When the River Whispered Secrets

Dawn cracked open like a fresh egg over the James River, its yolk-colored light spilling across my wader boots. I always bring Grandpop's battered tackle box, its rusty hinges singing the same creaky song since 1972. The water smelled of wet limestone and possibilities.

'Should've brought the damn bug spray,' I muttered, swatting at early mosquitoes as my chatterbait plopped into the eddy. For forty silent minutes, only the spinning reel's whine answered me. Then the current hiccupped.

Something bronze flashed beneath a rock shelf. My hands remembered before my brain did - thumbing the drag, feeling the line kiss my index finger. The rod arched like Christmas morning. 'You're mine,' I breathed, then instantly regretted the arrogance as the fish surged toward submerged logs.

Later, nursing a coffee-stained thermos lid, I watched the smallmouth glide back into its world. Its tail sent ripples through my reflection, blurring the grin I couldn't stop wearing. The river doesn't give up its secrets - it only lends them for a moment.