When the River Whispers Secrets

The predawn chill bit through my flannel as I stepped onto the dew-slick dock. Somewhere in the Chickahominy's blackwater depths, chain pickerel were hunting - and my spinnerbait collection begged for action. I always bring the rusted tackle box Grandpa left me; its squeaky hinge sounds like home.

By sunrise, I'd already lost two lures to submerged logs. 'Maybe they're staging deeper,' I muttered, re-tying my line. That's when the water blinked - a silver flash beneath duckweed. My cast landed with surgical precision. One twitch. Two. Then the strike yanked my rod tip underwater.

For three breathless minutes, the fish danced like a possessed ribbon. My braided line sang against the drag, etching crimson grooves in my palm. When I finally lipped the 24-inch pickerel, its emerald flanks shimmered with a thousand captured sunrises.

As I released the warrior, morning fog lifted to reveal a great blue heron watching from the reeds. We both knew - the river never reveals its secrets twice.