The sun winked at me between the pine trees that lined the Little River. From the shady banks, I zeroed in on my target while my dad guided my small hands on the Zebco 33 reel. He pointed out circular rings on the water’s surface, showing me where to cast. I was probably 10 or 12, but I still asked him to bait my hook — I loved fishing, but this part always made me squeamish.

The air smelled fishy, a sure sign that they were biting, Daddy said. I hoped for bream, bass, crappie — just not a catfish. I was scared to death of their whiskers; tales of giant, monster cats were seared into my memory. Anything could happen on the Little River.

I watched intently as the round orange-and-white cork hit the water with a plop and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Nothing. I dreamed of catching something big, longed to make my dad proud of my angling skills. But with the typical impatience of a child, I drifted away from my rod, like the current of the river, finding my own little world to explore in the shade along the banks.

Behind her family’s land in Montgomery County, the writer casts a line into the Little River with her father’s Zebco 33 reel. photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

The Little River, a tributary of the larger Pee Dee River, is part of the Yadkin-Pee Dee watershed, an area considered by some to be the cradle of civilization in the Carolinas, with evidence of Native Americans dating back around 10,000 years. The nearby Uwharrie Mountains are some of the oldest in North America.

But to my family, this place was simply an extension of our backyard, just a quick walk through the woods from our Montgomery County home. Lake Tillery, fed by the Pee Dee, was more glamorous and popular with fishermen and day cruisers on their pontoons. But our river was different, rustic, almost secret. Whenever I return, I can see my grandma’s cane pole and fish fries with my cousins as clear as my reflection in the water. But some memories of a childhood spent by the river feel like dreams, a blend of reality and a young imagination that ran wild.

My childhood fishing trips always began with a ride to my grandparents’ house in the bed of our old truck — surely illegal now, but don’t all adventures begin with a hint of danger? My dad would park at their lamppost, and our faithful beagle, Spot, would crawl under the truck, to nap in the shade all afternoon until we returned.

Before leaving with a Hostess Ham can filled with worms we dug up from the dirt behind the chicken house, we’d pack a cooler with some water, a couple bags of chips, and some Nabs — rations that I would pretend were all we had to survive on. We’d transfer the fishing rods and tackle box over to my granddad’s pickup for the roller-coaster ride down the long gravel road to the river. This drive was my portal into the world of make-believe.

After a triumphant battle on the river in 1997, the writer’s father, Truett Haywood, mounted the trophy catch in his home (below). photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

Once we got to the water, it was like time stopped. Every sound was louder. Daddy always told me to not be too noisy, or I’d scare the fish. I imagined schools of them under the water, listening for the telltale sounds of fishermen. Can fish really hear that well? I still wonder.

Other times, I imagined the residents of Town Creek Indian Mound fishing from the same spot hundreds of years before. Whenever we tried our luck on the old, twisted wooden pier that was missing a few boards, I’d imagine that it was a swinging bridge from an Indiana Jones movie. At the river, if you dreamed something, it could be real.

photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

If the fish were slow to bite, I’d abandon my rod for the shade of the oak and pine trees on the bank. Through my binoculars, I’d keep my eyes peeled for wildlife or neighboring boats. If I didn’t catch a big fish, maybe I’d spot a bald eagle. Daddy entertained my curiosity, pointing out waterfowl or turtles sunning on logs. Somehow, even with my distracting him, he often caught a stringer full of fish. We’d usually drop them off with my great aunt Stella as payment for using her boat landing. She was always grateful, filleting them to cook along with her famous hush puppies.

Gone fishin’: Before the writer and her father made their way to the Little River, they’d load the pickup with their reel and tackle, now keepsakes from their angling adventures. photograph by Stacey Van Berkel

Recalling my river memories, fact and fantasy blur. There was the time my father caught the big bass he fought hard for — the one he later had mounted. The memory lives on when I see it on the wall, or when I look at the picture of him holding it, grinning like a mule eating briars. There was the time I caught an eel, dropped the rod, and ran screaming because I thought it was a snake. And the time a copperhead swam up, holding its head out of the water, trying to get the fish we had on the stringer. It was huge — head spread out wide like a cobra — or maybe I was just small.

I often wonder about this imaginary world I created as I played in the shade. A world full of giant cobras and fish with superpowered hearing. A world where time changes. Is it still there? Probably, but like our river, it’s not for everyone. I think it’s just waiting for me to return and see what else I discover.