Shot in the Dark

"If this works it's going to be insane."

Admittedly there's considerable doubt lacing my pronouncement.

I'm in a canoe with my buddy Ozzy, paddling upriver in the middle of what can be best described as "the boondocks." Even though the calendar is ready to flip to July, it's the first warm evening in recent weeks, and we're chasing Michigan's famous hex hatch, targeting big, nocturnal fish on unproven water.

It's literally a shot in the dark or perhaps, I worry, a fool's errand.

The "Michigan Hex," or "fish fly" in local parlance, is considered the holy grail of fly fishing in the Midwest. It refers to the Hexagenia limbata, the largest mayfly in North America. Every June and July, when hot days and warm nights become the norm, these giant bugs hatch on rivers and lakes, coaxing the largest, most elusive trout to the surface for explosive nighttime feeding. Or at least that's the theory.

But I've been on enough of these outings to know how they typically turn out. While these big bugs can hatch in plague-like proportions, somehow finding them in my favorite trout water always poses a challenge, even when the timing and conditions seem exactly right. Either the wind picks up, the temps suddenly drop, or the bugs, for reasons known only to them, are partying somewhere else on the river. My average success rate on hitting the hatch is probably around twenty percent; so many things just need to go right.

"That would be a great opening line for a story," Ozzy replies with more optimism than I'm yet willing to display.

Beyond the finicky bugs, the other challenge with hex fishing is the sheer number of eager anglers it attracts. Hex nymphs are burrowers that require soft, silty, muck-laden river or lake bottoms to thrive. And while world-class hex fishing happens on rivers like the Au Sable, Muskegon, Manistee, and Pere Marquette, many of the best spots get more crowded with crazies than Black Friday at Walmart. In the towns around these well-known locales, hotels are booked months in advance, fly shops are packed to the gills with hopefuls, and trucks sporting out-of-state plates litter every access point when hex is in full swing. Anglers and guides have been known to post up in prime locations several hours before a hatch simply to stake out their respective spots. I've witnessed heated arguments, smashed windows, and slashed tires at takeouts over territorial disputes. Seriously.

And that's why we are on a piece of water we know almost nothing about – to avoid the crowds and chaos that take away the fun of fishing in the first place. But the popular places are popular for a reason, and finding un-hassled water that actually produces in the days of digital scouting and social media can be nearly impossible. That's why Ozzy and I are always on the lookout for hidden gems, unlikely options, and sneaky spots that fly below the proverbial radar.

While sipping drinks around the fire on our annual fish-and-camp trip this winter we'd both casually mentioned a ribbon of water we'd been eyeing and vowed that this coming season we'd check it out together.

But our spring angling opportunities kept hitting snags. The Michigan weather had been schizophrenic, alternating between blazing heat well ahead of schedule, to torrential downpours that blew out the rivers, and then colder-than-normal temps after that. It was a mess. Add to that the complexities of our schedules (mine plagued with an unanticipated house move and too damn many funerals for close friends) and it was starting to feel like this exploratory mission might never happen. But finally in May we were able to pull off a last-minute recon. Conditions weren't ideal (partly sunny in the forecast, mostly sunny in reality), but at least the river was at a decent level, and water temps looked conducive to trout.

We dropped the canoe in early that morning and paddled upstream, wading where we could, slinging streamers into all the likely holds, but never moved a single fish. It was starting to feel like this mission was a bust; that we could check this spot off the list of likely prospects. Frustrated, we finally halted our upward pursuit and decided to paddle back.

I'd all but given up and resigned myself to the stern, but Ozzy, unwilling to throw in the towel, kept flogging away at the water with his seven weight. And then it happened. That ever-important "proof of life" moment his streamer got chased from under the shade of the alders by a sizable brown. That's when we both decided this spot needed to stay on the list and, given the looks of the water, warranted a return visit during hex.

