CASTING FROM ROCKS AND BOATS
The reader of these sketchy studies of fishing in Norway has been
fairly warned already not to expect exciting records of slaughter
amongst salmon. Of course, no angler would be at a loss to explain
away his poor bags; his excuses are proverbial, they are an old joke,
they have long been a proverb. When people hear of unfavourable
weather, too much sun, rain, wind, or too little, they very sensibly
smile. I smile too, whenever, as so often happens, the necessity of
offering such pleas is emphasised by a discreet silence. The fisherman
who knows will be able, for himself, to read that the fates were very
much against us; and I would again remind him that my object is to
provide him with some knowledge that will be useful when the good time
of casual visits to Norway returns, and he sails across to make one for
himself.
To a student of geology anxious to acquire knowledge on the practical
methods of Mr. Squeers, or to the athlete who loves to skip like a goat
from crag to crag, I fearlessly recommend No. 8 beat of the Mandal
river. He may take choice of rocks of every sort and size. The
convulsion of nature that transformed this peaceful valley of Southern
Norway did it with a will that left stupendous evidence of thoroughness
through all the ages. There are rocks more or less along all the
higher portions of the river, but in our section we had them in
unquestioned abundance. Sometimes they acted as frowning walls for the
stream, running deep and dark through narrow gorges; elsewhere they
took the form of great round-headed boulders, varying in size from a
coalscuttle to a dwelling-house. At other times they were strewn about
miscellaneously, varying in size, angular, and abounding in traps for
the unwary; at a distance they might look innocent as shingle, but the
going when you once began to tread amongst them was most fatiguing, and
even dangerous.
Rocks are very well in their place, and as Norway is mostly rock they
give a distinctive character to the country. Peeping out, weather
stained, on the pine-clad mountain sides, they claim your admiration;
as a foothold for casting your fly or battling with a fish they are apt
to be a severe trial to the muscles, and in any shape or degree they
are an ever-present source of danger to rod or tackle. Had the water
during our stay in the country attained full proportions I must have
put up my best salmon rod. But I had too much respect for my favourite
steel centre split cane to leave any of its dainty varnish upon the
South Norway granite. The smaller greenheart, therefore, for the third
time gallantly survived its month on a Norway river; but those rocks
have literally chipped the shine from every joint, leaving, I believe
and hope, its constitution, nevertheless, quite sound.
The higher reaches of our beat, as I have intimated, were a succession
of gorges or rapids; but whether precipitate wall, which rendered it
out of the question to fish the water, or comparatively open
boulder-land, you must always look down into it from the excellently
kept road which mostly followed the course of the stream. There were
no footpaths or tracks down to the water, but an adventurous person
might let himself down from crag to crag, and have his rod lowered to
him from above. This part of the Mandal I tried twice, but "Sarcelle,"
who had been accustomed to some such exercise in the mountains of
Italy, tried it later with much perseverance, when the white foaming
water of the rapids had become moderate pools of dark water.
We were often told that they always held salmon, and when the river is
in ordinary volume probably they do so. Very exciting it is to hook a
fish in one of these cauldrons, for the salmon must be held by main
force, and prevented from rushing into the rapid below. With the
strongest tackle, and a firm hold for the hook, it is amazing what a
strain you can put upon rod and fish when the playing must be confined
within a space of 100 yards by 50 yards. As a matter of fact, we did
badly in these rapids; the beat above had the advantage of a number of
long resting pools, and the fish apparently ran past us with scarcely a
halt. They seemed to know that the river was dropping; instinct told
them what the inhabitants were told by memory and eyesight, namely,
that so low a river had been seen but once before in this generation;
and they said, "Let us hasten until the rapids be passed; in beat No.
9, lo, we may rest from our labours, and, free from anxiety as to the
future, perchance lie at ease in the tranquil flow of the pools, and
push on to the lake at our leisure."
