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Hexaritaville
By Bob Linsenman |
Rob and Jerry piled in with Benny. Steve and Dan joined me in my truck and we headed out to the Whirlpool on the Au Sable's mainstream between Mio and Grayling. "I need to stop at the store and pick up some garbage bags," Benny called out his window. We would need at least one bag to carry out our own cans, paper and plastic, and possibly another for any refuse we might find along the river. Nearly all of the guides, and a high percentage of the anglers in my home area now carry bags for trash removal as a matter or policy. It is painful to admit that this is necessary, but it is also heartening to note a positive effect, and that is a noticeable decrease in stream-side litter.
We were on the bank of the small island at eight o'clock. Thousands of dead Hex spinners, remnants of the previous night's orgy, were gathered into drifting masses in the slack water behind logs and in tiny coves on the shore's edge. A high overcast and a slight, shifting fog at eye level fostered hopes for early nightfall and the beginning of the evening's festivities. The previous day had been clear and hot, and the bugs had not appeared until shortly after full darkness at 10:50 p.m. We were anxious.
A few small trout started rising just upstream of our observation point and Jerry examined a tiny olive spinner drifting past his feet. It looked like a size 18 or 20 and he guessed it was a Baetis vagans. Steve pointed to some larger, dark mayflies pulsing into a mating swarm roughly 15 feet above the water and guessed (hoped) they might be the last of the Brown Drakes. They seemed a little small for Ephemera simulans, and as they dropped we discovered they were Mahogany Drakes, the Isonychia sadleri, that will occasionally tease a larger, eager fish to the feeding point before the nightly Hex banquet begins.
Two larger fish slurped near the bank to our right. There the confluence of two smallish side currents formed a V and scoured a pocket of some depth next to an old, twisted stump. Rob tried in vain to effect a demeanor of nonchalance and patience, but soon cracked. "Would it be all right to try those two? Would it disturb the bigger fish if I hooked one?"
"No, it shouldn't bother anything," I answered and handed Rob a size 12 spinner with a slender, dark mahogany body, smoky wings and long, graceful tails. "Try this. Sneak up the bank and stay low," I offered. Rob added a stretch of 4x tippet, tied on his fly and crept up the bank.
Benny grabbed a handful of yesterday's Hex and tossed them into the main flow. "Chumming," he said. Dan rustled around the island like a bear in heat. He was finding odd bits of litter, stuffing junk into the trash bag and working himself into a frenzied snit. "I hate waiting," he muttered. Steve stood, opened a cold beer, then froze and pointed behind us. Donarski's ramble had come too close to a hiding fawn. Her nerves had popped and she stood trembling halfway between Dan, now motionless, and our cluster of philosophers. Dan took two, slow steps backward and the fawn broke fast to the edge of the island, splashed along the small, graveled channel, up the bank, and into the undergrowth. The usually irreverent Pytlik doffed his goofy fishing hat, gazed upward and said, "Thank you God!"
I turned to check on Rob's progress. He was intent on his task and had not seen the fawn. His casts were low and accurate, but he had not yet matched his delivery to the feeding rhythms of the fish. He had the right fly. It would only be a matter of time before he hooked up.
Six, or seven, or eight wild turkeys thundered into a leaning white pine on the far bank. They fluttered and hopped and chortled and pecked their way to suitable roosting perches and settled in just as Rob hollered. We all turned in time to see a nice rainbow, maybe 14 inches, somersault back into the water and run straight toward his waders. The line went slack and the fish was gone, but my nephew grinned widely as he sloshed back to us. "Nice job," I said. He sat, still smiling, cut his leader back to 1x, and tied on a Hex spinner.
It was getting darker by the minute, and the talk seemed directed more to the river, the fish, the sky, than to any one of us. Steve's voice (dryly) - "This is the time and the place for heavy thinking. Knee deep in muck, mosquitoes, werewolves, loud-mouthed turkeys--what stimulation!"
Pytlik's voice (plaintively) "Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic, but I'd like to bring a lady friend down here. You know, on a date."
Benny's voice (knowingly) "I tried that once. It didn't work. She said the mosquitoes were terrible, and she was afraid of the dark. But the Hex really made her crazy. They came in swarms and got down her neck. I asked her to try it again this year, but she said 'no, let's have dinner instead.' She's a big city girl, a Flatlander."
Dan's voice (as in thankful prayer to the heavens), "Yes, but she had the guts to try it. What's her name, what does she do?"
Benny's voice (quietly), "She's a nightclub dancer in Saginaw."
Dan's voice (slightly pushy this time), "Does she have a name?"
Benny's voice (with finality), "Yes, she does. It's Melon Baby Collie."
Rob's voice (with serious, wild passion), "Jeez! Look at them!"
