The Yellowstone begins to change. First green, then olive, then brown then hopefully back to olive. Underneath its foam lines and riffles lies THE biomass, millions of Brachycentrus occidentalis (Mother’s Day Caddis). They are becoming restless in their little homes and with that comes restless trout. Soon the bio-mass will be released, and all hell will break loose until runoff comes to wash it all away.
Every year it’s the same. It slowly works its way into my psyche like a bad habit. I find myself staring at the river longer and longer, watching the Yellowstone slowly brew up its annual feast of bug soup. I begin to twitch a little. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I can no longer look at the bobber, or if I’m just tired of listening to the Serbian kid go on about how he only fishes during the week and hasn’t fished a nymph all spring. All I know is that Caddisflies mean two things: that winter really is over and I can now fish dry flies to big, gluttonous trouts. I will skip out on work and make excuses to my wife with the well polished justification that my binge will soon end and I will repent come high water.