Another sudden blizzard of the flying brown bugs just now. They seem to hatch right out from the height of the stifling humidity, as if the air itself had become so dense, so full, so pregnant with heat that it burst into teeming insect form. Wings litter the patio floor, swirl in the dog's water bowl, scatter on the countertop, inspiring the emergence of ant armies from their hiding spots. And the lizards scurry busily from ceiling to wall to floor--all you can eat tonight!
I wonder if trout would like these bugs. I remember how my father used to watch the lake surface and the bushes near the shore, looking to see what sorts of bugs had hatched--mosquitos or black gnats or flying ants or blue uprights--and if the fish were feeding, he'd pull in the line and tie on a similar looking fly from his tackle box. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not. Sometimes the fish would just keep feeding on the hatch and ignore the fly my father had tied on the line--not to be fooled by fakes made of fluff and thread.
"Wise little devils," he'd mutter, chewing his pipe stem. "Clever little sons-a-bitches."
I wonder if trout would like these bugs. I remember how my father used to watch the lake surface and the bushes near the shore, looking to see what sorts of bugs had hatched--mosquitos or black gnats or flying ants or blue uprights--and if the fish were feeding, he'd pull in the line and tie on a similar looking fly from his tackle box. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not. Sometimes the fish would just keep feeding on the hatch and ignore the fly my father had tied on the line--not to be fooled by fakes made of fluff and thread.
"Wise little devils," he'd mutter, chewing his pipe stem. "Clever little sons-a-bitches."
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