When the River Whispers Secrets

Moonlight pooled on the James River like spilled mercury as I launched the kayak. My spinning reel clicked rhythmically, the sound swallowed by bullfrog choruses. 'They're feeding on crawdads tonight,' I muttered, threading a pumpkinseed plastic bait that smelled suspiciously like the beef jerky in my pocket.

Two hours passed with only bluegill kisses. The current tugged at my waders as I switched to a topwater frog lure, its hollow body gurgling promises. Then came the sound – not a strike, but the unmistakable slurp of something massive breaching downstream.

'You're hallucinating,' I chided, yet paddled toward the ripples. The rod arched suddenly, drag screaming as if I'd hooked a subway train. 'Holy...!' The monofilament burned grooves in my fingertips as the beast dove under a submerged log.

Twenty minutes later, I cradled the smallmouth bass blinking moonlight. Its tail slap left river water trickling down my neck – nature's baptism. The GPS showed I'd drifted three miles past my takeout point. As fireflies began their shift change, I realized rivers don't give up their giants easily... but they always leave breadcrumbs for the stubborn.