The linguistic pedants among you will wonder about the lack of an apostrophe, and so do I. Be that as it may, I don’t know if there were two or more Mickeys who lived in the area (in which case this version of the name would, according to my grade-school grammar teacher, Ms. Thistlebottom, only be appropriate), or if there was only one, and the person who named it for the first cartographer had a grammar teacher who came from a different school of thought from mine, or whatever else may have happened in the past—this is its official name, and I’m (more or less) happy to leave it at that.
I found this place one week short of seven years ago. It’s located on the central plateau in Tasmania, off the southern coast of Australia, and I was there for a day of exploration. I drove slowly over the bridge, as I always do when I’m on a free day of travel, in order to have a good look at any body of fresh water I may encounter, being an admittedly-incorrigible hydrophile.
I drove on for a few dozen meters and parked my rental car a reasonable distance past the bridge, so as not to spook any native (especially piscine) wildlife that might have taken refuge in its shadows, and crept back. When I was just above the moving water, I cautiously leaned over to have my first close look, and was rewarded by the unforgettable view of at least three trout, which I conservatively estimated to have been (trust me!) at least 24 inches in length, darting for cover at the sudden appearance of my silhouette against the sky above them. This was quite obviously a spot well-visited by local fly-fishers, and my pulse beat all the faster with a vision of seeing what I might be able to do to entice them to come to one of my own fur-and feather creations. But this would have to wait for another day. Oh, how I long to return!