A warm breeze as soft as an angel's kiss tickled the back of my neck. Dusk had settled over the AuSable River below Grayling, and the sounds of silence enveloped the moving water and its waiting trout fishermen.
As the fiery sunset turned a rich deep purple before plunging into the deep black darkness of night, the stage had been set for an exciting evening. Everything from this point on was a waiting game.
Anglers stood knee-deep in the river or sat patiently on a longboat seat, waiting, hoping and wishing, that tonight would be when the big bugs came off. It was warm and muggy as we waited for something that may or may not happen; a magic show that could be heard but not easily seen, an event that could be long remembered or simply become another long wait for nothing.
We were hoping for something a good bit less than a blanket hatch of Hexagenia limbata (giant Michigan mayfly) because when these bugs emerge or mate in mid-air and fall to the water to release their eggs and die, they may do so in such huge numbers that fishing becomes sporadic at best. A steady hatch is much better because it can drive jumbo brown trout into a voracious feeding frenzy and anglers to the depths of frustration as they try to catch selectively feeding trout at a time when hearing becomes a far more important fishing tool than the ability to see.
These big mayflies hatch some nights in mid-to-late June and even as late as early July, but on other nights when the air turns cool or cold, and the wind picks up, the hatch can sputter to an abrupt halt.
Last year, on more than one night, anglers huddled on riverbanks to talk in low whispers of better evenings. No bugs, lots of talk and little fishing; it's when the Hex hatch comes off that anglers fish with fierce determination, predicting when that will happen is the biggest problem anglers face.
It began this night with a faint humming sound, a barely audible sound that came from many thousands of gauze-like wings as the bugs began beating the air. This night the Hex hatch kicked off about 11 p.m. with this faint hum as these large mayflies lifted off stream-side bushes and trees with the fluttering of wings to form a mating mid-air dance that couldn't easily be seen but was as audible as the faint rumble of distant thunder.
Shivers ran down my spine like ghostly fingers as anglers made their first tentative steps into the river or jockeyed their boats into position for a short and accurate cast to a rising trout. The Hex hatch was on.
Insect mating takes place in mid-air, and it soon built to a crescendo of fluttering wings, slurping rise-forms from trout of all sizes, hooked fish and missed hits. A Hex hatch is somehow a magical midsummer event, and the sheer spectacle causes seasoned anglers to bungle easy casts, wade sloppily or miss solid strikes in their eagerness to put their fly in front of a feeding trout.
As the hatch ended, thousands of the giant mayflies fall to the surface to lay their eggs and die. It stimulates a feeding orgy of hungry brown trout, but the frenzy doesn't last long. As so often happens, the hatch comes off, lasts several minutes and sputters to a close almost before some anglers have taken their first cast.
A dimpling slurp was heard off a sweeper 10 yards away as a brown inhaled a spent mayfly. Ten seconds later, another slurp came from the same spot. Soon the river was alive with feeding fish upstream, downstream, midstream and along both banks. These big juicy mayflies attract trout. The bugs are rich protein with wings.
Each trout held in a narrow feeding lane, holding tightly to a seam of river current and they systematically rose at intervals to take another insect off the surface. Two or three smaller trout fed closer to me than the 10-second fish rising off the sweeper, but he was landed ... a solid 21-inch, four-pound fish.
A Joe's Hopper was tied to my three-foot leader that tested eight pounds. This is no place for delicacy: keep the leader short and stout. Wispy leaders seldom can keep a big night-feeder out of the log jams or sweepers, and big fish are strong and heavy in the current. Use a leader testing at least six pounds if you hope to be success with a larger after-dark brown trout.
I shook the fly line through the rod guides, and the trout rose again with a soft slurp. It was primed and ready, and I began counting as the fish took another egg-laying mayfly.
One-hundred-one, one-hundred-two, one-hundred-three, and as my count ticked off the seconds between rises, I made my cast between the eight and nine count. The line was mended once, and the fly drifted over the feeding trout without drag. The fish rose, and picked off a natural drifting alongside my fly.
If only the cast could be perfect every time. If only the trout would take my imitation rather than a nearby natural, and if only my drift was always drag-free. That's too many "ifs" to contend with, but the trout solved the problem by taking my next cast a half-second after it touched down.
The timing, cast, drift and everything else was perfect this time. Then came the all-too-familiar slurp of the fish, and a strong tug on my line. The fish drifted downstream under the floating fly, nosed up and sipped it off the surface and I saluted the brown trout with authority and heightened enthusiasm.
The No. 4 fly was solidly embedded in the trout's upper lip near the corner of the jaw. Time stood still as the brown paused for an instant to seemingly contemplate his mistake.
The fish then went wild, shattering the quiet of the night, and bulldogged and slashed its way upstream before jumping once, and then zipping downstream past the riverboat as if it were late for a down-river date.
The fly rod arched over my shoulder as pressure was applied to turn the fish from the entangling branches of a cedar sweeper that lay across two-thirds of the river. The fish held in midstream, head shaking back and forth and its tail thumping against the short leader, but it still tried to power up and under the fallen tree.
Steady rod pressure eased the fish back to open water, and five minutes passed before the brown was reduced to slow, steady circles near the boat. I admired the hook-jawed, red-spotted brown for a few seconds before twisting the hook free and giving the fish its freedom.
The hatch ended almost as fast as it had started, as so often is the case, and the feeding came to a halt for another night. I had come to put the hook to a big fish, and after sampling success, took even greater pleasure from its release.
This year, with its heavy rains and cold weather and wind, has not been good for many anglers. It's difficult, at best, to be in the right place at the right time as the hatch comes and goes. It may be hot in one small area for a night before moving downstream, and sometimes the hatch seems to skip a good portion of the river.
Hitting the Hex hatch is about as easy as hitting all of the lottery numbers. Anglers can come close, and hear people up or down the river, crying out as they hook fish. But there they are, waiting for the bugs to move near them, and they don't.
Finding the right spot, and being there at the right time, is a matter of luck and some skill. One doesn't need to be an excellent caster because many times just a 15-foot cast is needed. Timing your cast to match the timing of a trout's rise can be a bit tricky, and any big fly will work at times.
Any of the traditional "Hex" patterns will work. Most Hex flies are tied on a No. 2, 4 or 6 long-shank hook. Brown trout during the hatch or spinner fall like a meaty-looking fly. In recent years, since my vision has turned bad, I've gone to flies more similar to bass bugs, and prefer them to be tied with white or beige deer hair, and I like the hair trimmed fairly close to the hook. I find it helps me hook more fish.
This had been a night to remember. One to cherish for as many years as I can fish these Holy Waters on foot or from a longboat, and it was one to hopefully be relived again this year as giant Michigan mayflies dance over beloved northern trout waters.
The bugs dance to renew their kind, and to provide heart-warming thoughts for anglers who live all year to thrill to a night-time fishery as big bugs crawl over our faces and hands in a timeless mating ritual that never fails to please me, even if I don't catch a fish.
Dave Richey also writes a daily Weblog. Readers can visit it and his other features at www.daverichey.com.
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