Happy Friday — we’re back with more Hot Bones and a sense of civic relief.

Every year, the environmental org American Rivers puts out a list of the most endangered rivers in the US to raise awareness about clean waterways. Last year, our nearby Rappahannock River made the list, which was kind of embarrassing? Not our fault for sure (blame declining groundwater levels + rapid population growth + data centers) but still, its watershed is just north of Cville.

This year, I’m delighted to say we’ve passed the metaphorical river-on-fire buck to DC: The Potomac was named the No. 1 most endangered river of 2026, mainly thanks to this winter’s massive raw sewage spill.

Do one long thumb scroll for more Cville-specific updates like local events, cool houses, and pets to adopt.

🐶 Speaking of: Joe! We don’t deserve dogs with Resting Smile Face, Joe among them. This guy is a sweet busybody who loves people and tennis balls equally (hound mix, 7 years old, 40 lbs).

Most of my family is used to me throwing them under the bus in various Hot Bones editions, but I’ve never really written about my mom. That’s because she’s perfect. Also, she would kill me if I revealed anything remotely incriminating. So I’ll need to tread lightly here.

Remember, my mom is perfect.

A few weeks ago, I asked my parents to go fly fishing with me on the Rose River at the base of Shenandoah National Park. If you’ve ever hiked Whiteoak Canyon, it’s just south of there. Beautiful spot, very quiet in early spring.

No one in my immediate family is big into fishing, but my grandpa was the fly fishing guy. He passed away this fall, and so this day trip was supposed to be a small homage to his life spent on rivers.

Around noon, we met Pete, our kind, ponytailed guide for the day, at a farm on the banks of the river. The weather was overcast, which I’m told is good for fishing, and we suited up in waders and thick river boots and hats and sunglasses and all the other items that make you think, damn it’s going to be really embarrassing if I don’t catch a fish after putting on all this gear.

I was chatting with Pete when my mom stepped out from behind the car. Whereas my dad and I had borrowed gear from Pete (and were still unsure how to work basic things like wader straps), my mom apparently had all her own fly fishing regalia. She walked over to us looking like Robert Redford directing A River Runs Through It. All waxed canvas, denim, and flannel neckerchief.

“Wait Mom, are you like good at fly fishing?”

“I told you I’d taken those lessons,” she said as she put on her special prescription fishing sunglasses. Then she zipped up her Orvis vest covered with, it turned out, hand-tied flies made by her previous teacher.

“Hmmmm, this feels similar to last year when you promised me you weren’t good at tennis.”

“I don’t remember that,” she said, now lacing her boots with their grippy soles made especially for river rocks.

“I got you out on the court and then you smoked me,” I said. “In front of a lot of people. You definitely remember that.”

“Hardly! And I’m still not very good at fly fishing.”

Let’s see.

We started off in a daffodil field because some of us (but apparently not all of us) needed a refresher on how this whole fishing thing worked.

Pete would say things like “imagine your rod is a clock going from 10 until 2” and “flick the end of the line like paint off a brush” and “reel in the fish like you're fighting in a phone booth.”

My dad and I would nod and try out these suggestions. We would end up with our lines in the cow pasture beyond the cars.

But when I chanced a look over my shoulder at my mom, she was fully doing the metaphors — paint flying, clocks ticking, you could have dropped a London red telephone booth over her shoulders and she’d be just fine.

“Did you know she’s been practicing in secret?” I whispered to my dad.

“She mentioned those lessons, but between the ballet and the art things and the Italian, I can’t keep up.”

My dad paused to adjust his wader straps again, then continued. “She’s really good.”

“I can hear you,” said someone with astounding hearing from across the daffodil meadow.

Pete, sensing familial alliances brewing, gathered us up to put flies on our lines and get everyone out on the water.

So no surprise here but my mom started us off by hooking a massive rainbow trout within her first three casts.

