By Nathan D’ Achille
Our last night of the weekend, after two bug less nights, still no trout. “The night hawks up there are eating them.” my buddy said, and promise was sparked as the hawks were getting lower, as they fed on the descending spinners high above. We had paddled my canoe past numerous bends, but each one was occupied by fishermen staked out on each good spot. Structure of a log jam was what we were in search for and our success depended on it. Nastier the better, and with my mad river canoe hitched to the inside bend, we had finally claimed our own set of log jams like 49ers. Here in the Mit, cover is not a shortage, and although these log jams eat your flies, they also are home to our apex predators, Salmo trutta, and this is where you want to be before the lights go out. Red glow with a background of dark blue was painted overhead as the sun was sinking below the pines, and the only movement was the river between our waders and the birds overhead. “What’s that?!” Out of the darkness the river carried a giant Hexagenia limbata mayfly past us, then five, then thirty, a hundred, a thousand. Weather channel’s Doppler radar has been known to pick up hex hatches as they can be so dense, and although we weren’t in a storm, the hex clicking above our heads sounded like a rain downpour. No lightening, but thunder like rises started dropping all around us making it tempting to chase fish. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” proverb holds true here, and valuable time of a spinner fall can be lost chasing numerous trout. Back cast completed, the 6 foot 1X leader carried the #4 hex fly across the dark current into the bank to be clawed up by the pine tree. Shaking hands tying another fly onto the leader, knot dressed, hex hitting me in the face, knot checked, and gink smeared on hackle. I was returning to the river. Moon light would be the only light over our shoulders as we knew that turning our headlamps on would send these nocturnal predators back. My four senses the night left me with were heightened as I let three feet of RIO line through my hand. Sense of feeling now over sight had become my gauge for distance, knowing that each 3 feet of line casted could be the take from the fish. “Wait for the weight, or you’ll just pull the fly out of their mouth,” my friend kept saying. The take was heard in the dark, the jolt was telegraphed through the fly line and felt in my arm, and the hook was set. Admired, a million pictures taken and released. We watched the brown swim back across the sand bar into darkness. We unhitched the canoe and let the moon lead us around the log jams through the quiet flow, knowing the river will be alive again. The spinner fall was over for the night, but the hex addiction was just beginning for us.
The more you fly fish and get into this cult, er sport or religion of fishing, the more you will become educated on the topic. That’s part of the true fun of this sport and what sets it aside from “fishing.” Following years ,I would learn the importance of emergers and late floating spent spinners. Although the initial spinner fall usually was the big bug miracle feeding of the night, there were times that the emergers and late spinners not only prolonged my night of fishing but made it easier to connect.
Certain household luxuries are taken for granted, but the joyous labors of camping made this coffee more appreciated. Fire made, water boiled, coffee percolated, caffeine in me, I needed to hit the vice to replenish my fly box from what the tag alders stole from the night before. (I recommend Kelly Galloup’s Troutsmen Hex. It can be fished as a spinner by pulling wings down or leave wings up as a dun.) Clumps of hex shucks were investigated, swirling around in lodged pockets of weeds as I was sinking down in two feet of silt muck, the very silt on the river’s edge that meant I was in prime real estate of hexangenia territory. People would call us crazy for stepping into a wet, cold, humid mosquito invested river, staying out till after midnight, but all that is numbed by the slashes and violent feeding of a two foot brown trout in the dark. Pulling my buff scarf over my head, (a piece of gear I never step in the river without, especially at night), getting my clear safety glasses ready around my neck, (important to protect your eyes), headlamp around my hat, bug spray added to my skin the outfit was completed. Staring into the sky revealed another famous Michigan mayfly, the size #10 isonychia. (Have these in your box, as they’re common on all our rivers. Any #10 – 12 wine colored dubbed grizzly hackled fly will work.) I enjoyed the semi daylight as I could actually see the casting and rises. Then darkness, and the Hex were out, but they were done quickly and with not capitalizing I was left standing there patiently listening for any disturbance. Waiting for any extra dislodged spinners or emergers hatching, and with no phone to distract, entertainment was displayed above by a streaking green meteor that disappeared behind the black silhouette of pine. Tired and gladly getting ready to leave and hit the tent’s soft sleeping pad, I heard a loud splash across the dark. Losing that fish to a bad mechanics of a knot another was heard and waded slowly to. Releasing that one was greeted by another. It was a stalk and listen game in the night, and it prolonged my fishing well past one a.m. On a later trip, these emergers had my friend and I out till past three a.m. The lesson we learned was not to underestimate the emergers, and also the bigger fish usually come out later. If you’re wondering if the fables about the hex are true, I’m here to tell you they are. Make the pilgrimage to Michigan for the Hexagenia limbata, sleep in, stay caffeinated at night, be patient on the river and fish the largest mayfly in North America.
Bio: Nathan D’Achille: Michigan native and blue liner. I am immersed in the biosphere of our northern woods, and I have been appreciating nature above as well as below the water as a free diver with my father. When I’m not running, playing guitar, fishing or on the vice I am making my way to northern Michigan or dreaming about it. I am 37 years of age and grateful for every wade. Instagram: dachille49
