CASUAL VISITS TO NORWAY
It must be confessed that there is something really casual in the use
of such a word to head these sketches of my angling visits to Norway,
and the excuse is that it is appropriate as a keynote. The punishment
in a word fits the crime. Those visits, between 1889 and 1905 were
only occasional, a makeshift. The proper way to fish Norway is to
spend the fishing season there, living amongst the people and the
rivers. The casual visitor would always envy him who lived in the
Norwegian cottage fragrant with its deal boards into which he loved to
stick his flies when they had to be dried, or retouched with varnish or
whipping, and where somewhere outside he could keep his rods in
security and order when they were put together say in June, and kept
ready till they were packed up for the voyage home when the season was
over.
The fascination of Norway grew to be very strong amongst anglers and
tourists by the sixties of the last century, and continued to grow
until all the conditions were violently upset by the catastrophe of the
reign of the devil engineered by Germany. The fascination will not be
forgotten with the return of peace. It will lay hold of us again, and
for the same reasons as before. The ordinary traveller will as before
find in the scenery and ways of the people the old fascination of
contrast.
It might, however, be remarked that the fascination of Norway to the
angler somewhat changed as time proceeded into the nineteenth century.
Early in the century it was known to the few as the paradise of the
salmon fisherman. It remained without any great change for something
like a generation, and, like Scotland and Ireland in a lesser degree,
was not overrun. In those days only the rich could afford the time and
money which travel and sport without railways demanded. The railways
came, and with them a wonderful transformation of the world's habit and
custom. The growth of the Press in journalism and literature ranged
abreast of improved facilities for going afar, and the choice preserves
of the angler were, all in the order of things, invaded.
Part of the fascination of Norway to the angler fifty years ago was the
cheapness of it. The man who talked to his friends of "my river in
Norway" paid but a few pounds a year for it; as the native farmer had
not yet been exploited, he retained the simple notions of his class,
and was mostly amused that the Englishman should take such trouble
about the salmon, which were of such small account to him. It is
common knowledge that this desirable state of things is past history,
and there is no need to waste words, or pipe laments, or (to descend to
homely metaphor) cry over spilt milk.
The change came home to me on deck one night in the North Sea with
striking insistence. We were returning from fishing in Norway, and no
one, after a particularly bad season of "no water," seemed inclined to
be enthusiastic about the fascination of Norway; one sorrowful
gentleman, however, told me in hushed tones that his seven weeks on a
hired river had cost him 300 pounds, and for that and all his skill and
toil he had been rewarded with two salmon, three grilse, and one sea
trout. That, of course, was the extreme of ill-fortune, and might
occur to anyone anywhere. The truth is there are still fine chances
for salmon in Norway, and excellent chances for trout if you have the
gift of searching for rivers and lakes in remote districts. The
fascinations of the characteristic scenery, the comparatively unspoiled
people, and the rich legendary past remain.
It is quite possible that the distance between Great Britain and Norway
is somewhat in the direction of fascination. If you go there for a
fishing holiday you are entitled to talk about seafaring matters. It
is not a mere crossing; it is a voyage, and I have known men get a
F.R.G.S. on the strength of it. On my first visit it did strike me on
my return that five days to reach your river and five to return, was
paying a fair price, apart from the fares (which were indeed reasonable
enough), for ten days' clear fishing, and I would suggest to the reader
to make his stay on the fishing ground as long as he possibly can, so
that the journey may seem worth while. Justice cannot be done to
Norway, its fish, or yourself under a month. There is not much to
choose between the two routes, the one from Hull, the other from
Newcastle, but care must be taken to time the arrival at the chief
ports to suit the smaller steamers that traverse the fiords. The North
Sea passage has its caprices of weather, but it is not very protracted.
If you leave port on Saturday night, by breakfast time on Monday you
are threading between the rocks that introduce you to Stavanger. That
same night you are (wind and weather permitting) at Bergen, and thence
next day you are going up the beautiful fiords to the river of your
choice amidst surroundings that are nowadays the property of the
picture postcard.
In the short Norwegian summer great variations in weather must be
expected, and in the valleys I have experienced downpours of rain and
spells of heat equal to what I knew in the tropics. But as a rule the
angler has little to complain of. The warmer the air and the brighter
the sun the better in reason for the glacier-fed rivers, but let no one
wish for such floods as are caused by heavy rain in association with
warm winds. Out of my four visits one only was seriously marred by wet
weather, and that was nothing like so provoking as another year when
there was no rain, and yet no generous contributions to the rivers from
glacier or mountain. Even in July the rain is occasionally emphasised
by bitterly cold wind, and should your place that day be in a boat
there is little pleasure. An ordinary mackintosh is useless, and hours
of casting in solid oilskin and sou'-wester become irksome what time
the clouds press heavily down upon you and the rugged mountains frown
right and left.
