Hot, Humid, Angry Waiting on the Hex hatch
By Darrell Pendergrass
The droning sound of a gazillion insane mosquitoes swirled crazily around our heads. The night was humid. The evening draped itself heavily across our shoulders.
Neither Jack nor I could manage a smile as we waited along the shoreline of the river, nor would we try to find any real joy. We were angry. Along the river fishermen were spread out from the landing down below to who-knows-where up above. None of us here could see one another, but we shared the misery of being together.
In short, the hatch was on, or maybe it was going to be on, you don’t know which until it actually happens. One night can be good; the next night can be bad. You have to go every night to find out which is which.
When the hatch is on fishermen find German browns voraciously feeding at the surface, slurping bugs and giving away their location. They’re easy pickings. When the hatch is not on fishermen standing here become pin cushions for the legions of insects marching in from nearby swamps.
Even when it’s not buggy the fishing isn’t easy here. There always seems to be a lot of anglers who make the trip over, so you have to contend with them taking the good holes and the slow rolling bends. When the moon isn’t full the night is obviously black, furthering the challenge of casting to rising fish you cannot see. Throw in a slow hatch and just a few risers and not-so-easy fishing becomes impossible.
And here we are. Hot and humid and angry.
As the sun dipped and the skies darkened the intensity of the mosquitoes feeding kicked up a notch. My 12-year-old son and I flailed our arms propeller-like in our attempts to clear the air around us. We watched the water cautiously.
I’d once seen Danny Arens come up from the bridge using a 2-by-4 board for a paddle and wearing nothing but a short-sleeve t-shirt and shorts. Danny actually seemed happy to be here, though he had to be getting chewed up. “Anything happening?” Danny asked, stopping alongside the river. I was too dumbfounded to speak.
When the mosquitoes are swarming like tonight every thought turns to escape and every urge is to run. But we stayed because we had to. Honestly, we wanted to leave and could have, but we would have regretted it later. We needed to know whether the fish came on this night. We had to know.
The humidity of the evening pushed down on us. Beads of perspiration rolled down our faces. Lightening bugs glittered away in the field. A dog barked at a nearby farm.
Then, a hex fly drifted by; then another and then a few, not many. Then, a fish rose; a pause – then another rise. The trout had entered the picture. Indeed, there would be a hatch on this evening. We know now it was to be a slow, brief hatch. It could’ve been worse and it could have been better, but these were the cards being dealt.
The few fish that did rise on this night could not be enticed into taking any of our offerings. Casting a wary eye at mine and Jack’s fakes these fish chose more organic bugs. We hate these fish.
We worked the shoreline with our casts. We stumbled in the muck and goo of the river’s bottom. Our flies tangled and hung up in the brush behind us. Staying calm we adjusted our positions, we straightened leaders and we kept at it. And the buzzing continued.
Suddenly a splash near Jack and a shout – “Got one!” A taker, I thought. Finally. The fight was at hand.
Then, just as suddenly it was quiet. The fish had come off. There was quiet - except for the mosquitoes – the never ending sound of mosquitoes hovering. The buzzing.
There was more dark and more mosquitoes. More anger and madness and more gloom.
“I would have eaten that fish,” Jack said up above in the dark. The moon hovered suspiciously low.
I kept casting. There was nothing else to do but cast and not smile. The mosquitoes kept at it.
“I would have eaten that fish, after I tortured him for an hour,” Jack said again.
It seemed fair to me.