For The Love of Hoppers

They’re hell on a hay crop, and they wreak havoc in the garden, but I don’t grow alfalfa and my wife tends the veggies. That leaves me free to enjoy a pure and purely selfish love of grasshoppers. And about this time of year, anglers in my part of the world can reasonably expect to enjoy them to excess.

Great clacka-clacking clouds of bugs bounce in the heat of the day, often dropping showers of defenseless protein on the cool water. Some days the abundance is so gaudy that the river assumes the air of a roman orgy. Fish, having fully abandoned restraint and common decency for the annual festival, look swollen and perhaps mildly ashamed when brought to hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have,” they seem to say, lolling on distended bellies in the net, “but it’s hopper season. Can you blame me?”

No, I can’t. I’m no less a glutton when they come on thick.

Summer is known for it’s less than rigorous diversions. Beach reads, bubblegum pop, and superhero movies are the order of the day. So why should fishermen let Danielle Steele readers have all the fun? Go ahead, I say! Let yourself go. There’s no shame in pulling out the 3x tippet and smacking those those big yellow bugs on the surface any old place. Sure, you should be headed for home or the office. And clearly you’ve had enough… but maybe just one more. It’s hopper season after all. What are you gonna do?

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