When the Fog Lifted

The predawn chill bit through my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dock. Lake George's surface breathed wisps of mist that swirled around my spinning reel like ghostly fingers. Three bullfrogs ceased their croaking as my tackle box clanked - a rookie mistake that made me grimace.

'Should've stayed in bed,' I muttered, watching my chartreuse soft plastic lure plop into inky water. For ninety agonizing minutes, the only action came from dragonflies landing on my motionless line. Then the fog bank rippled.

Not the wind.

Something massive porpoised near the lily pads. My next cast landed with a surgeon's precision. The strike nearly wrenched the rod from my hands. For eight heartbeat-swallowing minutes, 10-pound test sang its high-pitched aria until a bronze-backed warrior emerged, gills flaring like Venetian masks.

As I released her, dawn's first rays pierced the mist, illuminating the trembling line between stubbornness and perseverance.