SOME CONTRARIES OF WEATHER AND SPORT
At my first visit to Norway in 1899 I was greeted with days of roasting
heat, with roaming thunder growling incessantly in the mountains. The
angler fresh from England, out of training with his salmon rod, and
with the precarious rocks and boulders for foothold, gradually discards
his clothing; the coat is shed first, then probably the collar and
scarf, then the waistcoat. Some underclothing goes next. In two days
the heat sufficed to stick together in hopeless amalgamation all the
postage stamps in my purse, and I have at last discovered that the
haberdashery goods warranted fast colours, and paid for as such, leave
confused rainbow hues upon every vestige of attire after a good
Norwegian sweat.
All this will signify to the initiated that fishing during the six
middle hours of the day is out of the question. It is not the case
that salmon will never take in glaring sunshine, but it is the
exception rather than the rule, and the game is decidedly not worth the
frizzle. It means, moreover, that the rivers are low, and it may be
stated that they have been so all the season so far, and that there can
be no really good sport until there is a change. To be sure, even a
single thunderstorm does help a little, but in my case it has wrought
harm; the rolling of thunder in the hills day after day, and the
surcharged atmosphere have had an undoubted influence in sulkifying the
fish, and there is a worse thing than that.
This worse thing is the modest pine log of commerce. Driving, last
Sunday, from Christiansand over the hills and down into the Mandal
Valley, a distance of twenty-eight miles through most beautifully
typical South Norway scenery, in which, with the towering mountains of
rock timbered with dark sentinels to the very skyline, alternate
verdant, peaceful, prosperous, valleys glowing with wild flowers, in
which the bonny harebell is more assertive by the waysides, I was much
interested in the cut timber strewing the half-dried river bed whose
course we followed. The logs are of no great size, mere sticks of
pine, averaging a foot diameter and in lengths varying between twelve
and forty feet. It was obvious that these spars, like the anglers,
were waiting for a spate. How nice it would be for the hardy, honest
natives engaged in this all-important lumber industry if these prepared
sticks, each well ear-marked for recognition leagues perchance
down-stream, were swept offhand to market.
My sentiments changed somewhat yesterday and the two previous days. I
may explain that there was a violent thunderstorm on Monday night, and
the Mandal river, a noble type of the rocky Norwegian salmon stream,
rose, perhaps, a couple of feet in the wider portions, and considerably
more where the bed contracted. Even such an addition to the volume of
water gave these logs a friendly lift, and brought them tumbling and
grinding along in hundreds without the aid of man; but on Thursday they
appeared in endless battalions, for by this time the timbermen had been
ordered out in force to give a friendly shove to the masses that had
jammed in some eddy or rocky corner. It is astonishing what a mere
touch will effect. With my pocket gaff last evening I lightly nudged a
floating spar in the ribs, and he set off right heartily, very gently,
yet firmly, cannoned without temper against a neighbour, and in less
than five minutes a block of perhaps 150 logs had started off,
scattering irregularly over the stream, and making a noise like distant
thunder as they charged over the boulders of the rapids below.
There are circumstances, I have been told, under which salmon will rise
as well as at other times while logs are drifting, but our best pools
here are even-flowing and stately, reminding one often of the Tweed
between Kelso and Coldstream. The logs in such water are bad for fish.
The testimony of the local men is that the pools, from the piscatorial
point of view, are always unsettled while the logs are descending in
quantities, and that it is a rare thing at such times to induce a
salmon to take a fly. Moreover, with a thunderstorm spate of this
nature, and the operations of gangs of lumbermen hastening to set the
stranded stock on its way to port, the water is rendered very dirty; in
a word, until the muck has passed, and the river settled, the angler's
chances are poor indeed.
