They whisper low in hollers deep,
When evening mists awake,
Of something stirring in the dark
Below old Fishtrap Lake.

Not catfish broad nor paddlefish,
Nor gar too scarred with years,
But something older than the hills,
That fed on miners’ fears.

Its neck would rise like sycamores
Bent softly in the breeze,
Its emerald eyes like lantern flames
Above the ghost-white trees.

The elders say before the dam
When Russell Fork ran wild,
The creature wandered mountain streams
As ancient as God’s child.

It watched the Shawnee hunt the elk,
Saw Cherokee trails fade,
Heard axes bite the virgin pine
And coal towns first be made.

When valleys filled beneath the waves
And farms were lost from sight,
The mountain beast found deeper halls
To haunt the moonlit night.

Some fishermen have sworn they’ve seen
A shadow break the glass—
A humped back rolling silently,
Then gone before they’d gasp.

One claimed it followed to the dock,
Its wake as smooth as silk;
Another found great scales ashore,
As green as summer milk.

The herons never nest too close,
The otters veer away,
And even eagles circle high
Above that haunted bay.

On fog-bound mornings, if you’re still,
You might just hear it sing—
A mournful note like fiddle strings
When winter courts the spring.

Some say it guards the flooded homes
Where chimneys sleep below,
Keeping watch on memories
The living cannot know.

Others claim its lonely heart
Has searched through countless years
For another of its mountain kind,
Now lost beyond the spheres.

So if you cast at break of dawn
Where quiet waters gleam,
And something stirs beneath your boat
That isn’t what it seems,

Don’t chase the wake with greedy eyes,
Nor curse what you can’t see.
Just tip your cap toward the mountain mist
And leave the depths to be.

For every lake has secret things,
And every ridge its lore—
Fishtrap keeps one ancient soul
The mountains still adore.