The one consolation rendered imperative under such circumstances by
poetic justice is a continual carolling from the suddenly agitated
winch. Fishermen forget this sentiment when they denounce the clamour
of the check and lay all their money on the silent reel. After an hour
of swish, swish, without touch from a fish, the scream of a winch is
like hymns in the night. However, let that pass. The point is you
must be prepared for heat and cold, wet and dry. I remember one
morning when, going out of our snug farmhouse in the valley to
reconnoitre, I found three or four poor cottagers cutting down their
wretched oats and snipping off their 3-in. growth of hay in a cruel
north wind, with the mountain tops white with new snow. A week
previously we had been sweltering in moist heat, and it was the only
time I ever saw a mosquito in Norway.
The right-minded salmon fisher will always give first place to casting
from the bank, with or without waders. On some rivers such casting is
from rocks or boulders, and the work here is of the hardest, since it
means severe scrambling and slipping to pass from pool to pool. It is,
besides, a hazardous foothold that you get now and then. The
remembrance of half an hour in such a position has given me the shivers
many a time since. There tumbled over stupendous rocks upheaving
masses of pure white foam, true type of the great foss of the Norwegian
river in all its thunder and impetuous onrush. They poured into a
rock-hollowed basin of churning foam and smoking spray. It was a
turbulent oval pool, roaring and racing on either side, and narrowing
somewhat at the tail, where it leaped a barrier of boulders and became
a succession of rapids. The middle of this pool was, however,
comparatively tranquil, very deep, and more like an eddy than a stream.
This was the lie of the salmon, and there was said to be always one
there. To fish this maelstrom you waded across a platform of shallow
paved with slippery boulders bushel basket size, and stood in rough
water about a foot deep on a narrow ledge of rock protruding a yard or
so into the pool. It was deep enough beneath to drown an elephant; the
din of that roaring foss and the swirl of the waters bordered on
vertigo and deafness. But there it was to take or leave.
Taken with good heart, after a thorough testing of tackle (the motto
being "Hold on for dear life"), the big Butcher failed to attract, and
I floundered ashore and sat on a rock before trying again with a
Wilkinson. That trial succeeded, for the line was rushed out and
across some twenty yards. The butt of the rod was then sternly
presented, and thereafter no line of more length than five yards could
be allowed. Every muscle strained, I literally leaned back solidly
against the bent rod for a full quarter of an hour, the fish below
meantime moving in circles or sulking. The gaffing was most cleverly
done by the good man who had never left my side, and I staggered out,
backed on to a mossy patch, and sank to ground exhausted and panting.
That capture stands out as my most thrilling episode in Norway.
The more frequent occurrence is a foreshore of shingle, much or little
according to the volume of water, and here wading trousers are
indispensable, and I dare venture to say they are to the majority of
anglers wholly delightful. In waders somehow you feel very good. The
opportunities for wading on many of the large rivers are, however,
limited, the boat being a necessity for both salmon and sea trout. It
is the only way of casting over the fish. The boats are often too
skittish for comfort, though they are never so slight as the Canadian
canoe. You step ashore to finish conclusions with your fish, and when
your gaffsman is a village worthy who leaves his ordinary occupations
to gillie the stranger, accidents are not uncommon. Does one ever
forget the swiping at the cast instead of at the salmon by the honest
fellow who so much tries to please you, or the losses caused by sheer
inexperience or natural stupidity?
The finest sea trout of my life ought to have been lost to me by this
sort of blundering. I had, as I thought, drilled the worthy cobbler at
least into the duty of keeping cool and combining vigour with
deliberation. I was casting from a grassy bank overhung with alders,
and the fish was well hooked on a Bulldog salmon fly. He ran hard and
far down-stream, but was checked in time and reeled slowly up. After a
quarter of an hour's play he was under the rod point, Johan all the
while dancing with the excitement of the keen sportsman. I kept him
off till the fish was spent and feebly gyrating at my feet. Then I
gave the sign, and he swooped at him with a ferocious stroke, falling
backward in the rebound. Just one word I uttered (spell it with three,
not four, letters), and implored him to be calm. Then he hit the fish
on the head with the back of the gaff. In the silence of despair I
resigned myself as he smote again; he actually now gaffed the fish, but
seemed too paralysed to lift him up the low bank. However, I dropped
the rod and snatched the gaff out of his hands, to discover that the
strangest thing in my experience had happened. The fish was gaffed
clean through the upper lip. The point of the gaff lay side by side
with my fly, the only difference being that the former was clean
through and the latter nicely embedded in the mouth. It was a sea
trout a fraction over 13 lb.
