On a recent soft spring evening, I realized I was no longer soaking in the beauty of the neon-green grass and magical gardens bursting all around me. I’d become obsessed with spotting ticks, the tiny hitchhikers that attach themselves to me as I scuff through the yard. I find them stuck to my ears and neck, sending me skittering to the shower. Oddly, I once admired bugs. Well, not all bugs — just certain ones. At one time, the little creatures were peacemakers in a war between my father and me.

My father was a fly fisherman, which, as it turns out, is all about bugs. In the late winter and early spring, he disappeared for hours on reconnaissance missions with his trusty sidekick, our unhinged poodle. Like military scouts, they traversed the countryside, checking to see how favorite fishing spots had weathered the winter. Was the ice out yet? Had any rocks, boulders, or branches tumbled onto the shore, making a favorite spot inaccessible?

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