Simply put, that means going fishing during the hatch of Hexegenia Limbata, hummingbird-size mayflies that emerge after dark from beds of mud and marl on the margins of trout streams in late June and July. They are common in much of the north central and northeastern US, and their emergence marks trout season's the high point for many fly fishermen. And why wouldn't it? Big fish need a big meal; big brown trout usually feed at night, when hexes take to the sky and water; and lots of big meals drifting by on the surface means big, normally wary fish feeding wantonly in full view (or, in the absence of moonlight, earshot) of fishermen. Easy pickin's.
Or so we like to think.
Though the hex hatch does offer one of the season's best chances at a bona fide river shark, it is also notoriously frustrating. For one thing, the hatch "migrates" over its two or three week duration generally from warmer to colder waters, but not always in a regular or predictable way. The bugs may come off inconsistently on any given stretch of river where they "ought to be"; you may see none in your location, while 200 yards downstream there's a blizzard hatch. You may get plenty of bugs, but fish won't respond. Or they respond for twenty minutes then go silent while bugs raft by for another half hour. The fish strike short. All this could apply to nearly any hatch, I guess, but the hex inspires such grandiose hopes and visions in fishermen that the gap between these and the the results of a typical night of hexing can stretch to tragic proportions. It's a game that demands from its players heroic levels and varied shades of patience. Hyperbole? On its face, maybe, but after my first evening on the Manistee last week, I'd say that at least my assertion about patience is a rank understatement.
Last Tuesday, I got out of Ann Arbor late and didn't make it on the water until about 8:45. Normally, I like to be in my spot for the evening by 8, even though I don't expect any action until 10 at the earliest. The hex hatch draws crowds, and it's important to stake your claim to a good hole early. There were already two people on the bend I'd hoped to fish, so I moved to the next one, which I thought had potential.
And at that point all I could do was wait. Sometimes I bring a book to the river to help pass the hours until hatch time. I didn't last Tuesday, but since I didn't settle into my spot until 9:15, my wait wasn't long. Simply watching evening settle over the river is diverting enough on some nights.
By 10, I had seen a handful of hexes on the wing, which was only slightly encouraging; often by that time, they're streaking upstream in a serpentine cloud, like the river itself reflected in olive and tan and flowing in reverse, humming. A few small trout were feeding, but I saw no insects on the water. It was nearly 11 before I started hearing better fish feeding, and under the light of a full moon I could then also make out duns trembling on the surface of the river. Scanning the water with my flashlight, I could also see bunches of empty larval shucks floating by. An emergence had begun.
Most of the feeding I heard came not from the current lanes of the bend itself, but from a slack, mud-bottomed backwater that joined its upstream edge--perfect hex habitat if there ever was any. It's a bad idea to wade any water after dark you haven't first explored in daylight, but the SCHLUMPHs and WUPPs sounding from its edges lured me in. I was more concerned about sinking to my waist in mud (that's nearly happened before on the Manistee) than of falling into a deep hole, but gradually, gratefully learned that this particular basin had a firm bottom. Though a number of fish were active, none fed very consistently, making it hard to fish to any particular spot. A few trout did hit my fly, but quickly threw it. Short strikes are common at the beginning of a hatch.
As the feeding grew in intensity, so did my frustration. I tried different spots with no better results. It seemed, as it often does, that as soon as I moved somewhere to work a fish, that location went quiet, while trout in the "dead" spot I just left would begin rising again. Once, a fish began feeding five feet from my leg but refuse to hit the fly I dapped out to it. If there'd been enough light to see, I would have reached out and netted it just to teach it a little respect.
Two things kept me relatively cool-headed: one was the blind hope that eventually one of those trout would have to hit my fly, the other was that all this had happened to me before. And as on other hex nights, things eventually went from worse to better. For a while, the feeding stopped, then it resumed again, not as widespread as before, but more regular. I could pinpoint individual fish rising repeatedly A cast to one feeder at the head of the bend drew a quick strike and solid resistance. Soon I had a brown of about 13" in my net. I moved into the backwater basin where I heard another cluster of feeders and quickly caught and released another of the same size. Stopping to wipe my brow and take a drink (it still had to be nearly 80˚), I looked at my watch and saw it was roughly 11:45.
I got another strike on my next cast. This fish ran toward and behind me and I spun around to follow him and take up the slack he'd created in my line. When I tightened up on the fish, he made a short downstream run and I could tell he was a bit larger than the first two. I worked him back in to within about fifteen feet of me when he made another run. Strong fish, I thought, but I had no idea just how strong until I'd reeled him within a couple rod lengths once again and he stayed put. I simply couldn't budge the fish without risking a broken leader.
I'd waited for the hatch to begin, I'd waited for the feeders to turn their attention to my flies, and now I'd have to wait to tire out a fish that had great strength but no sense of urgency in employing. Large fish hooked during the hex hatch often fight that way--I wonder if they're less inclined to run away if they can't see exactly what they're running from? Whatever the truth of that, no fish has ever bulldogged me as long as this one did. The best fish I'd caught during previous hex outings was a 23 " brown, and that one surrendered in about five minutes.
I gently pumped the rod or worked it from side to side to gain a little slack line, but when I did this, the fish usually took it back in short order. Yet once he had it, he didn't feel compelled to draw still more and widen the distance between us. Before long, hoping to spare my leader and knots, I stopped my pitiful offensive moves and just kept tension on the line, feeling only the considerable weight of the fish and an occasional blunt pulse that registered a shake of the fish's head or tail. I actually find this kind of a fight more demanding than one where the fish is leaping from the water, charging for cover, or making long runs. In the latter, you can do things to respond to the fish--lead the fish away from obstacles, lower your rod when it jumps, tighten the drag, run downstream with it. But when the fish is just hanging like a log, there's nothing you can do. Except wait.
The trout and I kept up our uneasy dance, and eventually, it appeared it would start to let me lead. I drew in some line and was able to hold it at around 12' out for a while, then I reeled it close to netting range. It pushed out again, and became more active, shaking and darting more than it had since I hooked it. I began working harder too, pumping the rod again, and craning it from side to side it to pull the fish off balance.
What this really says is that I finally lost my patience for the night. The fish may have tired, but not enough to succumb to the pressure I was putting on it. My leader had come inside the rod tip for the second time since hooking the fish, so I raised the rod and reached for the net. The tip of the leader snapped. The fish splashed once and vanished. I nearly splashed down when I was left pulling on a weight that had gone. After recovering my balance, I remained hunched down in the river for a moment, catching my breath, then waddled to the bank.
That had to be the largest river-dwelling trout I've ever touched, and I'd lost it because I couldn't delay the gratification of landing it a bit. It was a few minutes after midnight when I sat down: nearly twenty minutes I'd had it on my line, and I couldn't have waited twenty one or twenty two? How many more seasons will I wait to hook another fish like that? (Twenty one or twenty two???) I couldn't have taken a few minutes during the lull in the hatch to cut back to a stronger tippet, as I usually do once I'm fishing well past nightfall? No! That might have cost me a chance at a fish!
Ahead lie many more occasions to apply these lessons of patience. I can hardly wait.
I didn't catch any more fish that night--the feeding had all but stopped by the time I tied another fly on. The next day a cold front blew in, and though many flies braved the evening chill, not many fish came up to feed. I caught two of fair size, plus one dink. With near record low temps predicted for Thursday night, I just fished in the afternoon, caught some 8-10" browns, then came home in the evening.
Maybe that was a good call. Maybe I quit too soon. My patience may be in doubt, but if you're still reading, I can confidently say yours is sterling.
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