When the Fog Lifted at Willow Cove

My thermos of black coffee steamed in the 43-degree dawn as I waded into the shallows, the lake's surface holding its breath beneath pearlescent fog. The cold bit through my waders where last winter's patching job had started peeling. I always rub the lucky spinnerbait between my fingers three times before casting – a superstition born after that miraculous catch on my 10th anniversary.

Two hours passed with only bluegills nibbling my nightcrawlers. The fog thickened until I couldn't see my own float. 'Should've brought the depth finder,' I muttered, reeling in yet another empty hook. That's when the herons erupted from the reeds in a chaos of wings – something big was moving beneath them.

Switching to a jerkbait, I cast toward the disturbance. The strike came violent, my Shimano's drag screaming like a banshee. For seven breathless minutes, the unseen beast towed me through lily pads, my line cutting through mist that suddenly glowed gold with sunrise. When I finally lipped the 24-inch pike, its gills flared crimson against the morning light.

By noon, the fog had burned away – just like yesterday's doubts. Sometimes the lake hides its treasures until you've earned the right to see them.