than usual - last week's skunking still fresh in my memory.

Dawn arrived as smoke rather than light. I waded knee-deep into water cold enough to make my ankles ache, boots crunching on zebra mussels. Three casts. Five. Eight. The rhythmic swish-thunk of casting became a meditation. 'Maybe the walleye moved deeper,' I muttered to a disinterested heron.

The sun burned through the fog at 7:12AM. That's when I saw them - concentric rings radiating from submerged boulders I'd never noticed before. My hands fumbled tying on new fluorocarbon line. The first cast landed short. The second snagged moss. The third...

Something primal hummed through the rod. Line screamed off the reel like a banshee. For seven glorious minutes, the lake and I spoke through taut monofilament. When I finally cradled the 28-inch musky, its gills pulsed against my palm in time with my racing heartbeat.

Now the coffee tastes different. Maybe because I never poured that fourth cup.