Whereat the anglers of No. 9 rejoiced, for they had lovely wading
ground, with probably a minimum of rock trouble, and so killed fish day
by day. The rapids and passes to which I have been referring as
constituting the upper length of our beat were, I may add, not
continuous, but had to be approached by repeated climbs up to the road
level and a descent at some point farther on. The rocks hereabouts,
too, were wonderfully sharp-edged as compared with others which had
been fashioned and polished by the action of water, and there was a
general idea of Titanic splintering up that was not a little impressive.
One pool of the highest repute for salmon in a fair height of water was
walled by lofty rocks on the village side, but was fishable from shore
on the other. This could only be attained by crossing the river either
above or below in a boat, and walking or stumbling to the head of the
pool over an acreage of scattered rocks. From the elevation of the
road this seemed an easy task, for distance toned down the obstacles so
that they appeared scarcely more formidable than pebbles. At close
quarters they, however, proved the most fatiguing of all; they were too
high for lightly stepping over, and too far apart for unbroken
progress, so that for a quarter of an hour you were letting yourself
down and hoisting yourself up these countless hindrances. The stones
along the edge of the pool were a trifle smaller, but it was never safe
to take a step without looking at your ground.
You soon get into the way of such a condition of affairs; you learn
that, however the torrent may swirl or roar, you must keep your eye on
your foothold, since a small error may plunge you into the current. It
is essential, of course, to take advantage of every boulder that
affords even an extra foot of command over the pool. The pool in
question could only be properly fished by keeping the rod at right
angles over the stream, which could be beautifully worked at the edge
or centre by the rod-top pointing a little upwards. But to do this you
had often to stand on a boulder-perch in the water not larger than your
brogue.
Strangely enough I was always in dread of hooking a salmon in this
pool, though in truth we never caught or saw one in it. I had arranged
beforehand with Ole to lend me the support of his strong arm if I had
some day to follow a fish down from boulder to boulder, and I am not
ashamed to confess that on many occasions both Ole, the gaffer, and
Knut, the boatman, rendered me assistance of this kind; they hauled me
up, and lowered me down, and kept me from falling when I was engaged in
a fight with a fish.
So far as the pool under consideration went this emergency did not
arise; it yielded me nothing but tired limbs, and a few precepts which
may be useful to brother anglers who cast from rocks, as, for example:
In moving about, keep your eye on the stones; if you support yourself
with the gaff handle, make sure that the end of it is not jammed in a
crevice; keep going when stepping from boulder to boulder, as the swing
of regular advance is a greater help than occasional pauses; do not put
down your rod save when actually necessary, if you would do a friend's
duty to it and your winch; keep on examining the point of your hook; do
not be afraid of sliding down a rock that cannot be otherwise travelled
over, for in these days of science the reseating of breeks is not
impossible, and any casual personal disfigurement that may ensue is not
likely to be obtruded upon the notice of even personal friends.
The nearest bit of fishing to our honest farmhouse gave us a charming
landscape, and it was not reached without some little difficulty. Just
above the village the rapids and fosses were finished by a broad pool
pouring over a fall, and creating the particular pool about which
something has been said. Then the river opened out to a lake-like area
from three to four hundred yards either way; the stream then took a
sudden turn at the lower end, charging direct upon a long line of
smooth, lofty, round-headed rocks, sloping considerably more than the
roof of an ordinary house. They would be of an average of 30 ft. above
the water. The river, after babbling over its expanse of shallows,
swerved sharply and coursed along at their feet in a kind of gut, which
was said to give the best low water holding ground in that part of the
river.
In the early part of July the view from The Rocks, as we called them in
special distinction, was most enchanting. The whole expanse was full
like a lake, only a single spit cumbered with logs showing above water.