An unkind fate declines to give me the month of August in its entirety
for a holiday; and the best I can do is to catch the steamer on
Saturday night, August 19. Salmon, so late as this, are not always to
be reckoned upon, and the best part of the sea trout run might be over
before I reach my destination. Certain data with the talisman
"Brevkort Gra Norge" had come to hand during that tropical fortnight
under which London experienced a wondrous spell of melting moments.
They were cheery messages of good sport and rosy prospects upon the
salmon and sea trout rivers of Norway, all sound material for hopeful
musing in the pleasant run from Hull to the Norwegian coast.
The visit on which I invite the reader to share my introduction to the
country was very memorable. Five days to reach your fishing ground, as
I said before, represent a fair price, in labour and time, for, at the
outside, ten clear fishing days. We leave Hull at ten o'clock on
Saturday night. After a sweltering day the sky is wonderfully
brilliant with stars, the air undisturbed by even the faintest zephyr.
The minutest of the myriad lights that glow where there are wharves and
shipping are abnormally clear: and the dingy docks, in that atmosphere,
under the lamps of the streets and houses, give somewhat Venetian
effects. Outside is a summer sea, and the whole passage, in a ship
which, if not large, is wholesome and comfortable, and officered by
people who are never weary of ministering to your wishes, is pleasant.
On Monday morning at breakfast time you are passing through the three
hundred and odd rocks, each having its own name, bestudding the
entrance to Stavanger. Two hours' discharge of cargo gives the
opportunity of running ashore, laying in a stock of Norwegian coins,
and seeing the cathedral and the few other sights of the place. In the
afternoon, when the Domino is fairly on her northern course, and when
the fiord landscapes should be a delight, we are in a gale, with
incessant rain. At eleven o'clock on Monday night we quietly come
alongside at the Bergen wharfage, but the rain keeps on. At eight on
Tuesday morning we are on board one of the smaller type of fiord
steamers, with three rod boxes amongst the luggage, some battens piled
on deck, and a moderate complement of passengers.
Here, then, is our introduction to famous Norway, which seems not to be
in too kindly a mood. After the heat of London the gale blows very
cold, and the rain seems too effectually iced. The weather is, it
seems, phenomenally bad even for the time of year, and all this day,
and all the next alas! the voyage, in and out of the fiords, with
sundry stoppages in bays where the patient farmer makes patches of
green on a stubborn soil, and the hardy, sober-sided fishermen toil for
scant living, is done at disadvantage for those who would fain have the
masses of rocky borderings clear against the sky. The mountains are
shrouded in mist and capped with clouds, and during Tuesday night the
gale howls, and the storms of rain volley against the windows of the
cosy little smoke house on deck. Wednesday is an improvement in that
the gale has blown itself out. But the rain it rains on, though now in
a soft drizzle instead of driving sheets. The sides of precipitous
mountain crags are silvered with cascades, and as we penetrate further
into the fiord the scenery develops grandly, and the old snow patches
on the dark and lofty summits and picturesque saddles look startlingly
white.
Voyaging up the coast and on the Norwegian fiords is delightful indeed
in fair weather. As a rule there is neither pitching nor rolling, but
it would be rash, nevertheless, to suppose that it is always like
boating on a river. Our little steamer for the best part of one day
and night, as a matter of fact, pitches and rolls enough to save some
of the passengers the expenses of the table. As the ticket only means
passage money, and the traveller is charged, as in an hotel, for what
he eats and drinks, he, at any rate, is not tormented by the thought
that he has paid for that which he has not received. Still, it is not
often that the fiords are in a ferment of waves under a heavy gale, and
the worst that happens is a temporary deviation from the general
smoothness when the course lies where there is open sea on one side.