The danger to the angler's gear, and any fish he hooks, when he finds
himself amongst the logs, is well known. The tenant of the beat above
ours lost two or three good salmon in one day by collisions of this
nature. Down at Lovdal we fish mostly from one of the somewhat crank
boats of the country, and my first salmon was hooked from the stern of
one of them, at the moment when a score of logs that had been gyrating
in an aimless sort of way in a great dark backwater must needs hustle
one another in company into a corner where they were suddenly caught by
a strong undercurrent, and almost hauled out into the current,
unnoticed by my boatman. For myself I was engaged with a hooked fish,
and fortunately for me he was not large. The man had all he could do
to fend off the spars with his oars, and at that critical moment, when
the fish is either turned or allowed a new lease of life, we had the
honour of notice to quit from a spar on either side. Mr. Salmon,
without a fin-flick of apology, taking a mean advantage, darted under
the stick to the right, and at express speed made across stream. One
does not, however, use Hercules gut for nothing; the log was travelling
swiftly, and I ventured to clap my rod-top down to and under the
surface, thus saving my tackle, and being presently able to land and
gaff my 10-lb. fresh-run salmon without risk or hurry. This fish, I
may add, rose in the fiercest of sunshine in the forenoon, and some
logs were coming down, but only one here and there.
The river in fact had only then begun to rise briskly, and on
Wednesday, when the lumbermen were hard at work above, three salmon,
one of them a certain twenty pounder, fluttered up at the fly. They
did not mean business though. That pool I fished, with change of
pattern and abundant intervals, until I was not merely fit but ready to
drop, and rose two of the fish a second time. On Thursday the river
was so out of order that I left the salmon rod in its rack in the barn
and drove up to Manflo lake, arriving there in time to see the effects
of an apparently innocent occurrence of thunder and lightning. There
was no storm or overcasting of the heavens, only a single discharge
from one wandering cloud, yet it fired the forests in two places, and
we saw the columns of white smoke of the conflagration. With thunder
all around the hills it did not seem promising for the trout; still we
had driven eight miles to try them, and were there for the purpose, so
we unmoored the boat and began. The trout were small and of two
varieties--a dark, heavily-blotched, lanky fish, with coarse head, and
a shapely golden fellow, thickly studded in every part with small black
spots. I used merely one cast--Zulu, red and teal, March brown with
silver ribbing--and in two hours I had caught forty-one trout weighing
13 lb. In salmon fishing here one catches brown trout every day; your
salmon fly may be large, medium, or small, it is all the same to these
voracious fario, which never appear to be more than half a pound. One
has the consolation always in Norway of knowing that what one catches
need never be wasted. There is something quite touching in the
gratitude which the poor villager evinces in return for a present of
two little trout.
An instance may be mentioned of apparent service to the salmon angler
by the trout which, as a rule, are execrated as an intolerable
nuisance. After you have succeeded in working your fly some thirty
yards below, and can feel it swimming on an even keel at the end of a
straightly-extended line, the supreme moment of expectation has
arrived; to have the situation thus achieved by labour ruined by the
impudence of a trout 9 in. or 10 in. long is warranty, if ever, for
speaking out. My example is of such a nuisance to which I owe a
grilse. At any rate, that is my theory. Two salmon and five grilse
were at that time my total for odd hours of fishing during part of the
week, and I had fished with the Durham Ranger and Butcher (No. 4). One
evening, putting off for another drift down the pool, I bethought me of
a set of his favourite turkey wings specially dressed for this
expedition by my friend Wright, of Annan, and resolved to fulfil my
promise of giving them a trial without further delay. The name of the
fly of my first choice is, I believe, the Border Fancy; the brown
turkey wing showed well in the water, and the irregular mingling of
lemon, red, and black of the pig's wool, relieved by a band of silver
twist, made altogether a very attractive lure. The boat was crossing
diagonally to our course, and I was leisurely getting out line, when a
trout plucked at the fly. I saw him, as it were, knocked aside rudely,
and shall always believe that it was intentionally done by the grilse,
which immediately fastened to the fly, and was duly netted on shore.
Within twenty minutes the same fly rose and landed me a salmon. I
rechristened this fly the Wullie, and determined after that evening's
work was done to preserve it for copying. King log, however,
interfered with my well-meant intentions. A stick of pine by and by
feloniously shot round a corner of rock unawares, and ere I could
recover the cast the fly was embedded in the butt of it, and there was
a quick smash. In what remote part of the earth will the Wullie be
next found--or will it become the adornment of a permanent waterlog
without leaving the river of its birthplace?
