When the River Whispered at Dawn

Three hours before sunrise, the smell of damp earth clung to my waders as I waded into the Chickahominy's tea-colored waters. My spinnerbait box rattled like a nervous promise against my hip. 'Just one decent striper,' I muttered to the mist, breath visible in the April chill.

By first light, my optimism had sunk like a bad cast. The fluorocarbon line kept coiling like a spiteful serpent, and the only bites came from mosquitoes. I nearly missed the subtle bulge downstream - water moving against the current. My hands shook reloading the rod, old scar on my thumb burning where a catfish spine had caught me last summer.

The strike nearly yanked the rod from my hands. Twenty yards downstream, silver flashed like a kitchen knife blade. 'Talk to me, girl,' I crooned as the drag screamed, river water sloshing into my boots. When I finally lipped the 24-inch striped beauty, her gills pulsed against my palm like a secret handshake.

Walking back past sun-bleached duck blinds, I pocketed a bluegill-shaped piece of shale - tomorrow's lucky charm. The river doesn't give lessons, but it sure knows how to whisper reminders.