One day they aren't there, next day they eat you alive.

Oh, the blackflies, the little blackflies,
Always the blackflies, no matter where you go.
I'll die with the blackflies pickin' my bones
In north Ontar-eye-oh-eye-oh, in north Ontar-eye-oh.
(Canadian folk song)

That's the merry month of May for you. One day it's cold, wet, and miserable and the next it's sunny and 75. On the 23rd it felt like late November. The 24th was better and we caught fish. The 25th was even better and we caught more fish. Miserable? Did I say miserable? Sorry -- I meant "wonderful". Cold, wet and windy, yes, but there were no blackflies! And a day without blackflies, when you're catching big trout -- well, heaven can wait. When the blackflies do show up and begin chewing on your flesh, you find yourself yearning for those good ol' cold, wet, windy bugless days. But on the fourth day, when Trout Boy arrived on the scene, he brought the blackflies with him. They formed clouds around our heads. They flew into our ears, mouths and eyes and up our noses. They drew blood. We cursed, we swatted, we scratched. When we fished near the shore, I swear we could hear the woods humming with the wingbeats of millions of blackflies.

Still, of course, we fished.

The Bro caught several nice fish and Trout Boy caught a couple more. But the one that got away was a really big fish. No, really!

When you're not looking down at your feet, where your flyline has coiled as you've retrieved your fly, the line is alive and moving like a snake, seeking out something to wrap itself around. You never actually catch the line doing this, but it must be doing it because when you try to pay out line for a cast or give line to a fish to run with, you discover that your line has snugged itself around your shoe, or your tackle bag, or in this case the strap of your L.L. Bean canoe seat, the strap-on padded seat with a backrest that you got to make all those hours in the boat a bit more comfortable.

A few yards in front of the boat, the dorsal fin and tail of a huge trout quietly broke the water as the fish took a nymph just under the surface. Trout Boy was in the front seat and had an easy cast, which he landed perfectly a couple of yards ahead of the fish. A moment later, there was a swirl and the big trout was hooked. I could tell by the bend in the rod and the Omigod! expression on Trout Boy's face that the fish was even bigger than we'd thought. The trout thrashed about near the boat for a few seconds, then decided to light out for the territory. The line followed, sssssing through the water for about 20 feet and then went limp as the fish kept going but the line stopped dead. Somehow it had wrapped itself around the dangling end of the strap that secures the padded seat to the canoe seat. I know the feeling well. Trout Boy will replay that scene in his head oh, about a million zillion times.