May followed a fairly typical spring pattern, with variable conditions rather than any prolonged stretch of stable weather. Temperatures generally trended upward through the month but fluctuated frequently, with mild periods interrupted by cooler days, rather than an early shift into summer-like warmth. Precipitation was near normal overall, with regular passing systems bringing intermittent rain instead of sustained heavy events, keeping water levels stable without major blowouts.

For trout fishing, this translated into consistent conditions: water temperatures gradually moved into the optimal feeding range, flows stayed healthy, and frequent cloud cover and light rain helped maintain steady insect activity and reliable surface feeding, particularly during hatch periods.

With typically less than 24 hours of adulthood, mayflies bring new meaning to the idea of a life in a day. And every spring, anglers from across Nova Scotia eagerly await one of the great phenomena not just in fishing, but in nature itself: the Black Quill hatch.

While prevalent across the province, it’s the remote backcountry lakes of the Eastern Shore that seem to hold a special kind of magic. Shorelines are decorated with large granite boulders; canoes are stashed strategically throughout the system—and if you time it right, the sky is dark with clouds of these hatches.

It’s a beautiful time of year, and if I could only pick one week to fish, this would be it.

There is a small stillwater I’ve returned every spring for more than fifteen years. By June, it grows thick with weeds and is largely overlooked for the rest of the season. But come late April, it a goldmine.

On this particular afternoon, I made the long walk around until I reached the far side, where a small run (about three feet across) spills into the larger pool. I’ve come to call it “Gateway,” after a local meat shop—known for fair prices and a loyal lineup of customers.

There were trout rising steadily in the seams, sipping emerging nymphs as they struggled in that final, fleeting transition—breaking free into their brief adulthood as winged mayflies.

I stood there and watched, quietly proud of this little stream that could. And in that moment, I found myself offering a silent thank you—for its existence and the grace to recognize what it meant to me.