A Voice in the Darkness (Part 1 of 3)

 

The AuSable River is a clear, cold, slow-flowing river in central Michigan. It’s not stereotypical trout territory because there are no mountains and steep, rocky rivers. The surrounding terrain is mostly low, rolling hills of sand, pines, and fir trees, so the AuSable is quiet and unassuming. And yet, it is one of America’s great trout rivers.

 

AuSable riverbank

 

For those of us accustomed to wading in the slippery-rock rivers of the Southern Appalachians, the AuSable is a welcome reprieve. Its gentle current and sandy bottom make wading easy, the only problem being an occasional patch of mud and weeds so thick they can suck the boots right off your feet, which is something I know from experience. The mud and weeds provide prime habitat for the kinds of insects that trout relish, so the trout are big and the wading is easy. . . even at night.

 

It was about 1 am, and I had been fishing since the sun set about three hours earlier. Or, to be more precise, I had been standing around hoping to hear feeding fish that I could cast my fly to. So I had been listening for several hours, without actually fishing. A lot of what passes for “fly fishing” is actually just standing around waiting for something to happen. For many generations, the most important skill for the aspiring fly fisherman has been the ability to be alone with one’s own thoughts or a good book. I suppose smart phones and iPods may change all that. Why read Thoreau when you could be playing a video game?

 

 

That’s the downside to chasing bugs, hoping that they’ll land on the water’s surface as planned, prompting the fish to jump into a full-blown feeding frenzy. The bugs usually show up so consistently that you can set your calendar and your watch by them. In late-May it’s the Sulphur Mayflies; in early June it’s the Brown and Gray Drakes; by mid-June it’s the Hexagenia Mayflies. Most of these bugs mate and die then drop to the surface of the water in the cool evening air at dusk. You can count on it.

 

How it's supposed to work: fishing at night.

 
What you can’t count on is where. You can be sure they’ll hatch, mate, and die first on the North Branch and then, about a week later, on the South.  However, this insect activity can be patchy. One of us may be standing in a spot where the bugs and fish are going crazy while another is standing 50 yards away in water that’s as lifeless as a cemetery.
 

Just Piddling, Waiting for the Big Bug Event

 My night so far had been spent in a dead zone, and now as I waded my way downstream I realized that I had waited too long. I had stayed in the dead section, expecting it to turn on at any moment, only to find out that it wouldn’t turn on at all. Once again I’d spent several hours listening and hoping, then wondering, then despairing… but never actually fishing. Once I decided to move elsewhere, the show was over. The bugs had probably arrived, the fish had eaten them, and I had missed it because I was in the wrong place at the right time, which isn’t quite good enough.

 

So, like a whipped pup, I sulked my way quietly downstream toward the rickety, old public dock where I would get out and wait for Tim and Keith to return with tales of their fishing exploits. I, once again, would have to report no bugs and no fish for the second night in a row.  I wasn’t looking forward to our reunion.

 

As I approached my take-out point at the dock I saw the light of a cigar ahead. No sound, just a tiny, orange glow. This nighttime insect activity draws fishermen from throughout the eastern US, so it’s not unusual to see a few fellow fly fishers on the river after dark. It’s common courtesy for the guy who’s wading through to ask permission to pass, at which point the guy who is stationary will tell the wader which side to wade down on. Usually the best route is along the river’s edge behind him because he’s usually standing a few feet out in the river watching for bugs and fish in the middle and across the river.

 

Hex mayflies and Purple Iris

 I said “Hello?” I didn’t have to shout because the night was deep, the river was quiet, and the sound of my voice would drift unhindered down the river.

 

A “hello” returned to me from the vicinity of the orange glow, sounding so hollow that at first I wondered if I had heard my own echo. But my “hello” had a question mark at the end of it while the response was in the declarative mode with a Midwest accent. Plus, this part of the country has very few hard surfaces to create echoes. So I continued, “Which side should I wade down on?” I guess this is about as close as a guy normally gets to asking permission. It’s not exactly a “may I wade through” kind of request. It’s more of a “I’m coming through, so just tell me where so I don’t spook the water where you’re fishing.” Of course, that’s way too many words for two guys to exchange. Thus, the abbreviated “Which side…” version.

 

An old man’s voice responded slowly and clearly from out of the darkness: “I’m not fishing.” [To be continued]