White, black and fluffy: a tale of the striped bass run

The painful blast of my morning alarm startled me. It was earlier than normal, and my body still ached from squeezing in an evening run the night before. Early starts to the day are a half-habit for me. I don’t build them into my schedule for the week but appreciate the sense of accomplishment they provide, especially when the striped bass are making their spring run up the James River.

There’s no excuse to sleep through a dawn striper session living in Richmond, as these aggressive fish are only residents in our stretch of river for a few months, and you never know how many productive outings you’ll score each season.  

Stripers are always moving in and out of the rapids around the fall line during the spring months, and they often appear out of nowhere at times you least expect.

What does this mean? Long hours, dozens of lost lures, and many sleep-deprived nights, all of which can lead to the dreaded return to the car without a fish landed in the net.

So, back to the start of my morning adventure. After I threw back a mug of coffee, strapped on my Chacos and tossed a peanut butter sandwich in my car, along with an extra pair of work clothes, I dashed down I-95 toward the James.

I was eager for a topwater explosion, so the trusty Cotton Cordell was my first-choice lure of the day. It was late in May, so the chances for surface action were strong. The sun had broken the horizon, and it was still that perfect early morning light that tends to draw a few attacks on the surface. As I hurled my Cordel into the main section of the riffle, I felt myself anticipating an attack and slowly twitched the plug in a delicate criss cross motion, giving the action of a struggling herring slowly losing steam.

Casting a topwater lure and making it dance is entertainment itself, but after the 30th cast without a bump, my faith in Mr. Cordell was starting to dwindle.

I decided to put on my other high-producing lure that usually cancels the chances of a skunk: the five-inch, white paddle tail with a half-ounce jig head. Working this lure slowly and jigging it off the rocky bottom, I felt a sudden stop, almost like I was stuck on the bottom. My heart paused for a second, and I leaned forward and snapped my rod back quickly to set the hook.

I either hooked the fish of my lifetime or was caught on the bottom.

My mind was racing as I envisioned a 30 inch bass dashing out of the water, peeling drag downriver. But to my disappointment, this rockfish was missing the last four letters of its name… As I performed the “banjo” technique to loosen the jig from underneath the rock and release the tension (courtesy of Ron the river legend), one failed attempt after another left me without hope but to cut the line.

I looked down at my watch, and it was almost 9’oclock. Time to call it a morning and head into the office.

James River during striper season