They came from downstream in undulating waves numbering in the tens of thousands. They were 40 to 50 feet above the water and their wing beats produced a distinctive, humming vibration. They came on, abreast, then passing, through pale shards of moonlight filtered by rolling clouds. The mix of visual images included a sky scene from a Dracula movie, the living, pulsing, lusting swarm of insects, the dancing fog and the quiet, inky flow of a large, ominous river. There was a long moment of awe-inspired silence, then a voice in the dark. "Wow! This is why we're here. This is downtown Hexaritaville!"
Steve, Dan, and Bad Scene moved slowly, quietly downstream and dispersed to fish the curling sweep of deep water next to the eroding sand hill on the far bank. Jerry, Rob and I stayed put to fish the more complex currents and troublesome wading of the heavy run at the head of the island.
Three fish began to feed near the opposite shore below the dark current curling from beneath a dying cedar. Two more fish, seemingly quite large, slurped greedily just upstream and about 15 feet out from Rob. "Get 'em, Robby," I directed, but he was already stalking them, shaking line out through his rod, staring hard into the gloom.
Without discussing it, Jerry and I had somehow agreed that he would try the fish furthest upstream and I would work the riser that now fed consistently about 50 feet lower in the run. There was no talking now. There was only the soft swish of fly lines, the hum and flap of insects in the air, the soft, fluid gabble of the river, and the feeding sounds of very heavy trout. I turned toward a heavy mid-stream rise which was quickly followed by a gasping expletive.
Jerry waded (unsteadily) back to shore, turned on his flashlight, and muttered "Missed him. Fly sinking. Bad Jerry." No commentary was expected and I Iooked over in Rob's direction. He continued the short cast-short drift technique and seemed to be timing the feeding patterns of the two fish in front of him. From downstream a voice exclaimed "Got him!", and a few seconds later, "Steve's got one too! A double--both nice fish."
I turned back to my fish. It was still greedily sucking down protein every 20 or so seconds, and I resumed casting. Jerry waded back into position and hooked up on his third or fourth delivery. "He" was a "she," a brown trout of about 20 inches and she tore up the patch before Jerry released her in the calm water of the island. My fish seemed to have moved a few feet closer to my position, but held its steady feeding pattern. I kept casting and made several false sets when he/she slurped a natural close to where I thought my fly should be.
The trout continued to torture me as another signal of success wafted upstream from our friends at the sand hill. I changed patterns, being careful not to allow the flashlight's tiny beam to fall on the water, and applied floatant. I checked the short leader for kinks and tangles. I took a deep breath and cast again. There would not be much time left. The spinner fall was over. The bugs still in the current were carried to us from somewhere upstream.
Out in the dark beyond my sight, the fish fed again and I lifted the rod. "We have ignition, Hexaritaville. We have lift-off." The trout was heavy and powerful, wild and wonderful. Rob and Jerry joined me with camera and net for the last moments. The fish, another brown, surged and rolled and bore deep one last time before Jerry had it in the mesh. We quickly taped him at 23 inches and made a happy release as Rob snapped pictures that exploded the night with flashes of brilliant light. A small series of time slices, one-sixtieth of a second each, were forever captured.
We slogged back to the island to join Steve, Dan and Benny who had quit for the night and were sitting on the bank enjoying the show. Happy chatter abruptly ceased when one of the fish Rob had been working fed heavily, then again, and again. My nephew looked at me wildly, handed me the camera, and waded back to his original position. We followed, all of us. Rob had a coaching staff that, in numbers, would rival some small college football teams.
Rob quickly hooked and landed a 15-inch female and we readied to leave when a tremendous, plunger-like sound erupted from a widening, frothy hole in the water not 15 feet in front of us.
"Good God! Did a plane fly over and drop a bowling ball?" someone asked. "That was a very big trout eating a decent sized trout," said Benny, and added: "However big it was, it was big enough to stalk and eat a fish that was gorging on Hex. It's over for tonight. Let's quit. It's one-thirty."
We waded upstream to the path, then made the short hike to the parking area in silence.
"What now? Can we come back here - I mean right here tomorrow night?" asked Rob.
"Can we go to the Yooper Square Dance in Grayling?" begged Dan.
"I want a hot bowl of chili and a cold beer," said Steve.
"I want Melon Baby Collie's phone number," whispered Jerry.
We drove back to the little cabin on the hill, hugged the dogs and tied some flies.
Bob Linsenman is Midwest Fly Fishing's Michigan field editor. This article appeared in the summer 1997 edition of this magazine.