One of our three boats was fastened ashore to a line of booms fixed to
direct the course of the timber, which was already beginning to come
down in force, and it was always possible to pull across to a
convenient corner of The Rocks, and save ourselves a considerable
journey by land. As time went on the brimming lake disappeared; little
white heads of stones would appear one morning, and thereafter enlarge
day by day until they emerged as innumerable upstanding boulders. The
boat was now no longer available, for the water was so shallow that it
was blocked effectually at the outset. The stream, of course, charged
down upon The Rocks in gathering strength, and for the first fortnight
we were always sure of a grilse or two. At first The Rocks had to be
fished by standing on their open crowns, and although one was in
constant fear of scaring the fish by showing on such an eminence, no
great harm seemed to be done, probably because there was a background
of pine trees in the forest behind. As time advanced little ledges on
the rock slopes were left dry by the water, and it was possible to
slide down to them on all fours and fish the run with the rocks behind
us, necessitating left-handed casting, but giving perfect command of
about 60 yards of stream, which was for a while sure holding ground,
since it was deepest at the foot of the rocks.
"Sarcelle" had his first experience of a fish on the Mandal river from
this place, and it was rather unfortunate. If I remember rightly, it
was Sunday evening, and in a shame-faced sort of way we had gone out at
seven o'clock to fish. The grilse were then running, and, as they are
here to-day and gone to-morrow, and I had already discovered that they
did not linger long in our parts, it was almost a duty not to allow a
day to pass without an attempt. "Sarcelle" had adventured upon a
Mayfly cast with a fly of sea trout size as dropper, and in point of
fact a sea trout fly at the end. I was sitting down filling a pipe
when he made his first cast, more by way of wetting his line than
anything else, and "I've got him" brought me to my feet, only in time
to see a grilse bend the rod and then break away. At the next cast a
salmon came, took one of the small flies, made a thrilling run, and
then snapped the collar.
Even after this mishap "Sarcelle" killed his grilse and lent me his rod
to try for another. We had an example that evening of the way in which
fish are made shy. "Sarcelle" had the first turn down the pool, and,
besides losing two and catching one, he rose several others, three or
four of them showing away on shallow water that was rippling merrily,
but that was quite out of the orthodox limits of the run. I had the
second turn down, rose two, hooked one, and killed one. "Sarcelle" had
the third handling of the rod, and killed one fish without moving any
of the others. The place that evening seemed to be alive with grilse,
and there was an undoubted salmon that had escaped below. It was too
late, however, to give the pool the necessary rest and fish it down
again; but we were up early in the morning, to find that our grilse
during the night had left the country.
After a fortnight's miscellaneous sport from The Rocks, during which
the grilse proved themselves to be as game as fish could be, frequently
running down into the rough water a hundred yards before we could get
on terms with them, we began to discover that even in this essentially
good place the water was too thin. If the grilse were running at all,
they no longer stopped in the old haunts; but the neck of the lower
pool gave us fish occasionally. But during the last three days what
had been here dark, deep water became a rough stream, which clearly
revealed the yellow boulders at the bottom. On our very last morning
"Sarcelle," who had been disappointed throughout in not getting a good
salmon, determined to make a final attempt from The Rocks where he had
made his first. I had packed up on the previous night, and was ready
for breakfast at eight o'clock, with all my goods stowed away on the
carriage, when he triumphantly appeared with an 8-lb. salmon and a
5-lb. grilse. He had caught them in this newly formed rapid, the
salmon being close by the side.
The Rocks, however, were troublesome when they were slippery, but there
were little niches and crevices on their shoulders and sides, from
which grew flowering ling and tiny seedling pines, by the aid of which
we could manage to insert the edge of a boot sole somewhere and hold
on. "Sarcelle" one evening had hooked a capital fish in pretty strong
water, and had to follow it as best he could over The Rocks. Generally
very sure-footed, on this occasion he tumbled on his back, keeping the
rod all the time in his hands, but of course making a slack line. The
fish was still on when he regained his feet and tightened up, but the
relaxation had been fatal, and the grilse presently escaped.
