When the Fog Betrayed My Lunker

Dawn leaked through the pines like spoiled milk as my waders crunched on frost-rimed gravel. Lake Winnipesaukee's shoreline smelled of decomposing soft bait and damp earth - a perfume that always makes my pulse quicken. My thermos of bitter coffee trembled in the chill, its steam merging with the fog that hung knee-high over the water.

'Should've brought the lucky hat,' I muttered, recalling last week's disastrous trip when bluegills stole three jigs. The new spinnerbait felt foreign in my casting hand, its blades clicking like a disapproving tongue. First three casts yielded nothing but tangled memories.

By mid-morning, the fog had thickened into soup. That's when I heard it - the unmistakable 'glug' of a large mouth breaking surface. My next cast landed with the precision of desperation. The strike came violent, bending my rod into a question mark. For eight breathless minutes, the drag screamed like a banshee as the lunker dove beneath rotting logs.

When I finally lipped the 7-pounder, its gills flared crimson against the pearly mist. The fog lifted as suddenly as it came, revealing a shoreline dotted with fellow anglers who'd never know about the monster that outsmarted us all... until now.