I’m four days late, but it’s the best I can do. Every spring I plan to fish the full moon of May, the peak of a magical week when spawning bluegills simply can’t keep their mouths shut.
Popping bugs and sinking ants, doves cooing in the pines, damselflies dipping—flyfishing for bedding bream is one of those annual gotta-dos. When it’s on, you can hardly make a cast without hooking up. Even when it’s slow, you’re going home with fish enough for a small family fry.