The Rocks, as I have said, were our favourite spot. When the water
became too low for ferrying across in the boat we had to walk about
half a mile down the dusty road, then diverge across a bit of marsh,
into the moss of which the foot sank as in velvet-pile; then ascend a
forest path, carpeted with pine needles that made the walking most
slippery; then traverse a bit of high plantation, and then walk or
slide down a steep, slippery, winding ascent to The Rocks themselves.
In the hot weather we generally arrived at our starting point in a bath
of perspiration, and began our fishing from a low platform, with a
great rock concealing us from the fish. This, however, was not the
favourite lie for the migrants, though it was the spot where "Sarcelle"
lost his salmon and grilse. I have already stated that The Rocks
formed a practically straight line right across the valley. Sitting on
the highest point, which would be fifty yards above the stream, there
was outspread to our eyes an exquisite panorama of typical South Norway
scenery; that is to say, there were pleasing evidences of cultivation
everywhere. Here, instead of having to get their bits of grass with
small reaping hooks, and send their baskets of hay by wire down from
the mountain tops, the farmers enjoyed fair breadths of pasture and
grain crop, so much so that mowing machines could be used. The verdure
of these bottoms and easy slopes at the foot of the hills was
delicious, with mountains all round, dark with pine, relieved with
occasional rock and patches of silver birch and other deciduous foliage.
It was a glorious amphitheatre with environment of picturesque
mountains, and within these towering ramparts reposed the little
village of Lovdal, the prominent object in which was the church, with
its pure white walls, gables, plain grey spire and red roof, standing
on a little eminence in the middle distance. Then came a patch of
greenery formed by the apple trees of our most comfortable farmhouse.
Around it clustered the red-roofed wooden houses of the neighbours, and
there were two or three flagstaffs always conspicuous in the clear air.
On my arrival they had hoisted the Union Jack on our flagstaff, and
there was generally either the Norwegian or English flag to be seen
flying. The farthest point of mountain would be, perhaps, a couple of
miles distant as we looked straight up from The Rocks.
It was my fortune to behold this entrancing scene considerably
transformed during my month's stay. At first the immediate landscape
was beautified by wild flowers; the blue of the harebells was
exquisitely set off by masses of golden St. John's wort, and on our
walk to The Rocks we would trample down meadow-sweet, marsh mallow,
bird's foot trefoil, and potentilla. There was one little detail of
the picture that was quite remarkable; it was a bright composition of
harebells, with the red-brown of ripening grass, and a patch of
Prussian blue representing a crop of oats immediately behind. By and
by the haymakers came, and down went the harebells, and in course of
time the Prussian blue became yellow straw. One Sunday evening
impresses itself upon my memory especially. The bells were tinkling as
the cows came down from the mountains, and the voices of the women and
children were heard afar in the clear air; down the valley came the
music of a military band in the encampment, and the sun disappearing
over the mountains brought out the colours of the pines and birches in
an indescribably vivid manner, and everything seemed luminous beyond
conception.
But what impressed itself most upon me were the odours brought down to
me on my rocky seat by the soft wind. For quite half an hour there
were regular alternations of the fragrance of pine and new-mown hay. I
had often read of scents borne by zephyrs, but never so thoroughly
realised the sensation of air filled with them. The Rocks, I may add,
were at places hoary with age, curiously stained by the weather,
patched with mosses and ling, and rearwards was the wood with all
manner of shrubs and diversity of forest trees, amongst which I noticed
elm, oak, and cedar, and a complete undergrowth of bilberry and other
berries, which we could pluck and eat at any hour of the day, and
diversify such dessert with wild strawberries and raspberries by a
little search. The whole scene from The Rocks was one of peace and
tranquil prosperity, and one's heart was always warming towards the
kindly people, whose friendship we had quickly gained. During our stay
we cast and caught from many rocks, but none gave us so characteristic
and beautiful a picture in sunshine and in shade as these to which we
gave the distinctive name.
