LAST DAYS WITH NORWAY AND ITS SEA TROUT
To-day we say "farvell" to the willing, good-hearted fellows who have
served us so loyally these bygone weeks, and to the kindly people with
whom you cannot help making friends after a brief residence amongst the
simple farmer and village folk of Norway. We have, therefore, to
prepare for flight of seventy miles down the fiord in order to catch
the English boat at Bergen; and, to do this, we have had to charter a
small craft on our own account if we would intercept the next regular
steamer plying from Trondjhem southwards. The greater part of the day
has been, in consequence, spent perforce in the odious work of packing
up; but I need here only say, as cognate to packing up, that the tackle
one carries is considerable, and that many of us undoubtedly get into
the habit of taking much more than is necessary. At any rate, the
occupation of stowing away impedimenta has gobbled a considerable slice
out of this day. Yet I have not only managed to get a bit of fishing
but, strange to say, have made exactly the same bag of fish as to
number and weight as I did on that bright day aforetime described.
Perhaps it is unnecessary to begin by affirming that once more, as diem
per diem for three weeks, we have had to work at our play amidst rain
unceasing from morning till night. H. has been two hours and more gone
up the river salmon fishing, and as dinner to-night will be somewhat
late, I sit down with the storm racketing around the house, to write
the history of this last day's sport with the sea trout. The
consciousness of a fairly good day, all things considered, puts me at
peace with myself and the world; and the transference from wet to dry
clothes, not to speak of the storm-tossed appearance of an occasional
boatman dropping down to the fiord, imparts a sense of comfort that is
not at all a drawback when one takes up the pen.
Before getting into his stolkjarre this morning, H., referring to the
high tides, solaced me by the remark that, although the river was a
couple of feet higher than it ought to be, there was an even chance of
fair sport. To begin with the water was not badly coloured, and it was
clearing. The two hours preceding low water were, as usual, mentioned
as the period in which business with sea trout should be most pressing.
After, therefore, three hours in my littered rooms with two big
portmanteaux, I summoned my man (always ready for a summons), and we
trudged off along road and bye-track to the island which was our
customary starting point, and a favourite place at all times.
If newly-run sea trout rested _en route_ anywhere, it would be
somewhere off its green banks. Above the island the river was a long,
broad, dull reach, where a good deal of harling was done by the
natives. At H.'s boundary there were rocks, breaking the stream into
typical runs, and there was one channel or gut, about ten yards out
from the island bank, which rarely failed in giving temporary lodgings
to running fish. Properly speaking, an angler should, in fishing this
down from shore, keep behind the low-growing alders; but it always
seemed more advantageous to me, as a student of fish movement, to watch
the progress of the fly. Never in the world could there be a better
place to note the movements of a sea trout, and so you began the day
with faculties all awake. The small Bulldog (after the point had been
duly touched up by the file) was first put up, and at the third cast I
beheld a brown streak and a silver flash, followed by an abrupt
disappearance of the object. A sea trout had showed himself without
nearing the fly, and had retired immediately to quarters. Ten minutes
as a rule was ample for this island casting, but as, on this occasion,
there was no other sign than that I have mentioned, I could not but
spare a few extra minutes to my friend who had falsely made overtures
to the Bulldog; the least to be done was another trial with a fly of a
different pattern. But he remained sulky or scared.
Then we took to the boat, and began to fish the well-known water with
careful assiduity. And my heart sank as time sped along, and
resting-place after resting-place for fish was deliberately worked
without result. Low clouds, in horizontal strata of white masses,
shrouded the mountain sides, there was a miserable shiver of wind upon
the water, and for any token to eye or hand there might not have been a
fish in the river. By and by we came to the conclusion that, for the
time being, the game was not worth the candle; and we went ashore to
snatch a hasty luncheon under the dripping eaves of a boat-house. In
the bows of the boat there were two fish, so insignificant that we
would not weigh them, though we afterwards found that they were each
about 2 lb. We shrugged our shoulders on the surmise that either there
had been no run of sea trout during these propitious moonlight nights,
or that they were by one consent in one of their non-taking humours.
Sea trout, however, are notoriously capricious, and not being likely to
get any moister than I already was from the rain, I determined, before
saying a final good-bye, to toil on through the two hours after low
water, notwithstanding that what remained was the lower part of the
beat on which the slight incoming tide made itself felt earliest.
