When the River Whispered at Dawn

The moon still hung low when my waders kissed the Chickahominy's tea-colored water. I could taste yesterday's rain in the humid air, my braided line humming taut against current-smoothed rocks. Three fruitless hours had taught me the bluegills weren't biting - until a concentric ripple shattered the mirrored surface behind a submerged oak limb.

『Not another snapping turtle,』 I grumbled, stripping line with salt-crusted fingers. The strike came violent and sudden, my rod tip diving toward obsidian depths.『This isn't vegetation,』 I realized as the drag screamed - smallmouths don't fight this dirty. Twenty yards downstream, bronze scales flashed in first light.

The smallie measured 21 inches, its tiger-striped flanks heaving as I removed the hook.『Should've used a topwater frog earlier,』 I chuckled, watching it disappear in a swirl of amber water. Sometimes the river doesn't give answers - just mornings crisp enough to make you keep asking.