A few years ago, my sisters cornered me during half-time festivities of the annual football riot between Notre Dame and Big Blue. The Wolverines were down by three points, due largely to the efforts of an officiating crew that had been (we speculated) flown to South Bend directly from the Vatican. The mood was tense. Only brother-in-law Don whooped heartily for the Fighting Irish, but he had previously bunked on a nuclear submarine for extended periods and we suspected some sort of cranial meltdown was the cause of his demented loyalty.
"I'm tired of telling your life story by way of explanation. You've been back home long enough to get it right." Carol pointed to an empty chair and continued as I sat. "People wonder why you get everything mixed up and I tell them you moved away for a long time. They ask me 'why?' and I tell them you were sick. 'Well, he moved back, didn't he?' And they say 'Well then, he must be better, he must not be quite so sick.' "
"It's not really that hard, Bob. Gerry and I have written it out for you," said sister Carlene as she nodded to Geraldine who produced a yellow legal pad from thin air.
"Just read this and try to remember. Maybe you could carry it with you for reference in case you forget," added Geraldine as she patted me on the head and turned to the roar from the television as a Michigan tuba man took a roundhouse swing at a Notre Dame drummer.
Believe me, I would not take the time to present this overview of that crib-sheet if it were not vital to your understanding of the human broth that comes to such a frenzied boil during the emergence of the Giant Michigan Mayfly--the Hexagenia limbata. On second thought maybe it's not a broth at all--maybe it's a chip dip.
At the peak of prestige (and geography) sit the Yoopers. These are hardy souls who defy the elements and harsh terrain of the Upper Peninsula and who mostly cheer for the Packers and Brewers. Society's bottom rung is held by the Flatlanders, who live south of "the line," who root for the Lions and Tigers and who have jobs.
In between the Yoopers and the Flatlanders, you will find a mixture of Troll (to a Yooper, anyone who lives below the Mackinac Bridge is a Troll) sub-species, including Cedar Savages, Bush Weasels, Swamp Angels, and Fudgies. A Cedar Savage lives north of "the line," but south of the bridge. He or she could also be a Jack Pine Savage, if they live on one of the few arid ridges or near the sand barrens. The Bush Weasel's range extends from "the line" across the bridge into the U.P.
Bush Weasels often appear suddenly at roadsides near the edge of a forest or swamp. They are identified by their nervous posture and furtive glances back and forth before scurrying across the trail, or back into the woods. A Swamp Angel cuts trees in the U.P. and works long hours. Swamp Angels are tough and can be sudden in their decision-making process. A Fudgie is a Michigan Yuppie. He or she is almost always a Flatlander and they are always from "down below" ("down below" is a generalized direction and place that refers to anywhere south of where you happen to be at the moment). The Fudgie drives a foreign car, says "Michiganian" instead of "Michigander," and comes north only to visit the shops in Petoskey or on Mackinac Island. Fudgies rarely fish and do not hunt, but they drop some serious coin on the locals and are therefore tolerated between Memorial Day and Labor Day.
So there you have it without the complications of work-related moves (rare), or inter-marriage (less rare). To sum up, it is safe to say that a Yooper Swamp Angel enjoys much more status than a Flatlander Fudgie, who is roughly equal to an Alien from Ohio or Florida, or New York. If the two extremes held the same job, the Yooper would say he was a Swamp Angel, perhaps a logger. The Fudgie would say he was an "independent forester." But, the Aliens and all the Michiganders drop their pretense and posturing once a year when they pack their fly rods and duffles and head to the languid, sweet-stream flow of the beautiful Au Sable River for the Bug Dance, the emergence of the Hexagenia limbata.
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Benny (Bad Scene Benny) Coyne and I sat at the bar of the Northwoods Tavern just north of Mio. It was June 18th, 12:45 a.m. and the saloon was busy with anglers (Flatlanders, Yoopers, Aliens, Fudgies) just off the river. Many of them showed early symptoms of "the stare"--an insensate condition caused by trying for too long to force visual form to sounds and shapes that have been deliquesced into the gloom of foggy twilight.
Marie, the bartender at the Northwoods, calls it the Hex Vex. "The river rats got it bad tonight, eh? That far away look reminds me of the reaction I got from the IRS guy down below when he saw my bag of hand-written receipts. Benny, you got it too." She moved to pour Bad Scene another tequila and I turned to my friend. His eyes were an unblinking, unseeing signal that the cerebellum was otherwise engaged.
We were waiting for other members of the fly angling underworld to join us. Our loosely bound fishing group, the Blazing Waders, hosts an annual meeting we call the Burrowing Muck Dwellers Conclave during "the hatch," and Benny and I expected the momentary registration of our colleagues. Dan Donarski was on his way down from Sault Ste. Marie, Steve Nevala would drive up from Kalamazoo, Jerry Pytlik, the bamboo wizard from Bay City, would join us as would my nephew, Rob Powell.