* * * * * *
The majority of anglers probably agree that fishing from a boat must,
under the best of circumstances, be ranked amongst the necessary evils
of an angler's life. The ideal salmon pool is one that can be waded,
and the stream where the salmon lie commanded from head to tail with
precision, without danger or unnecessary exertion to the wader. The
foothold for the man should be shingle or stones presenting a fairly
even bottom, sloping gradually from the edge, and enabling the
fisherman to operate comfortably with the water at his hips. Should he
have to venture deeper, the necessity of keeping the winch above water
requires a special strain upon the muscles, and this in time becomes
fatiguing. There is always, however, compensation in hooking a salmon
in this position, in which you have to hold your rod well up what time
you retire slowly to the _terra firma_ that is above water, carrying on
the action as you go.
A long pool of sufficient briskness to keep the fly in lively and
regular motion, a pool with varying depths and a sharp shallow at the
tail, a pool that will, let us say, take not less than half an hour to
fish down carefully, is what we should all perhaps choose if we could
do so; but even where the bottom is rough, and the angler, if he would
escape peril, must move with wary steps, where the stream is so out of
reach that it can only be properly worked in parts, and then with
difficulty--even this is better than fishing from a boat. I know of
nothing more delightful than wading such a pool at just the depth and
force of water which allows you to sit on it. Those who have not
indulged in this sensation may laugh at the idea of sitting on running
water, but it is quite possible, and many a time have I enjoyed this
utilisation of a current strong enough to support you as a seat.
The principal fishing must after all be from a boat. It must not be
supposed that the frail craft in Norway are to be compared with those
models of boats for casting which you have on Tweed or Tay. The
Norwegian boats have to be used upon water that is often both shallow
and swift, and must be dragged from place to place. It is not
comfortable to cast from such boats in a standing position. You cast
sitting, very much cramped, on the first thwart, with your back to the
oarsman. After a little practice you can get out quite as much line as
you require, and for myself I retained my seat in playing a fish.
There is no need to enumerate the drawbacks of casting from a boat;
suffice to say that there are always enough to prevent you from
becoming attached to the practice, save as an occasional change. I say
nothing of harling, which is a different matter; you can lounge at your
ease in the stern of the boat, with a book in your hand, and trail on
until the winch gives you warning that a fish has hooked itself.
Casting from a boat is much more trying than casting in other ways.
When on foot you are tired of fishing, you can choose your resting
place and sit down; but in a boat you are cramped and confined all the
time, with only the muscles of arms and shoulders engaged. One forgets
all this, of course, when there is sport, and I often smile on
remembering the amused expression which used to steal over the faces of
my men when they first beheld the little formulas which I always
observe, be the fun fast or slow. I can best explain this by recalling
one particular evening on the Mandal river. It was the one occasion
when I deemed it necessary to take out a mackintosh. With the
exception of a thunderstorm in the early part of July, the downpour as
to which was during the night, the days had been of strong and unbroken
sunshine; but in the middle of the month there came a close, cloudy day
when the flies were exceedingly troublesome, and the only mosquitoes
that were annoying during our stay came out in full trumpeting for an
hour or two. There was a favourite pool, very long and lively, which
we called Olaf's Garden, that served me very well, and one morning, in
bright sunshine, in the course of a half-hour I caught three fish
weighing 15 lb.
On this day it began to dawn upon me that the water had become too low
for a grilse to remain here any length of time. Higher up was a
favourite reach of mine, named Pot Pool, and after fishing Olaf's
Garden and another reach, finding only a couple of grilse, I moved
elsewhere, and in the evening discovered that the fish appeared to be
resting in Pot Pool. A gentleman who formerly leased the Mandal river
had recommended me to try some of the delicate flies dressed by Haynes,
of Cork, and with one of these (the Orange Grouse), at starting,
between seven and eight, I killed a grilse of 5 lb. The pool was then
fished down leisurely, with no other result. Returning to the head, a
long rest was called, and, as I suspected there might be salmon, I
changed the fly to a fair-sized Durham Ranger. My gaffer, Ole, had
done me the honour in the forenoon of losing an 18-lb. or 20-lb. fish
in another pool, and though his custom was to sit on a rock and sing a
hymn while Knut was working at the oars, this evening, while I was
fishing the pool, the memory of his afternoon mishap kept him dolefully
silent. I had directed him to a little rocky cove for service in case
I should have the fortune to bring in a fish, as fruit meet to his
repentance. My custom is to fish a pool very patiently and thoroughly.
