The bugs pelt the water in sheets, like winged sleet on every fresh breeze, prompting a feed that feels lewd to me, somehow indecent.
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, Read More