The fish which I have caught to this date, fishing about twenty hours
during the whole week (including Sunday night, when, after my sea
journey and long carriage drive from Christiansand, I went out at eight
o'clock, caught seven trout, and afterwards read a chapter of _Shandon
Bells_ under an apple-tree at half-past ten at night in good daylight)
have been curiously uniform in weights. The salmon were 10 1/2 lb., 10
1/4 lb., and 10 lb.; the grilse 3 1/2 lb., 3 1/4 lb., 3 lb., 3 1/2 lb.,
and 3 lb.
As a contrast to these hot days, let us arrive at the doings of a wet
week, of which most travellers in the country get more or less
experience.
When you read in your guide-book "The climate of the west coast is
usually mild, being influenced by the Atlantic and the Gulf Stream,
which impinges upon it," you will, having the ordinary experiences of
this vale of tears, not omit the mackintoshes from your baggage. It
may be, as is set forth a little farther down, that July and August are
the best months for this part of Norway; but there is never any
trusting that Atlantic and Gulf Stream. Yet here we are at the end of
a solid week of rain, with every promise of more to follow. This
morning the rushing sound which greeted my waking moments was,
nevertheless, different from that of previous mornings. It was merely
the steady but strong flow of the river, not fifty yards from my
bedroom window, speeding from the wooden bridge to the mouth at the
fiord, half a mile below. Previously there had been variations upon
this unceasing monotone, and they were caused by the rain pattering
upon the leaves of an old ash outside, upon the shrubs and trees of the
little orchard, and at times upon the veranda and even window panes.
There is no mistake about rain in Norway when it is in earnest, and a
week of it is more than enough. It is true the nights have not this
time been so wet as the days, but what consolation is that when the
effect is to keep the river in perpetual flood? No; there is a vast
difference between three and seven days, on a salmon river. The lesser
infliction moves the fish and improves sport. In the days that are
left you may find ample compensation in superior bags. Now there have
been seven days' downpour, the river getting worse every day, and
leaving a tolerable certainty of three days' additional patience for
running down and clearing. But that is not the worst. I have said
that there was a difference this morning when I got up and looked out.
The sandy paths were dry, showing that there had been no fresh rain in
the night. Moreover, the hillsides were open to view, the silver rills
that veined the rugged steeps were dwindling, there was a blue sky, and
great ranges of wooded or desolate mountains were in clearly cut
outline--the first time since the wet period set in. Over the shoulder
of the huge pyramid to the east there was actual sunshine, and the
fleecy clouds were high. So at last there was to be an end to our
mourning; verily so, since the wind had at last veered from south to
north-west. Yet at this very moment, and it is still an hour short of
noon, a heavy storm is making uproar without, the rain is descending in
torrents, and there is the added discomfort of a shiver-breeding
atmosphere. At any rate, we are under cover, and need not issue forth
unless we choose. This is better than what must have been the fate of
poor S., who went to the fjelds just before the break of fine weather
to shoot ryper. He has been literally up in the clouds, and the birds
will have been lying so low as to give points to "'Brer rabbit."
Condemned to the solitude of a rude saeter, a hut in the most primitive
sense of the term, he must have furnished a capital example of the
English gentleman who forsakes the seductions of a London season and
the luxuries of a Piccadilly club for the sake of sport.
To be sure, in our case, this reverse is only part of fisherman's luck,
and we may be--and no doubt are--thankful that there was a fair
fortnight, to begin with, placed on the right side of the account.
Sport was, for various reasons, not by any means up to par, but we can,
on this miserable Sabbath day, in our comfortable hotel by the strong,
highly coloured river, count up a total of a trifle over 500 lb. to our
two rods in little more than a fortnight. These were mostly sea trout,
but of a lower average weight than is usual at this period of the
season, the run of heavy fish--anything from 6 lb. to 16 lb.--having
apparently taken place in July instead of August. The rule on this
river is first a run of big sea trout, then a run of smaller size, and,
lastly, a small run of bull trout, with occasional salmon throughout.
H. has had the best of the bag, but a few salmon and grilse on another
river gives me 244 lb. as my share.
