When the Mist Held Its Breath

Three cups of coffee still couldn't shake the chill from my bones as the truck tires crunched over frost-heaved gravel. Lake Serenity's boat ramp materialized like a ghost in the predawn fog, the soft plastic lure in my tackle box clicking rhythmically with each step. I always fish the north cove after first frost – or at least I tell myself that's why I keep coming back empty-handed.

By sunrise, the water had transformed into liquid mercury. My fingers numbed against the cork handle as a loon's cry pierced the silence. Six casts. Six perfect presentations. Six times my Senko sank untouched. 'Maybe the smallmouth finally wised up,' I muttered, watching steam rise from my thermos.

The miracle happened between sips. A swirl the size of a dinner plate erupted behind my stalled lure. Heart hammering, I twitched the rod tip once. Twice. The fluorocarbon line went taut with a vengeance that nearly snapped my rod in half.

Twenty-three minutes later – though it felt like centuries – I cradled a bronze-backed warrior in the shallows. Its gills flared once, twice, before disappearing in a swirl of sediment and autumn leaves. The mist lifted as I released it, revealing sunlight dancing on wavelets where the fish had been.

Sometimes the lake doesn't give answers. Just moments heavy enough to sink into your bones.