When you are fishing on the forlorn-hope principle, you are not
thinking much about the immediate chances of sport. At times of
anything like encouragement, you are keenly particular as to the fall
of the fly and its correct working on an even keel; nay, you are so
sensitive and alert that the touch of a passing leaflet on the hook
produces some sort of excitement. Every cast goes out with a cluster
of hopes in pursuit, and dreams as to possibilities; you keep looking
round to be satisfied that the gaff is ready to hand, and everything in
the boat shipshape for action. As it was after luncheon to-day, you
think of anything but a fish taking hold; you swish on monotonously and
mechanically; you muse of friends at home and abroad, of the sport you
enjoyed yesterday or the day before, of chances lost, perhaps even of
your general career through either a well-ordered or misspent life as
the case may happen to be; and then, hey presto! you are startled,
brought up with a round turn by a sudden plunge of the rod and that
delicious sound--an alarm of the reel.
This was precisely my case, and from the evidences permitted it should
have been a worthy fish which, so suddenly welcome, intruded upon
reverie. One of the disadvantages of boat fishing in a big, strongly
flowing Norway river, is the prolonged chances given to your fish by
the necessity of going ashore to land him. We had now to tow this
unknown quantity close upon a hundred yards across before we could gain
the shore, and the hooked one was resisting all the time. It turned
out to be a 3-lb. sea trout, hooked foul. For a little while there was
seldom a cast without at least a rise. Twice the fish broke water
heavily without touching the feathers, and that is comparatively an out
of the way occurrence. Two or three times they just touched the hook,
ran out a yard or so of line, fluttered on the top of the water, and
were off. This is one of the common phases of sea-trout fishing; it
just now showed that the fish were in a different temper from that of
the pre-luncheon era, when there was no moving them, whether truly or
falsely. There was, at any rate, a change, promising that sooner or
later they would fall into a really gripping mood. Sea trout are
indeed kittle cattle. There are days when the fish one and all seize
the fly boldly and are fastened beyond recall, while for days in
succession they touch the hook only to get off the moment a fair strain
is realised.
Three times during this fast-and-loose interval was the fly changed.
Now it was a Jock Scott with double hook, now a Durham Ranger on single
hook, now the Bulldog again. The latter, however, was out of favour,
and I rummaged out from the box a Fiery Brown, which I had selected
with some others from the stock of Little (of the Haymarket), who
happened to be in Norway at the time inspecting certain salmon and
trout rivers, with days of fishing in the intervals, and who was good
enough to allow me to take what I wanted from his book on the morning
of his departure for England. The Fiery Brown did very well. It
brought me in succession fish of 4 1/2 lb., 3 lb., and 2 1/2 lb., and
others, so that at four o'clock in the afternoon, instead of two small
sea trout in the boat, I had ten, and was quite satisfied if they
remained at that figure.
On this last day I did not, however, care to lose sight for ever of
that half-hearted sea trout which had baulked me at starting up at the
island. A., although he was out of sorts, and had been pretty well
worked day by day, was for towing the boat up-stream and fishing the
whole river down again, but to this I objected. There was no use in
working a willing horse to death; and perhaps I might also honestly say
that by this time I was a trifle tired myself. We therefore left the
boat at its usual moorings half-way, and plodded up through the sloppy
marsh and over the slippery rocks to the desired spot. I wanted no
more two- or three-pounders, and, in a sort of care-nothing spirit,
decided upon a Butcher, of small salmon-fly size, this being perhaps
one of the very best all-round patterns for Norwegian waters. A few
casts tested the hold where my sea trout of the morning lay, but he was
still obdurate, unless he had adopted the unlikely course of pushing
upwards since our transient interview.
I pulled out a few more yards of line, and fished farther out over
water that was deeper and not of high repute as the halting-stage of
sea trout. But I had my reward presently in a determined assault upon
the fly, delivered well under water.
It might here be mentioned that at the tapering point of the island,
some fifty yards below, a swift branch stream, created by the island,
poured in; and again fifty yards farther on there was a general
conjunction of streams and eddies, making a leaping, roaring toss of
broken water, with a tremendously heavy, sliding volume to the left.
