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Fishing is a story . . .

Seventeen years ago, the most remarkable thing happened in my fishing life. The periodical cicada emergence happened in plague numbers, in an area densely populated with wild trout that swim in cold waters — in my home waters.

Those trout had never seen a bug that large, but once they realized the caloric opportunity, there was no looking back. So for the next six weeks, the largest trout in the system ate with reckless abandon — they ate like they were having fun, and they hunted cicadas until the end.

Even after the big bugs had died off, when no evidence of their existence remained, legendary trout were in the game for a few more weeks.

Seventeen years ago, I worked at night and fished almost every weekday. I had no kids and no extra responsibilities. Life was simple. And once I realized the moment at hand, I fished even harder, every day, with every possible moment.

It was the best fishing of my life.

That time was so special that I daresay Troutbitten wouldn’t exist without the cicada event. To this day, I carry the lessons I learned from those trout so many years ago. I know my waters more intimately. I know what’s in there, and I know what isn’t.

Last time, I spent multiple days on the stream with my friend, Steve Sawyer. We fished upstream together, covering two to three miles of water in a day, cherry picking the prime spots and calling our shots. It was the most predictable fishing I’ve ever had. And Steve and I promised one another that we’d repeat the madness, seventeen years later.

Seventeen years seemed like an impossible time frame. And then, all of the sudden, here we were again . . .

So this is not a film about fishing the 2025 cicadas. Instead, it’s about a few days after the cicadas were long gone, when trout simply stopped eating the big flies. It’s about the end of something extraordinary. It’s about a bold marker in time that coincided with my fiftieth birthday. It’s about nostalgia, about the past, and about begrudgingly accepting a new present while looking toward the future.

As 2025 approached, I cleared my schedule, and I took no guide trips from the end of May forward. My Troutbitten friends and I decided not to talk about the cicadas, not to post pictures, patterns or articles on Instagram, YouTube or the website, because we didn’t want to draw more attention to the event.

Honestly, my biggest fear was that these rivers would be overrun with anglers seeking the same cicada success they’d heard about.

Seventeen years ago, I was pretty much the only fisherman out there. But that was before social media and the internet was in everyone’s pockets. So I prepared myself to accept an onslaught of fishermen.

Then the cicadas began to emerge . . .

And when I caught my first trout on a 2025 Cicada, I realized I wasn’t going to film it. Instead, I appropriated the Fishpond pack on my hip, normally used for my camera, to store lunch, an extra shirt, bug spray and a few other essentials needed for covering long stretches of water on long days.

I took only a few cell phone photos. It was a fulfillment of the promise I’d made to myself all those years ago — that once I tied on the cicada, it’s all I would fish . . . until the very end. So I set aside all other distractions . . . and I fished. It was amazing.

In early June, enough cicadas began to make in flight mistakes that trout started paying attention.

Then the rains came . . .

Our area received record rainfalls for the month of June, right on top of the cicadas. At first, I lamented the loss of opportunity. Then I realized the saving grace of high water and difficult conditions — very few anglers were on the rivers.

Early on, it became predictable where people would fish (if they did at all) — most fished the smallest and lowest rivers and the easiest conditions. So I did the opposite. I fished waters  here that I never thought possible to wade at 1200 cfs. But they were. With such consistently steady rain, the color settled. Our rivers were dirty, but not muddy. And if you knew the contours and had waded these currents for decades, that knowledge opened doors that were seemingly closed for most anglers.

It was, again, the best fishing of my life. The 2025 cicada fishing was not as easy or predictable as it was in 2008. With wet weather, the cicadas never took on a daily routine.

Seventeen years ago they flew at nine in the morning until six-o-clock in the evening . . . like clockwork. And trout learned that rhythm. This time, the cicadas flew whenever their wings were finally dry. They were available to trout in fits and sputters. So the imprint on trout was not as strong. Not as many fish hunted. And fishing the memory didn’t  last as long this time, either.

That brings me to where I stand today, still fishing the cicada dry out of some kind of commitment to my thirty-three year old self.

But it’s over.

Back then, they ate the memory well into August. This time, it was nearly finished by the Fourth of July. The memory had worn off before our family beach vacation, and now, after being removed from these waters for a week, I’m realizing that something I’d looked forward to for the better part of two decades is honestly and fully finished.

The chapter is complete. The moment is gone.

And I couldn’t be more thankful for what it gave to me.

I fished with some of the most important people in my life. We shared old stories and formed new memories. We made plans and talked about what the world will look like in another seventeen years. (That’s pretty hard to imagine.) I fished with friends and family. And I fished alone. I fished through hard rains and found phenomenal fishing . And I found a new peace and a hard reset button that I’d been missing for a long time.

I fished hard. I fished enough that I was almost satisfied . . . until the next morning. I walked and waded nearly a hundred river miles in those six weeks. I caught about eight-hundred trout, fished just one pattern, went through two dozen cicadas and never tied on another fly . . . until today.

Because it really is over.

I’ll miss the simplicity of shirt pocket fishing. I’ll miss facing off with some of the best and wisest trout in these rivers, day after day. I’ll miss the confidence in fly selection, knowing exactly what fly to use, all day long. And I’ll miss watching our selective, cautious wild brown trout turn into sharks for a two-inch top water fly.

And I’ll do it again . . . in seventeen years.

Here’s the video . . .

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What Is Fish and Film?

For more about the Troutbitten Fish and Film series, visit this article . . .

READ: Troutbitten | The Fish and Film Series Begins — Video Trailer

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Enjoy the day.
Domenick Swentosky
T R O U T B I T T E N
domenick@troutbitten.com