My prettiest experience in the wet week was interesting. The river was
big and dirty, the rain most hearty. The prospects were so poor that
H. stuck to Anthony Trollope in the veranda. A thin piece of water on
the lower beat to my mind offered a remote chance for a sea trout, and
I was rowed down in a particular direct rainfall to it. The boatman
shook his head at the small Bulldog I put on; he would have preferred a
darker fly, salmon size. In a rough tumble of water over small
boulders, which were not a foot beneath the foam-headed waves, a fish
fastened, and the spin of the reel was shrill above the tumult of the
waters. The grilse rod was tested severely, as in truth were my arms
for a few minutes. The fish rushed forty yards down stream at express
speed, then dodged and fought right and left. By and by the clever
boatman got the boat through every variety of strong water to a landing
place, and in good time the fish came to the gaff, a splendid bull
trout of 10 lb. I wish some of my friends who are not satisfied upon
the bull trout question could have seen this dark, broadly-spotted,
burly fish, as it lay side by side with a silvery four-pound sea trout
that I had previously taken with the same fly. It was as a Clydesdale
to a thoroughbred. Seeing must then have been believing.
For the present let us forget that wet week. We will return to the
rain, perhaps, another day; suffice now to state that we had three
weeks of it--three weeks and never a day without mackintoshes. Last
night it must have snowed pretty hard up on the fjelds, for there are
at this moment white mantles lower down on the mountains than have been
seen for many a year at this period of the season. The only way by
which I can temporarily forget the weather is to go back to the day
when, in England, the sportsmen were "inaugurating" (there are worse
words than that though it is not pure English) the grouse season. On
August 12 we were on a visit to S., whose river is a few hours'
steaming from the stream upon which I was established in headquarters.
It was our fourth day there, and, as a relief from the salmon rod,
which had found out the unused muscles of my arms and shoulders, I took
a holiday so far as to go out for once with a trout rod. It was a
whole-cane pattern of 10 ft. 6 in. As it was already put together in
the rack at the back of the hotel, I borrowed it just to save the
bother of fixing up my own greenheart. In the tidal portion of the
river capital sport was sometimes to be found with the common trout.
They are Salmo fario of the kind one often catches in Norway--silvery,
marked with a galaxy of small black spots, with a red point here and
there, and game to the death; and their favourite taking time in this
river was when the tide was nearing low water.
On that particular date this happened pretty early, and I was on the
pebbly strand by eight o'clock. Our friends who fish the river use
small March browns, blue duns, and teal and reds for such light
amusement; but I had with me a couple of patterns--to wit, the Killer
(a sea-trout fly which in a previous visit to Norway the small trout
had fancied very freely) and an adaptation of the Alexandra used on the
Costa for grayling. Both have silver bodies, but the former is a study
in yellow, the latter a harmony in peacock-blue; and these special
dressings were on eyed hooks, say about the size of a medium sedge,
though of more scanty material. One of each was put up on an untapered
cast of the finest undrawn gut; but, in ordering the collars to go with
the flies, I had begged that every strand should be of picked stuff,
round and even from end to end, and that they should be in every detail
sound and sure.
My temporary gillie D. was by nature taciturn but always willing. This
morning he was willing enough, but mum as an oyster. Nay, he sat upon
the great grey rock on the little island and watched me make ready with
a wonderfully melancholy expression. It was only when a salmon on the
other side splashed noisily that he smiled--the grim relaxation of
features that means resignation tempered with pity, not encouragement,
nor hope, nor approval. His entire demeanour said, "To think that I
should have carried the gaff, and gillied good salmon fishermen for
years, and be degraded into this mean tomfoolery." A little impressed
with his attitude, and, I think I may add, half in sympathy, I advised
him as well as I could to rest him tranquilly on the rock, and not
worry till I demanded his assistance. Then, hitching up my wading
stockings, I went in to less than knee-deep and angled for trout for a
quarter of an hour to no purpose. The green, dark water of the regular
current was an easy cast out, but the fish I sought were generally
taken on its edge, or in about a foot depth of shallow, when the flies
came down at the end of a line that had been allowed to sweep round
with the stream. I got a couple of 9-in. fish, and knew that the
half-pounders were not rising.