It is true that not more than half a dozen times in my life have I ever
hooked a salmon other than when the line was straight down the stream,
but by keeping the boat in the right course, and handling the rod to
suit it, there are several possibilities of presenting the fly on an
even keel.
The swish, swish of the casting becomes decidedly monotonous as the
boat drops downward inch by inch. You lose yourself in dreamy
reveries, casting at length quite mechanically. The fly goes out to
its appointed place, sweeps round with the stream, and with a kind of
involuntary sigh the line is recovered, and the cast repeated. It
becomes machine action at last. On this evening I had impressed upon
Knut the desirability of being very slow indeed, and he was working
well. The stream was strong without rage, there was a dull curtain of
slate-grey overhead, and a light breeze was blowing in your teeth, but
not enough to make casting twenty-five yards of line a hardship. For a
time your thoughts centre upon the working of the fly. You wonder
whether a salmon has noticed it and is following it craftily round; if
so, will he take it? Or is it possible that after all you are not in
the exact lie of the salmon?
The water, you see, has not yet become, as it will (and does) in a few
days, clear enough for you to know that the entire bed of the river
consists of huge boulders, with manifold guts and hollows, all lovely
abiding places for any well-disposed fish. You speculate on what you
shall do if you do hook a salmon at this or that particular point. You
scan the shore, mark the likeliest spot for landing, and mentally go
through the whole programme to its happy ending. You think what a
splendid thing it would be if you could get four, five, six, a dozen
salmon in as many casts, and how much better the bottom of the boat
would look if, instead of two or three comely grilse, it showed the
biggest salmon ever known in these parts. But no, nothing disturbs the
monotony. Swish, swish, swish! Gradually you forget all about salmon
and sport, and are thinking, maybe, of kith and kin across the North
Sea, or of sins of omission and commission. All at once you are
startled by that inspiring cry of the winch which some faddy people
pretend to think a nuisance. It is to the angler what the trumpet is
to the war horse.
This was precisely what happened to me on the evening of which I write.
The bent grilse rod described an arc that only a salmon could make. He
went straight down, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty yards without a
possibility of check, even if one were so foolish as to wish to stop a
strongly running fish. At the first slackening of speed, however, it
is always wise to put on a little pressure, and cautiously begin with
the winch. After such a run a salmon will generally respond to the
slow winding in of the line, and, although after he has advanced ten or
fifteen yards he may make another spurt, you have him more under
control than in the first burst. A taut line, a bending rod never for
a moment allowed to unbend, and a firm yet sympathetic finger and thumb
at the winch handle are enough. Just keep cool, you and your man.
Knut, I may say, had to learn his management of a boat for fishing
purposes from me, and, therefore, knew the importance of being ready on
the instant to pull ashore, when and how he was ordered in a crisis.
On this occasion we had fixed upon our landing place, and Knut had
already received orders to pull steadily towards it if I hooked a fish.
In his excitement he put on the pace a little too much, a source of
danger met by letting the line ease the position.
