When the River Started Singing

The pickup truck's clock glowed 4:47 AM as I pulled into the gravel lot. Moonlight silvered the James River's riffles, where smallmouth bass supposedly staged their dawn revolt against nightcrawlers. My waders creaked like old ship rigging – that new neoprene waders smell still clinging to them like misplaced confidence.

By sunup, I'd cycled through three lures without so much as a bluegill's kiss. The river chuckled around my knees, its current tugging at the orange float bobbing near a submerged log. 'Last cast,' I warned the empty thermos, loading a 1/8-ounce jig head with chartreuse grub. The cast unfurled like ballet – plop! – right in the log's shadow.

Two heartbeats. Then the line snapped taut with primordial fury. Drag screamed as the beast surged downstream, my braided line cutting water like laser wire. 'She's heading for the rapids!' I yelled to no one, boots skating on mossy stones. When the smallmouth finally surfaced, its bronze flank glittered with victory scars older than my fishing license.

I stood there breathless, river numbing my legs, realizing the water hadn't been laughing at me all morning – it was humming the bass' ancient song. We'd both been listening to the wrong verse.