“She’s a pool shark, you know that right?” I whispered to my dad from up on the bank, scientifically out of earshot this time.

“Ha! Yeah I’ve known that for 40 years, Charlotte.”

The fish were new to this info, though. A whole crew was suspended in a line deep within the first hole, and they had no idea what sort of predator was about to upend their afternoon.

At first it looked like they weren’t moving at all, but as I peered through the pool I realized the big ole trout were actually swimming upstream at exactly the resistance of the current downstream, mouths open to catch food as it came their way. And if a fly happened to race across the surface by someone’s deft hand, all the more tasty.

Unfortunately, my flies weren’t ending up on the river’s surface. They ended up in the sycamore branches behind the pool, in front of the pool, downstream and upstream, literally anywhere but in the big open water straight ahead.

“Sorry, Pete, there goes another one of your flies.”

Pete nodded, very chill thankfully.

“Dad, you’re up next. Maybe you can catch one of these guys.”

He did not.

Instead, many trout nibbled on his line but escaped before he could hook one.

“Too slow,” my mom muttered, definitely within earshot.

At this point, it occurred to me that we might be in the middle of a small moment of spiritual transcendence after death.

Sure, there’s the traditional view that Grandpa was watching us from above as we tried to honor his memory one cast at a time, but I also think he may have been below the surface, among the rainbow trout. A little woo-woo, but I have two reasons for this:

Grandpa’s main advice when fishing was always “WITH AUTHORITY.” As in, cast with authority. Watch with authority. Hook with authority.

My mom had done that to catch her first fish of the day. But apparently my dad was not fishing with adequate authority: Each time a fish nibbled on his fly, he’d pull too slowly and Grandpa the Great Rainbow Trout would dart away unscathed.

Who wouldn't want to come back down to earth for that specific glee?

In case you’re wondering, fishing hole #2 was a bust. We had walked a few rapids upstream until we hit a pool under a brambly bank, but full sun exposure and one too many snags meant no fish were caught but plenty of flies were lost. The clouds had disappeared and it was hot.

So we continued walking up the river until we hit a shady section with a deep undercut bank and dark water below.

Similar to in the daffodil field, Pete may have sensed an undercurrent of familial distress emerging. Only one of us had caught anything, and it was already mid-afternoon. Plus, the waders were getting heavier and heavier, and we had skipped lunch.

“Trout key in on suffering,” he told us. They must be sensing our spirits were waning. Gotta get back at it.

“Charlotte, you’re up.”

I wish I remembered more here, but the gist of it was that I did a bunch of mediocre casts and on one of them a trout bit my line and the world lit up like a third rail. Except that instead of remembering every palpable detail of this communion between human and fish, it was like I was truly electrocuted and woke up only at the part where I was smiling for a photo and feeling the fish squirm in my hands before we parted ways.

“Okay great, my work here is done.” I looked back at my parents on the rocky shore. “Someone else have a go.”

My mom then proceeded to catch three more fish. All huge.

“Hot stick!” Pete yelled. My mom smiled a little, not wishing to brag outwardly, but inwardly … perhaps doing a little fishing jig.

Clearly the fish downstream hadn’t gotten a chance to warn these poor guys upriver. And I mean that in a literal sense, despite the Emersonian vibe so far in this story.

I did some digging and there’s a growing body of research about how fish use sound to communicate, rather than just through things like body language, motion, and electric pulses. We just haven’t really explored this concept because most of us aren’t dunking our heads into rivers and listening for fish shouts.

So far less than 5% of fish have been studied for the sounds they make. But within that small percentage, there sure are a lot of noises: mysterious clicks, grunts, chirps, honks, and boop tones, not to mention what scientists have termed “fast repetitive ticks” in species like shad and sardines. These sounds are made from the fish’s digestive tract to stay in touch with their school around them — abbreviated, that becomes “Frt sounds.” Don’t say scientists aren’t having fun at work.

