Hex Highway

Night’s fast approaching. The sky is all ablaze with the sun’s last attempts to hold sway. But it’s slowly and surely losing the fight. Angry pinks and fireworks oranges paint the final moments on the battlefield as the pale moon and stars march victoriously into view. My dad’s sitting just across from me. Smoking a fragrant cigar. The kind that immediately makes me think of Al Capone. I’m smoking one too. But it’s muted and has less bite – less of a mafia effect. The gray tendrils intertwine and rise toward the darkening war zone above. We’re being patient. That’s the key thing with this type of fishing. Or any kind for that matter.

We had to get to this spot, up on a stream in Northern Michigan, hours before seeing any action. We had to claim our territory. So why not pass the time with some Macanudo cigars? My dad’s fishing buddy, John, doesn’t smoke. But he’s sitting on a log across from us, regaling us with tales of his last encounter with the infamous Hex hatch.

Hexagenia limbata. An unusually large mayfly from the family Ephemeridae. My dad is quick to pontificate on the Latin roots of the name. It’s where we get the word ephemeral – a fitting word for a bug that mates and dies in the same night. I’m still trying to work out the metaphor for how this phenomenon relates to human existence when a hush falls over the river.

Without warning, the sounds of flora and fauna around the riverbed stopped. That’s unusual. Anyone who spends enough time in nature knows that she stays busy long after our heads hit the pillow. The forest doesn’t dance along to our circadian rhythm. But tonight, even the crickets have slowed their cadence. Or at least in my excited mind, they have.

Time is inching forward now. The night air is rife with anticipation. And then, out of the dark, a low hum drifts. At first, it’s hardly anything – just a constant vibration disturbing the nighttime quiet. But that murmur slowly builds to a crescendo of clear wings whirring back and forth over the riverbed. I quickly look over at my dad questioningly. What’s our next move? He doesn’t say a word. He just points up. My eyes quickly follow. At first, it’s hard to make out precisely what I’m seeing. For one thing, there’s a lot of yellow in the sky. For another, the stars and moon look, well, hazy

by Hudson Allen

(that’s the only word I can think to describe it). It’s almost like a translucent sheet has been drawn above our heads. But that’s not it.

This sheet is moving steadily up the river of its own accord. This undulating sheet is alive – composed of thousands of adult Hexes, all dancing to the mating ritual tune. I look back at my dad. He’s still gazing up. I look over at John. His eyes are wide. “It’s like one big highway,” I can’t help but say out loud. Dad nods. He knows the waiting game is nearing an abrupt end. Once the flies start hitting the water, the brown trout will undoubtedly rise to the occasion (pun intended).

BOOM. On the outskirts of my peripheral vision, I see water erupt like a miniature Pompeii. The sound of trophy fish rising to the surface shatters the Hex’s steady rhythm like a barrage of cannonballs, all launching simultaneously. The first explosion is followed quickly by another. And another. And another.

It’s time to get to work. We spring forward instinctively, straining our eyes in the twilight. Other senses are working overtime to make up for the lack of vision. But once we find the source of another nearby shot, we waste no time delicately presenting our Hex patterns just upstream. And nothing compares to the feeling when one of those cannonballs is aimed at my fly instead of the real insects.

The air is frenetic. The hits are unreal. And the fights feel like they last an eternity – every muscle fiber in my body tenses with the anxious thought that I might break off. But before I realize it, the inky blackness has completely taken over. It’s time to say goodbye to the gyrating Hexes and the monster browns. I know tonight will stay with me. I’ve never fished a hatch like that – out in the dark with a million flies dancing. And sometimes, on long summer nights, when the wind’s calm and the stars are blazing quietly, I almost think I can hear the staccato sounds of trout rising and the steady hum of the Hex highway.

Editor’s Note: Hudson is fortunate enough to call Jay Allen, owner of Jay Allen’s Guided Fly Fishing, dad. Jay is familiar to readers for his contributions to Michigan Trout magazine, including one in this issue, “Get A Drift.”