Whispers in the Fog

The thermometer read 43°F when my boots crunched on the frost-covered dock. Lake Superior's surface breathed wisps of mist that curled around my spinnerbait box like ghostly fingers. My grandfather's lucky flannel shirt - the red one with the torn pocket - clung to me like armor against the November chill.

Three hours in, my thermos of coffee had turned to ice sludge. The fish finder showed nothing but blank blue. 'Maybe they're staging deeper,' I muttered, switching to a Carolina rig. My numb fingers fumbled the fluorocarbon line, remembering too late why Great Lakes walleye hate fluorescent yellow.

Then came the gulls. A sudden explosion of wings and shrill cries two hundred yards northwest. I nearly capsized the canoe grabbing the trolling motor's handle. The hummingbird display erupted into red arches at 18 feet depth. My first cast landed short. The second vanished mid-air as a chrome streak breached like Excalibur rising from the depths.

Twenty-three minutes later, I knelt in the shallows cradling a 29-inch walleye whose golden eyes reflected the rising sun. Its gills pulsed once, twice, before disappearing in a kick of snowmelt water. The gulls circled higher, their cries now sounding suspiciously like laughter.