When the Fog Lifted at Miller's Cove

The truck tires crunched over frost-heaved gravel as dawn bled through stands of white pine. My thermos of black coffee steamed in the cup holder, its bitter aroma mixing with the damp earth smell of my favorite fishing vest - the one with the torn pocket I kept meaning to sew.

By 6:15 AM I was waist-deep in the cove's tea-colored water, fingers stiff around my rod. The new spinnerbait glinted like fool's gold through the mist. Three casts. Five. Eight. The lake slept soundly.

'Should've brought the waders,' I grumbled, shifting on numb toes. A loon's cry echoed as sunlight pierced the fog bank. That's when I saw them - concentric rings radiating from the submerged cedar log.

The strike nearly tore the rod from my hands. Twenty yards of braid screamed through guides as smallmouth and adrenaline fused into pure electricity. 'Not this time,' I hissed through clenched teeth, thumb burning against the spool.

When the bronze warrior finally rolled onto wet leaves, its gills flared like Victorian petticoats. I knelt in the shallows, suddenly aware of minnows nibbling my bootlaces and sunlight warming the back of my neck. The lake never gives up its secrets - only shares them when you're ready to listen.