When the Fog Lifted

4:17AM. The smell of damp pine needles clung to my flannel shirt as I stepped onto the dew-covered dock. Lake Vermilion was breathing – gentle swells lapping against the wooden pilings where I'd caught my first walleye twenty summers ago. My lucky spinnerbait clinked against the coffee thermos in the tackle box, its sound swallowed by the thick fog.

Three casts with topwater frogs yielded nothing but disturbed lily pads. 'Should've brought the deep-divers,' I muttered, watching a water snake ripple past. The foghorn from the shipping channel echoed like a disappointed parent.

Sunrise burned through the mist just as my fluorocarbon line went taut. The drag screamed that particular high-C note reserved for angry muskies. For eight breathless minutes, the world shrank to singing guides and the coppery taste of adrenaline. When the 48-incher finally surfaced, its gills flared like medieval armor in the golden light.

The release left my waders soaked up to the knees. As I wrung out my socks, two teenagers trolling past shouted 'Any luck?' I just held up dripping hands. Their laughter carried across the suddenly-clear water, mingling with the distant cry of a loon.