So here we are at 7:30 on a Saturday paddling back upstream. The air feels right – warm and muggy – the water has the stagnant smell of decay that typically holds hope for hex, and there wasn't another vehicle to be found where we dropped in. But, will there be bugs? And, if there are, will there be fish? These are the questions that drive anglers to near lunacy, myself at the top of the list.

We post up at a promising bend - from here we can watch both up and downstream - and wait.

Patience, the least virtuous of my precious few fishing virtues. It will be a couple hours before we know if our investment will pay dividends. Before we know if that May trout was just an anomaly or a sign of things to come. Before we determine if this mucky hideout is one the big bugs care for or if it's just a stinky layer of sludge coating our boots.

I'm like a cooped-up hunting dog, shaking with anticipation, and it takes every ounce of discipline I possess not to jump in and start blind casting. I spark my Thermacell and a Marlboro, positive Mr. Petty had hex fishing in mind when he sang "waiting is the hardest part."

"If nothing happens by 10, I'm blind casting this run. I don't care," I declare in no uncertain terms three or four Marlboros later. Ozzy eyes me like a wise sage and implores restraint. I mumble to myself and fumble for my lighter when suddenly, a bug lifts from the slick surface. A big bug. A huge bug. A hex!

"Steady."

"Hold."

Ozzy is doing his best William Wallace as small rings start to dot the surface. In the dimming light I tie on my fly and goop it up, then cut the corner to take a peek at the run downstream and around the bend. Another hex takes flight. And then, mid-river a giant "gloop” breaks the silence. Ozzy hustles to my side and we watch. Five minutes, then ten. Nothing.

"Why don't you go ahead and fish him," Oz suggests. The words have barely escaped his mouth and I'm already false casting. On my fourth float I come tight on a solid fish. After a few fiery runs I bring him to hand and am shocked to discover it's a healthy resident rainbow in the 16-inch range. I had a hard time imagining there were many trout in this frog water at all, and if there were, I certainly never anticipated a rainbow. As I let him go, another explosion echoes downstream.

Ozzy is up, and after a few casts of his own, hooks into something substantial that folds his bamboo in half. We're fishing 2x and bamboo is typically a good tippet protector, so I feel pretty confident, but somehow this massive unknown fish breaks him off. We barely have time to recover before another concussion detonates back upriver. Ozzy quickly ties on a new fly and plops it into the run.

"Try a little farther up and in," I suggest. He makes the adjustment. As the imitation bobbles over the bubble line, we hold our breath. A massive take. Ozzy sets but there is nothing. A false swipe. He untangles himself and runs the line again. No dice. I give it a few tries, but don't get a take either. We must have put this fish down.

One fish landed and two more opportunities within a 60-yard stretch. I'm starting to enjoy the taste of crow.

We decide to work upstream along a promising alder-tangled bank. "This spot is going to hold a good fish," Ozzy predicts, and prods me to go ahead. My first cast is short, but I let it work down anyway. Nothing. I recast and this time put it under the overhanging branches. That's the one.

A slight sip, I set, and the river erupts in total chaos as whatever is on the end of my line launches out of the water, not once, but twice. Maybe another rainbow given all the acrobatics? I'm flummoxed, but don't have time to think too hard because she's running and taking line.

After a bit of back and forth, I’m able to slow the escape and work her in our direction. Ozzy clicks on his light for a quick look: a good brown. But she's not a fan of the headlamp and scurries off into the deep water again as we scramble with the net. I finally work her back in range, keeping the line as tight as I dare, and Oz manages the scoop, hefting a thick brown pushing the 20-inch mark.

Holy crap! I can't believe it! What a night! I’m singing a much different tune now.

We celebrate with high fives. But the moon is bright, a dense fog has formed over the water, and the mercury has noticeably dropped. Like a switch, the feeding frenzy is over and the river has returned to its normal, unassuming nature.

I dip a paddle into the quiet water and take in the musty scent of humid air as we push back to the truck.

Patience will never be my best virtue, but, as it turns out, some shots in the dark are worth waiting for after all.