We would keep company with the hordes of other bewitched anglers, Buckeyes, Texans, Hoosiers, Swamp Angels and Fudgies, all bundled into an area roughly circumscribed by the villages of Grayling, Lovells, Roscommon and Mio. For eleven months of the year these burgs are independent and proudly competitive, but from early June through the 4th of July they bond and become Hexaritaville, USA.
So here we sat in a saloon at the eastern edge of Hexaritaville--waiting. Benny (the only trout guide I know with an unlisted telephone number) had earlier caught and released a 22-inch male on an experimental spinner pattern. He was feeling powerful and expansive, and decided to request a double order of garlic bread sticks by making questionable hand gestures to the kitchen staff. Just then the front door flew open and Dan muscled through the neoprene-clad zombies to our place at the bar.
"Hex smeared the windshield at the M-72 bridge on the South Branch. I had to stop and clean it by hand. I was there, so I fished instead of coming straight in. Caught a 16 and a 19, and lost a big one above Dog Town. Hi."
"Hi," we both answered and Benny asked, "When did you take up falconry?" In response to Dan's quizzical, distant expression, Benny pointed to Donarski's shoulder upon which perched a large, live Hex dun, probably a size 4.
"God, they're really out tonight!" Dan noted, then solemnly, hat held over his heart, he plucked the big mayfly from his shoulder, tossed it into Benny's glass of chilled tequila and drank it down. "To the Burrowing Muck Dwellers," he toasted.
Marie poured Benny another full glass of brain juice and observed dryly, "Well, Dan is here. So now we have Dan Donarski and the Burrowing Muck Dwellers right here in my bar. Sounds like a Yooper Polka band."
By noon the next day our team was assembled. Jerry had roared up the driveway at 2:15 a.m. and parked his 36-foot motor home exactly 1 1/2 inches from my brother-in-law Bill's tarp-covered, custom Corvette. "I thought it was a wood pile," he said. Bill used to earn his pay doing mean things to people late at night in far-a-way dark jungles, and his son Robert, an apprentice BMD had fainted at the sight of the lumbering RV skidding to a stop so close to his father's toy. "I think he scraped it. You'll get blamed for this Robby," I had told him. He was still in a nervous, twitching sleep.
Steve Nevala was the last to arrive. As Michigan's official Curmudgeon Laureate, he had been required to issue several blanket disapprovals and sign a negative opinion statement before leaving Kalamazoo. He laid his gear on the porch and swaggered into the cabin shaking hands, petting dogs and gesturing toward the table where fly tying paraphernalia and coffee cups surrounded a sickly plant.
"Perfect pathos," he said.
"It's pronounced Pothos," I answered.
"I wasn't referring to the plant."
We tied flies, both duns and spinners, but mostly the large hen-winged, cream-colored spinners with extended bodies. And, we laid plans. We considered splitting into two groups with one party of three spread along the smooth, silt-banked flats near Parmalee Bridge while the others concentrated on the big slot near the sand bank below Whirlpool access. We weighed the merits of floating the long stretch from McMasters to Parmalee against the walk-in approach and finally decided on the latter. We would all stick roughly together along the 300-yard glide below the sand hill slot. Steve summed it up with, "I have an obsessive need to sit very still on the mud bank of that little island. I want to stare into the gloom and think Nobel Peace Prize-type thoughts until the fish start feeding."
By six that evening, Benny and Dan had tied enough flies to supply everyone in Oscoda and Crawford counties, Jerry had given Rob a casting lesson (and sold him a new Powell rod), and Steve and I had listened to the Tigers deliver a thumping to the Yankees while preparing dinner and some snackables for later consumption.
Dinner was finished, dishes were washed and two well-worn Suburbans were fully loaded by seven o'clock. We needed two large trucks because, as the years had passed, each of our private check-lists for the bare necessities had grown. My list required two fly rods: a 9', 5 weight and 9', 7 weight; a waterproof camera, two flashlights, two pair of waders, an extra jacket, an extra pair of reading glasses, two extra reels, two cans of mosquito spray, two cans of diet soda, one thermos, two sandwiches, and so on.
I also like to take two dogs. With apologies to John Gierach, it must be said that mine are a joy to fish with when I am alone. The Cookie Monster (a mutt) and Cobaka (a lab) usually loll around on the bank and rarely criticize my casting. But, they would stay behind on this night. Cobaka worries if "her party" of anglers gets too spread out and will sometimes try to herd them back together. And the Cookie Monster likes beer, Steve's brand of beer, and has been known to nudge him a little forcibly if her thirst needs quenching. A cold, wet nose pressed suddenly to the back of one's neck on a foggy, moonless night can be exciting; and a push from behind against a knee braced in the current is, at best, problematic.
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copyright Midwest Fly Fishing Magazine 1999
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