Call ‘em caddis, sedges, dancers, grannoms, shadflies, peters, makers, millers, micros, travelers or whatever your local dialect has adopted. Just don’t overlook them.
Nymphing is, at heart ,an exercise in groping around in the dark. Sounds familiar….
At what point does that instant become too pricey? How many vacant hours, miles, snags, tangles, blisters, bug-bites and burns are too many?
Home late from the river I grabbed a bottle of Ranch dressing and almost poured it over ice cream, thinking it was chocolate sauce. Either was a poor substitute for dinner.
It’s a nice counterpoint, the way water chooses to travel. No clock, no speedometer, just the path of least resistance back home to the ocean.
He hung in there for six hours. Fueled by gummy worms, twizzlers, and blue gatorade, he flogged the water with a thrift store rod and an indicator.
The bugs pelt the water in sheets, like winged sleet on every fresh breeze, prompting a feed that feels lewd to me, somehow indecent.
With a deftness that defies his five years of age, my son thrust the net forward at precisely the right moment and corralled our quarry. We knelt in water still frigid and stained with sediment from winter snowmelt. Grinning from ear to ear we were mystified at what we were witnessing.
Where do you even start with a question like that? I have no idea. Luckily I still have the ultimate trump card up my sleeve.
For our next trip the kids demanded we bring two sponges, I’m more than happy to comply with their demand.