According to Aaron Rice, a researcher at Cornell who’s been spearheading a lot of this recent research, up to two-thirds of fish could be noisemakers. So we’ve only scratched the surface.

Which means we have no way of disproving my theory that the rainbow trout in the Rose River fishing hole #1 were yelling upstream, “Hey! Hey! Heyyyyy! Watch out for that lady. Yeah, that lady. She told everyone she was bad at fishing but it was a trap. Swim away immediately, with authority!”

I think you can learn a lot about someone by seeing what they choose to do when they’re not working or sleeping. Fishing is an interesting pastime in that way.

By hour three, all my dad and I wanted to do was stand in the river, build dams, and splash around. For my mom, hour three of fishing meant more fishing. Neon descriptors flashed above her: Perseverance, Resolve, Backbone.

Meanwhile, I found an amazing boulder to sit on. Man, it was a great boulder. So good in fact, I lay on my back and looked up at the sky, feeling the warm stone on my shoulders. Fishing is nice, but napping in the middle of the river is perfect. My dad came to join me on the boulder next door.

We could see my mom upriver, now doing some sort of reverse double mctwist 360 cast to lure the Rose River’s final uncaught fish onto her line. She looked back at us: two exhausted, inexperienced fishers still with twisted wader straps, the human equivalent of dogs whimpering at the back door, begging to be let inside.

“Dad, can you please catch a fish so we can finally go home.”

If you want to go fly fishing around Charlottesville … give the folks at Albemarle Angler a call.

If you want to go fly fishing with Pete … text him at (434) 825-1727.

If all you really want to do is read about fish while sitting on a great rock … Norman Maclean’s “A River Runs Through It” will always knock your socks off. Or try Lulu Miller’s “Why Fish Don't Exist” for something more recent.

And if you want to go fly fishing with my mom, remember … she is perfect. But she is also ready to absolutely destroy all competition in random hobbies. Thank god I get to be on her team.

My hope is that you, like me, hit the spring smell trifecta this week: the whiff of a freshly opened can of tennis balls, a sniff of a glass of Gamay, and the deep inhale of a freshly mulched garden — made all the more enjoyable when someone else did the hard part of laying it down.

As someone who did not do the hard part this week, let me backseat drive on the nuances of dirt for a sec.

Mulch is a great protective layer on top of your garden beds, preventing weeds and keeping the soil moist and healthy.

Topsoil is what enriches the soil around your plants. It’s full of nutrients and if you’re like my family, you have three cubic yards of it sitting in your driveway.

Compost is the superboost your plants often need. It’s decomposed organic matter, which makes it crazy rich in nutrients, and a little goes a long way.

Happy planting, yall.

If you like sustainable activities, your head might explode this weekend. Here’s what we’ve got on deck.

🪫 First, get rid of your junk: This Friday and Saturday, the Ivy recycling center is hosting its household hazardous waste collection (free) to ensure that stuff doesn’t just get chucked in the river. Great if you have dead batteries, antifreeze, or paint cans lying around.

🌱 Then, find a time-turner for Saturday:

You should probably take a nap on Sunday.

🏠 Historic cottage of the week: Charmaxxing at level 10 for this 1920s bungalow in the heart of Belmont (2 beds, 1 bath, $375k). Bonus points for the rain barrel and rocking chairs out front.

🏡 Cool rental of the week: Gingerbread cottage in downtown Staunton, with incredible built-ins and a double-decker back deck ($2,600/month starting this summer).

💼 Local climate job: Director of Public Utilities for Charlottesville ($172k - $195k).

💾 Remote job: Communications Specialist at Spark Climate Solutions ($85k - $105k).

▶️ And a quick reminder that Tom Tom starts next week, including the “local courage for climate progress” event on Wednesday at 5pm.

▶️ And today (Friday) is the last day to apply to be C3’s newest climate fellow.

Have an event or rec you’d like to share? Hiring? Interested in advertising? Just hit reply.