River Ghost

by Michael Garrigan

Let me tell you about a ghost. A dark shadow turned violent. A deep channel of still water waiting to pounce. A lurker lying along a ledge where the veiny shallows meet the thick river artery. It’s a mystery how it got into this section of the river, with its stutter-step rock channels that zigzag their way down and across, cutting the water into a stitched patchwork of seams and channels. But it’s here and it’s holding on, probably waiting for another high-water event to move back into deeper water. 

I slip across the exposed jaw of the river looking for bass. They’ve been hard to come by for the last three years because of high water during and after their spawn. This summer is different. The water is low, as it should be, and the eelgrass is finally growing. Crayfish and baitfish dart around my legs as I slide across boulders of glass. This diabase rock wasn’t meant for water; it was pushed up into the river from deep in the ground millions of years ago—transforming from a ghost into something real, something we can see—back when these Appalachian Mountains were formed. When this molten rock met this river, one of the oldest in the world, it turned into slick glass that is nearly impossible to walk on without slipping. Felt, studs, doesn’t matter—nothing sticks. I accept my fate of falling in completely at least once every time I wade this section. No matter: The water is warm this year, and it feels good to get wet during these stiflingly humid June days. 

Anything that’s yellow gets slammed: Clouser minnows, poppers, sliders. It’s all about that brightness, that mysterious flash across dark rock. One after the other, I hook into young of the year bass—a good sign that there was a decent spawn,

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