Next I moved in to above the knees, and pulled out a little more line;
was looking up at the snow patches on the mountain tops, and the fir
trees on the slope, when I was startled by a rude pluck and a whirring
of the little reel. I receded to shore as quickly as I could with a
bent rod and running fish to hold, and then became aware that my line
could not be more than thirty yards in length. Down and down went the
fish. Sometimes he paused and shook himself; now and again he even
responded to my winching in, or even played about without rushing.
Once he ran ten yards upstream, but for the most part I ran with him,
and was mainly absorbed by a desire to keep as much line in hand as
possible. D. had seen my position at once, and was soon at my rear,
pocket gaff in hand, and all the sadness gone from his harsh visage. I
think the fight lasted about ten minutes, but it was splendid battle
every moment of the time, and D. finally gaffed out a silvery grilse,
the smallest I had ever taken. I weighed him on the spot; he was 3 lb.
He had taken the small edition of the Killer, and a few moments more
would have given him liberty.
This was an encouraging beginning certainly, for I suppose no man
complains if, going out to catch half-pound trout, he bags a grilse,
small though it be. Now I regretted that I had no longer line, and
that I had not stuck to the winch which I had replaced by one of my
own--a small ebony and silver one, which five-and-twenty years ago
formed part of a collection of goods composing the only prize I ever
received. It happened that the biggest pike of the year at the Stanley
Anglers, of which I was a member, had been caught by me without
competing, or thinking of prizes; but I was proud to take the award
when it was offered, and had the amount laid out in tackle. Here was
the winch, after much service, accounting for a grilse in Norway! I
now ran my fingers down the gut cast, tested the knots, and began
again. D. did not go back to his rock, and while in the water, having
delivered my cast, I was turning round to hand him my tobacco pouch,
when a furious pluck nearly brought the rod-top to the water. But one
manages these things by instinct, and the whole-cane was arched like a
bow again, and, out of the water, now abreast, now below, now away in
the stream, leaped a sea trout. He was the most restless of fishes;
the grilse had gone through his campaign with severe dignity, but this
fellow played endless pranks, and led me a merry dance down the
pebbles, ending in the production of the spring balance, and a register
of 2 1/2 lb. The sun was out strong now, and I feared that the fun was
over. Never, however, leave off because of the sun with sea trout; no,
nor with salmon either, though only half or quarter of a chance is left
you. I have killed some salmon and plenty of sea trout, though after
much apparently hopeless toil, against all the rules as to sun, wind,
and cloud. I was recalling examples when the rod was made to quiver
again, and this time it was a sea trout of over 1 1/2 lb. I would not
degrade D. by allowing him to interfere, but walked back and hauled the
fish up a sandy spit, extracted the hook, and weighed him myself, as I
generally do. In the next quarter of an hour I got three sea trout of
the smaller size, and weighed them _en bloc_, tied together, at 5 lb.
the leash. Breakfast was now fairly earned, and in a fine state of
perspiration and contentment I led the way home. In the afternoon I
was bound to make a show with the big rod, but left the whole-cane
trouter where I could pick it up for an evening trial on the scene of
the morning's sport. We all got something that day, but the sun was
too much for anything but casualties with salmon. With a small Bulldog
I found, hooked, and strove with a fish that bored and jiggered most
unconscionably. He worked like a fair salmon so long as he remained
dogged; when once he moved up from the bottom, however, I estimated him
for a sample that would at least not prove beyond the 10 lb. limit of
my spring balance. And so it turned out. D. did me the honour of
missing him twice in succession with the gaff, and he quite lost his
nerve. He threw down the gaff, in his agitation, and, amidst roars of
laughter from a couple of onlookers on the farther side, literally
danced about amongst salmon, gaff, and line. Sternly I bade him get
out of the way, and by a crowning mercy his gaff at the false strikes,
and his feet during the _pas deux_ (he and the salmon were actually
waltzing together on the stones) had not touched the line, However, the
fish was exhausted, and followed me with commendable docility as I
retired in good order up the bank, hauling him bodily. D. now seemed
stricken with remorse; he clattered into the water behind the fish, and
with the ferocity of a very Viking kicked it ignominiously up to the
grassy plateau to which I had moved. How much avoirdupois the worthy
man had kicked out of that salmon I know not; what remained weighed 7
lb., and it was a singularly bright and handsomely shaped fish. There
was this advantage in the application of the boot instead of the
gaff--the fish was not disfigured by a gashed side.