The salmon was incessant in short, sharp rushes, but, in course of
time, we were out of the stream into easy water, although the fish had
returned half a dozen times before he relinquished the advantage of the
current. He became convinced, however, that resistance was vain, and
stubbornly allowed himself to be towed on and on to land. Ole, eagerly
waiting in the cove, gaff in hand, was now determined to mend his
damaged reputation, and listened with humble attention to my injunction
to take it easy, and not to hit till he was quite sure. He was
standing on a small slab of rock that protruded into the water, and,
unfortunately, there was nothing but lofty rocks behind us. What one
likes is a nice beach or field upon which one can step backwards,
conducting the salmon safely and easily into the net. There was no
possibility of this now; indeed, we were forced to change our tactics
in a hurry. The salmon at the finish came in more quickly than I
wished, and was virtually under the point of the rod. With a couple of
inexperienced men I feared a smash if I attempted to land at such a
place. Salmon at close quarters often prove troublesome. This one was
several times brought near enough for a skilled gaffer to strike him as
he swam slowly along parallel with the boat, but this would have been
too much to expect from a learner. I had, therefore, to keep to the
boat, and not only to bring the fish in, but to guide it past me to the
ledge below. The fish, however, as I knew, was firmly hooked; it was
merely a question of time, and, as a fact, Ole very cleverly gaffed a
clean-run salmon of 13 lb. That day, besides the salmon caught and
another lost, I had grilse of 5 1/4 lb., 3 1/4 lb., 4 1/2 lb., and 3 lb.
It was my good fortune to have Pot Pool again for the evening. Again
it was dull, with an incipient drizzle as we started out at six
o'clock. The fish were now rising, at any rate, in my pool. At the
very entrance to it, which was, in fact, the connecting run from The
Rocks, I killed, after a fussy tussle and plenty of leaping out of the
water, a grilse of 4 lb.; and we had barely rowed out into the stream
when a fish of 6 lb. or 7 lb. leaped head and tail out of the water at
my fly without touching it. The overcast character of the evening
suggested to me the use of a Bulldog, and we were now enabled to
practise the formulas at which Ole and Knut at first appeared so much
amused. On hooking a fish I keep my seat, and direct the course of the
boat to a suitable landing place. The craft must be pulled partly
ashore, if feasible, before I attempt to move. Then I rise and back
gently to the bow of the boat, where Ole is in readiness to lend me a
hand as I step out, sometimes no easy thing to do if I have to land on
a high, slippery rock. Delightful it is to have the fish fighting all
the time as only a grilse will. Your salmon often moves sullenly, and
will cruise slowly about with a dull, heavy strain that is most
comforting to an experienced man, who feels certain that the fish is
well hooked; but this is not wildly exciting.
Your grilse is here, there, and everywhere. There is no slackening for
him. He is a dashing light dragoon ever at the charge, determined to
do the thing with spirit if it is to be done at all. At first I have
no doubt I lost more grilse by giving them too much law. The longer
the fish is on, the looser becomes the hold, and I have always found it
better with fish of 5 lb. or 6 lb. to play them to the top of the
water, and then run them in without another check. Occasionally you
may lose a fish this way, but in the long run you gain, and after a
little practice you will get into the trick of bringing the grilse on
his side submissively into the net. The butt, however, must be applied
at the proper moment, and when the proper stage of exhaustion is
reached can be told only by experience. To return, however, to the
formulas. The fish, being in the net and landed, is handled by myself
only; the eager, sportsmanlike instinct of your man will have to be
repressed, his first idea being to seize it and knock it on the head
with a stone. I have sufficient respect for either salmon or grilse to
finish them with the orthodox priest, and that also is a function I
like to perform myself. Then comes the extraction of the hook, always
an interesting, because instructive, formula for the angler. Next
follows the satisfaction of weighing the game with a spring balance,
and then seeing that it is deposited in the boat with a covering of
ling or alder leaves as a protection against flies or sun.
