I went to Lake Granby chasing a legend—a monster lake trout that lives in my head more than anywhere on a map. Spring is when the big ones move shallow, when the water’s just barely soft enough to fish, and when you’ve got your best shot at a true giant. So I loaded the boat in the dark, fingers stiff in the cold, heart already racing.

By sunrise, I was drifting over a rocky flat in 40 feet, working a green Ned Rig jig with the kind of focus that comes only when you know what could be down there. The screen lit up—big marks, slow-moving arcs hugging bottom. I felt that old familiar jolt of adrenaline. One of them had to be it.

All morning, I hooked fish—good ones, thick and mean—but not the one. Not the freight train I came looking for. I could feel it, though. Every time I dropped down, I imagined the rod folding, the drag screaming, the battle I’ve played out in my head a hundred times.

But the ghost never showed.

That’s the thing about chasing trophy lakers—most days, you don’t win. You cast and jig and pray and watch your screen like a hawk, and the lake keeps her secrets. Still, I’ll be back. Because one of these early mornings, the legend’s going to make a mistake. And I want to be there when it happens.