The salmon was very welcome, but I was thinking all the while of the
excitement of the morning and the brisk quivering of the trout rod.
Somehow I found myself down there again in the early evening, D.
accompanying me with another attack of depression. He was quite right
from his point of view. His master had taught him--if, indeed, he had
not inherited the doctrine--that salmon are the only things worth
calling fish. Sea trout count for nothing; brown trout for less than
that. Still, he pocketed his disapproval, and came along with lack
lustre eye. S. came down, too, just as I was wading in, to see me
start, and in a few minutes I announced that a good fish had risen
short at the small Killer. This was a timely falsity, as I wanted just
then the opportunity of filling my pipe--not an easy thing to do
knee-deep in water. By putting your rod over your right arm, and
fixing the butt into your pocket, it may, however, be done; the line
takes care of itself, and the flies will be below you somewhere out of
danger. There must have been down there a 10-in. sea trout at the very
lap of the water on the stones--perhaps it had followed the fly in from
the stream; anyhow, there it was on the Killer when I had lighted the
pipe, and I gave it freedom, without including it in the bag of the
day. After the brief interval I addressed myself to the false riser
who had, without knowing it, accommodated me in the matter of the pipe.
With the sense of obligation strong upon me, I gave him his opportunity
with delicacy and deliberation; he came up like an Itchen patriarch at
a Mayfly, and I had a full ten minutes' race down the bank, with
heartfelt tussles at intervals that made the engagement gloriously
alive. This fish was quite worthy of the gaff, being a beautiful sea
trout of 5 lb.
The five-pounder had been hooked on the shallow, and to the shallow I
again devoted myself. There were rises, without touches at the fly, in
two successive casts; at the third I was fast in another good fish; saw
him roll over and over on the surface, and lost him. He was lightly
hooked, and the little Killer and the cast came back entire. It was a
sea trout quite as large as that last knocked on the head. But I could
afford one loss that day, and my philosophy was presently rewarded by a
sea trout of 2 1/2 lb. As the golden sun set in a world of
rose-coloured clouds reflected in one of the loveliest of bays, I found
myself engaged in a warm contest that seemed never to end. Twice there
was not a yard of line left on the small winch; several times I had to
go into the water again; between whiles I was kept on the trot and
canter, and was puffing like an engine when the combat ended with a
grilse of 3 1/2 lb., the gaffing of which caused the loss somehow of
the ornamental handle of the instrument. I never found the gaff
handle, but I retain a vivid remembrance of my gymnastics during that
superb sunset. There was another sea trout to complete the day's
sport--an inconsiderable pounder--which my henchman, however, strung up
with the rest. Besides the eleven fish (one salmon, two grilse, and
eight sea trout) there were some small brown trout, given to a young
Norsker who had been hanging about the bank; and the bag was altogether
an honest 34 lb. It must be remembered that the stream was always so
strong that the endurance of the cast and strength of the rod was a
really remarkable fact. At times the rod was bent until it seemed it
must break somewhere, especially with the grilse and 5-lb. sea trout;
but it came home as straight as ever. The same fine gut collar and the
one small Killer accounted for every fish caught that day except the
salmon, which was taken with the usual salmon equipment. Yes;
balancing the accounts fairly, I really do think I may with a clear
conscience set that one bright day against that one wet week in Norway.
At the same time it must not be supposed that such a bag is anything to
talk about for Norway. Did not H., only two days agone, venturing out
for an afternoon, return early with 40 lb. of sea trout, and did he not
three seasons back kill 60 lb. in part of a day? The moral of my
modest narrative is that you may do more than you wot of sometimes with
a trout rod and fine tackle even in the strong streams of Norway.