Returning now to my evening, I may explain that Ole was absent on
leave, and that Knut, who was a most intelligent young fellow and the
schoolmaster of the village, was anxious to use the gaff or net as the
case may be. Having caught a 3 1/2-lb. grilse on a small Butcher, I
fished down Pot Pool very leisurely without a touch. After a fair
interval I removed the small fly and elected to take my chance
thereafter with a Jock Scott of larger size. It was now about eight
o'clock, and we went down the pool again, having a brief run with
probably a grilse, which held fast only a moment or two; then I was
becoming conscious again of the monotony of fruitless casting when
there was a splendid spin of the winch. This, I confess, was of such a
nature that I rose at once and determined to take my reward or
punishment, as it might happen, standing. It was an undoubted salmon,
for fifty yards down out of the water he came, the winch, curiously
enough, screaming all the time, and never ceasing when he fell in with
a loud splash and resumed his run. I had about 115 yards of line on my
winch, and I noticed, just as the fish moderated his express speed,
that there could not have been ten yards left.
He was fighting all the time. Knut, fortunately, understood my
directions to follow him down instead of pulling up-stream and a little
across, as he usually did, and I was able at least to winch in
three-parts of the line before the next rush, which was equally
formidable, but not so long. I think I never had a salmon fight as
this one did. He, at any rate, was not one of the sulky kind, and it
was quite on the cards that I had one of the twenty or thirty pounders
for which the angler is always longing. By and by we landed on a
rock--or rather two rocks--Knut on a flat bit of crag and I on the
round head of a small boulder. The fish had so tired himself in his
shoots and fights out in the stream that he gave little trouble in the
slack water, but refused for a long time to be brought up anywhere near
the surface. When he did yield he came in the most lamb-like way, and
Knut had the pleasure of using the gaff for the first time. He hit the
fish fair and well, and, marvel of marvels, it was to an ounce the
weight of the fish killed in the same pool in the previous evening,
viz. 13 lb.
Having now a good salmon, for this water, in the boat, and a grilse or
two, and it being nine o'clock, overcast, and with a dark bit of the
forest to walk through to the road, I signified my intention of going
home; but Knut's blue eyes opened wide in surprise and pleading, and he
besought me to have one more trial. As the young fellow had been
working hard for three hours, and this was uncommonly good of him, I
consented, and, keeping on the same fly, we began half-way up the pool,
my intention being only to fish the tail end. At the fifth cast, and
on a portion of the stream which I had fished over without disturbance
twice the same evening, up came another salmon, which fastened and went
off at the same fierce pace as the other. He stripped off the line
several times, gave me a splendid quarter of an hour's sport, and there
we were, the dangers of the stream left behind, the fish quietly
circling in easy courses in the slack water, Knut ready with his gaff
on his little platform, and I, cocksure of the fish, standing on the
round rock. To the left was water that in the dusk seemed to be deep
and black, and as all along this side the water was deep close in, I
concluded that all was safe. The fish was coming quietly in, and was
not two yards from the gaff, when it made a sudden dart to the left
into this dark water close to the rocks, and in a very short time I
realised that he had hung himself up.
Getting as quickly as possible into the boat again, we moved slowly out
to the impediment, in the hope of its being nothing more than a rock
which could be cleared; but on looking down I saw that the bottom had
been a regular trap for sunken logs, and as I looked down into the
water I saw the fish, a silvery, clean-run fellow of about 8 lb.,
fighting his hardest at the end of the line, which sawed and sawed
until it parted. I recovered most of the cast, but the fish had got
away with my bonny Jock Scott and the last strand. This was very
sickening, for we might have had a nice bag to take home; but it was
not to be, and in somewhat subdued spirits we fastened up the boat, got
our baggage together, and walked homeward. Still, it was a typical
experience of casting from a boat, and Knut and myself had the pleasure
of carrying home in the net, I holding the handle and he the rim, a
salmon of 13 lb., and grilse of 4 lb., 3 1/2 lb., and 3 lb.
This, I may say, was the day when I hooked and played fifteen fish, of
which only five were caught. I dreamed about that fraudulent dark
water and its hidden logs, and in the searching sunlight of the next
day went over to examine. It was most artful of the salmon to take the
course he did, for I found that he had run under what was virtually a
spar of about 10 ft. long, with each end resting on a rock; below it
was a nice little interval of 18 in. of water, under which a salmon
could run.