The voyage northwards from Stavanger, where the Hull boats first touch,
is mostly between islands, and in continuous shelter. Sometimes the
narrows are not wider than the Thames at Oxford; then you steam out
into what seems to be a land-locked expanse of water, with precipitous
mountain rocks ahead. By and by you swerve to right or left, and a
totally different picture is presented. And so it is, hour after hour,
and day after day. For many a league north of Bergen the mountains and
island rocks are bare of vegetation--gloomy masses of grey and brown
that frown upon the waters in cloud, and cannot be glad even in
sunshine. Some of them are like gigantic wildernesses of upheaved
pudding stone. Then, as the voyage progresses, the hillsides put on
greenery, sombre when it is pine, cheerful when the hangings are
supplied by the silver birch, and bright ever when the emerald patches
bear testimony to the industry of the farmer, winning his scanty
harvests against heavy odds. The calling places are numerous, but
often consist of some half a dozen houses of the usual weatherboard,
red and white pattern.
The hour is nevertheless welcome when you espy the sun-browned face of
a brother angler, surmounted by a cap in which the flies cast upon the
pools during the day are regaining a dry plumage, turned towards the
vessel bearing you to the homely wharfage of the fiord station which
for the time being is your destination. The rod box is no unfamiliar
item of luggage in this country, and it is borne ashore by men who
understand what it is, and who like to handle it. Norwegians have a
deep respect for the English gentleman who fishes their salmon rivers,
and when he has arrived at the same place many years in succession he
is most heartily welcomed by natives of both sexes, who while he
remains will devote themselves to his interests, in their own
way--which has to be understood, no doubt, but which is on the whole of
a character that makes the respect mutual. After five days' travel by
land, sea, and fiord, the Norwegian hotel seems a veritable home, and
you are quite ready to be predisposed in favour of bed and board. It
is not true that first impressions are lasting, but they certainly go a
long way; and that first _tête-à-tête_ dinner with your host must needs
be a merry one. He probably is not so full of fishing as you are,
however keen he may be, for his rods have been for weeks on the pegs
under the little roof built for them on the side of the house. Any
wayfarer might take them, but they are safe enough, with reels and
lines attached, in this country, where the honesty of the people is
proverbial.
Conversation now, and at breakfast in the morning, reveals a temporary
check in sport. About a week since there was a big storm, during which
the thunder rolled amongst the mountains, and the lightning flashed
upon the face of the fiords. Then followed three days of warm winds,
and these did what heavy rains do at home. The river coming down in
rolling flood through the melting of the glacier at the head of the
valley, the migratory fish had seized the opportunity, to them no doubt
a welcome chance, and pushed up to the higher reaches and even into the
lake. But this particular river can wait, as an excursion is arranged
for my first day to another river in a branch fiord, some eight miles
distant. A little local steamer picks us up at nine in the morning,
and my host, to whom I shall henceforth refer as G. P. F. (short for
Guide, Philosopher, and Friend), does not appear in his war paint. He
pretends that he wants an idle day, but he leaves his rod at home
simply that I may take the cream of what sport is going; hence, by and
by, when the owner of the river presses him to take his rod, he
laughingly declines, urging that he never likes to break other men's
tackle.
The wonderfully pure atmosphere deceives you so much in Norway as to
distances, that it is best to give up guessing. The fine summit of
dark mountain, mottled with snow, lying in the rear of the nearer
range, at the head of the charming little fiord up which we steer this
morning in water smooth as a mirror, and glaring in a bright sun, seems
to me for instance, entitled to, say, a rank of 2,000 ft.: but I learn
on landing that it is over 6,000 ft., and a notable sentinel on the
outskirts of a most notable glacier and snowfield. The shores of the
fiord are cultivated to an unusual distance up the mountain side, and
after the rain and mist of previous days, this grand landscape is my
real introduction to the characteristic scenery of the better kind of
Norwegian fiord. In truth it is all most beautiful.
The English gentleman who owns the river lives in a house near its
banks, and the ladies of his family are spending the season with him,
delighted with the experience, and the daughters taking their share in
the rod-work performed. The house is a type of the Norwegian fishing
quarters where life cannot be described as discomfort, much less
"roughing it." It is a pretty little villa, brightened by the refining
influences of cultured womanhood, and a summer inside its wooden walls
cannot surely be a hardship to anyone. One of the young ladies to whom
I am introduced is made to blush by the paternal statement that three
days previously she has slain a 28-lb. salmon, after two hours' battle,
with a 15-ft. grilse rod.
