When the Fog Lifted at Devil's Elbow

The scent of damp pine needles clung to my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dock at 5:17 AM. My thermos of black coffee steamed in the November chill, its bitterness sharp on my tongue. I always fish with Grandpa's lucky spinnerbait in my left pocket - the red paint chipped from that '98 tournament win. Today it felt heavier than usual.

Mist swirled above the river like ghostly dancers. My first cast with a jerkbait sent ripples through the silver haze. 'Come on, smallmouth,' I muttered, imagining bronze flashes beneath the surface. For ninety minutes, only pumpkinseed sunfish nibbled at my Ned rig. The coffee turned lukewarm. My casting arm ached.

When the fog suddenly tore open at noon, sunlight revealed concentric rings near submerged timber. Heart pounding, I tied on a swim jig with trembling fingers. The lure hadn't sunk six inches before the rod doubled over. Line screamed off the reel, burning my index finger. 'Not this time!' I growled, remembering last week's snapped braid.

What emerged wasn't a smallmouth, but a walleye gleaming like liquid mercury. Its golden eye seemed to wink as I released it. The fog closed in again as I packed up, but now I carried sunlight in my chest.