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Commentary: Get ready to be bugged




The cicadas are on their way. Larry Woody/Main Street Nashville

The cicadas are on their way. Larry Woody/Main Street Nashville

My fishing buddy and I were camping on Center Hill Lake one weekend 17 years ago when we were attacked by a swarm of screeching, red-eyed monsters.

Well, maybe they weren’t exactly “monsters” — they were about thumb-sized — but what they lacked in size, they made up for in numbers and volume.

They were cicadas — what old folks called Jar Flies — and they swept in by the millions. They were in our hair, tent, sleeping bags, shoes, frying pan and coffee pot.

Their shrill, nonstop chirping set nerves on edge and made our ears ring.

But there was a plus: the fish loved them. As soon as a plump cicada dropped onto the water, it would disappear in a splash and a swirl.

Fishing amid the cicada frenzy, we caught smallmouth bass, largemouth, spots, bluegill, crappie, stripe, walleye and catfish. Normally the two latter don’t feed on the surface, but they couldn’t resist coming up to get in on the cicada buffet.

Our ears didn’t stop ringing for a week, but what a pile of fish we brought home.

 

 

Every 17 years, like clockwork, cicadas by the billions emerge from their underground bunkers and take to the air. This is the year, and they’re due any day now.

They are intriguing insects. They lay their eggs on leaves, and when the pupa hatches it drops to the ground and digs in — sometimes as deep as 30 feet — where it remains for 17 lonely years.

When the cicadas finally emerge, they have a lot to do in a short period of time: shed their outer husk, fly, mate, lay eggs and die, all in a few weeks.

It’s a short bucket list.

Aside from creating a crunching mess wherever we step, splatting on windshields and driving us nuts with their high-pitched chirping, cicadas are harmless.

They can be a nuisance for outdoorsmen, invading campsites, swarming on gear and plopping into the cooking skillet. When dining outdoors during a cicada swarm, eat fast.

But there’s an upside for anglers. Fishing can be spectacular during a cicada hatch. Fish relish them even more than mayflies. A plump cicada is a double whopper with fries, and a skinny mayfly is a cup of fat-free yogurt.

My buddy and I caught virtually every state species except trout during the bygone hatch on Center Hill Lake. I’ve never been on a trout stream during a cicada swarm, but I’ve read stories about those who have. It’s fly-fishing heaven.

Big browns, rainbows and brookies go wild, swirling and splashing and sometimes even leaping from the water to pick off buzzing cicadas in midair.

One trout-fishing website features a special hand-tied fly that imitates a cicada, complete with its distinctive big red eyes.

Given the bug’s short life cycle and once-every-17-years appearance, fishing a cicada hatch is a rare and special experience.

If we miss out this time, we won’t get another chance until 2038. That’s a long time between casts.

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