But a man in his waders, eager for action after months of piscatorial
abstinence, pants for the river and its chances. At present there are
none of the latter. The sun is bright upon the pools, and we take a
stroll by the stream that I may comprehend its points as an example of
a Norwegian river of the smaller size. It differs from other types,
hereafter to be described, but, like all of them, its headwaters are a
lake, and it is fed by a glacier. The salmon, however, are prevented
from reaching the lake by a foss, or waterfall, about a mile and a half
from the mouth: the fishing is therefore limited to a few pools. It
is, however, a real "sporting" river by reason of the turbulence of
many of the runs for which the fish generally make a direct dash, and
have to be followed and contended with in roaring rapids, what time the
angler makes the best running he may amid stones, brooks, and with many
a bush between him and the river.
It is the particular desire of the gentlemen who are looking on that I
should hook a salmon that will at once corroborate this theory by a
vigorous object lesson; equally sincere am I in my supplication that I
am not thus forced to make play for the Philistines. The chances are
as hopeless as they can be. But a slight cloud overcasts the sun by
and by, and I verily find myself well fastened in a salmon, with that
terrible threat of rushing foam at the tail of the pool; I make up my
mind to do the best, and mentally mark the point, near a footbridge
across a runnel, where I must probably come to grief. The salmon,
however, is no more inclined to give amusement to the spectators than I
am. He cruises about in a sullen humour, and acts as if he is rather
anxious than otherwise to come to the gaff. There is no difficulty, in
short, in applying the familiar time principle of a pound a minute, and
without a serious attempt to try escape per rapids, he comes to land, a
fish of 16 lb., that has been some time in the fresh water.
As I nave not yet seen the fiord end of the river, we cross down from
the other side, and our host of the day kindly points me to scenes of
exciting adventure, in which the difficulties of killing a hooked fish
virtually furnish sport which amounts to catching twice over. He
presses me to try a somewhat shallow and level run where sea trout love
to lie, and offers me his rod (mine being left behind) for the purpose.
About the twelfth cast the reel sings a sweet anthem, and I have a
delightful quarter of an hour with an unconquerable fish that leaps
again and again in the air, but that has to give in at last, and lie
beside the salmon eventually, as handsome a fresh-run sea trout of 9
lb. as mortal eye ever feasted upon.
The Norwegian angler, as I soon discover, has to regard the sun not
precisely as would a worshipper. It has so fatal an effect upon the
pools that he gets into the habit of laying aside his rod, and waiting,
book in hand, pipe in mouth, excursionising in the land of Nod, or
practising any other pursuit that may occur to him for filling up the
time. In the southern streams that are not affected by the melting of
glaciers, and that have a habit of quickly running out to a no-sport
level when the winter snows have disappeared (confining the fishing
often to about one calendar month), the cloudless days, glorious though
they are to the tourist, are a dire affliction to him. Such a river as
this which gives me friendly welcome to the Norway fish is generally in
fair volume, and I see it tinted with a recent rise of some feet. In a
grey light, and from the water level, it seems to have a milky
discolour that bodes ill; but get upon one of the knolls when the sun
shines, and you have an exquisite blue, or rather variety of blues,
according to the depth of the water, or reflection from the changing
lights. There is a sweet silence in all this out-of-the-world valley,
and you can always lift your eyes to the eternal hills that look so
near, yet are so far, and smile at the thought of how very small you
are. The head gillie here is a Norsker, who makes nothing of dashing
into a whirlpool to gaff a salmon, and he once followed a fish to whom
the rod had been cast under a bridge where the torrent madly swirled,
came out safe on the other side, and triumphantly killed in the open.
My friend had many a story to tell of his smartness and knowledge, born
of a true love of sport. He once hooked a salmon at dusk, the man
standing by with the gaff. With one impetuous rush the fish raced down
the pool, through a long rapid and round a promontory, taking out line
until little was left. The angler held on grimly in the dark, and the
man, after grave cogitation, struck a match, leisurely made himself
acquainted with the angle of the line, and without a word moved away.
Possessed by an afterthought he, however, returned, struck another
light, and examined the quantity of line left upon the winch. Then he
walked off, and was heard climbing rocks and forcing his way through
the alders. After a time the line slackened and my friend reeled up;
but the fish was safe enough on the grass a long distance round the
promontory. The man had made his observations (literally throwing a
light upon the subject), concluded therefrom behind what particular
rock the salmon was taking refuge, groped and waded his way to the
spot, and gaffed the fish at the first shot. Such an attendant, who
knows every stone, so to speak, in the river, is invaluable.