Below this lively meeting-place the concentrated currents swept round
furiously under the cliff at right angles. It was tolerably certain
disaster to one party if ever a fish got so far as that. To be
forewarned was, however, to be forearmed, and, knowing the dangers of
the position, we always examined our cast beforehand, so that, in case
of the tug of war, defeat should not be caused by defective gut. It
was evident from the very beginning that I was now at issue with a
heavy fish of some kind. There was that short steady run deep in the
water which we all like; no foolish pirouetting at the end of the line
on the top of the water here. The rod was arched to its utmost;
everything was splendidly taut. It was one of those combats when the
fisherman feels that he may, when challenged, plant his feet wide apart
and lean bodily against what he is holding.
After the preliminary canter the fish made a gallant rush straight
down, shot like an arrow past the end of the island, and, hesitating an
instant, betrayed a desire to sheer into the heart of the rapid. Kept
out of this by a firm hand, he sped across to the other side, then made
another attempt to get down to the narrows. For just about a minute it
was neck or nothing between us, but I had made up my mind that, whether
he broke me or not, go a yard farther towards danger he should not. He
might have known what was my fell purpose, for, after doggedly holding
his own while I might count ten, he came up, literally inch by inch, in
response to the cautious turn of the winch handle. It is the acme of
sport to have a fine fish on your winch, as it were, trying his best to
increase distance, fighting right and left incessantly, and yet
compelled to advance against his will in the teeth of a powerful
glacier-fed stream. There was a prolongation of this exquisite
excitement. Sometimes the fish would be winched up to within thirty
yards of line, and then in a twinkling there would be fifty or sixty
yards quivering at the stretch, and the old tactics had to be repeated.
The fear all the while was that the fish, however well hooked at first,
might eventually break away the hold; but I had not now to learn that
in such a dilemma it is always well to be as hard with the fish as the
tackle will bear, and the time arrived when the line became short and
the fish subdued, and A., seeing his opportunity with the gaff, waded
in amongst the boulders at the very point of the island. Nothing,
however, could induce the fish to come into the moderately slack water
where gaffing would have been an easy matter. He floundered about on
the very verge of the branch stream, and before long, rather than give
more line, I was forced to walk back amongst the undergrowth.
It was time the fish was out of these mutual difficulties, and if he
would not take the steel where he ought to have been, we must strike
him where and how we could. Back amongst the bushes I could just see
A.'s head and bent body with the outstretched gaff. As the poor fellow
had missed a fish once or twice that day (being as I have before said
much indisposed with a severe cold and a splitting headache), I was, at
this delay, fearful of the sequel, and observed with horror his wild,
scythe-like sweep with the gaff. I could feel also, but too surely,
that the fish had received a violent blow; but the sound of its
continued splashing in the water and the steady strain upon the line
allowed me to breathe again, and to realise that the weapon had not
touched the gut. A. would get very nervous if you spoke to him under
these circumstances, and the ejaculation that would have only been
natural was therefore suppressed. Silently retiring a few steps
farther into the bushes, with tightly set lips, I could only hope for
the best. The best happened, and in a moment or two A. came up the
grassy slope with a glorious sea trout of 12 lb. impaled upon the gaff.
It was a mystery that the ending was of this kind, for on the shoulder
of the fish there was a rip quite six inches long, where the gaff, on
its errand of failure a few moments before, had shockingly scored the
flesh. "A good one for the last," I said, "now we will go home"; and
homewards we went, calling at the boat on our way down to string up the
rest of the spoil, which I counted and weighed there and then, and, as
I intimated earlier, found that it was exactly the record of my other
best day in August--eleven fish (but all sea trout) weighing 34 lb.
Having written so much of this last day with the sea trout, I find on
inquiry that there is no sign of H. yet, and that dinner will not be
ready for at least another hour. I therefore amuse myself by going
through my daily record, to tot up the gross returns. We are very
curiously fashioned, inside as well as out, and although, considering
the adverse circumstances which I have not failed to describe, I ought
to be contented, I find myself grieving. Will the reader guess for a
moment why? I will save his time by stating that it is because upon
adding up the daily jottings of my notebook, I find that I leave off
just 5 lb. short of 400 lb.--ninety-eight fish totalling 395 lb., not
including sundry bags of brown trout. This is hard, but it is too late
now to make the gross weight even figures. It is much too dark to go
out again, the tide would be all wrong if I did go out, yet had I known
that I was so near 400 lb. I should have remained on that river until I
had made it up.
The salmon fishing, I may take the opportunity of adding, was a
failure. But for the fact that we had hired the river for ten days, we
probably should never have gone to the trouble of making the two or
three attempts we did make. There had been some fine fish taken during
the weeks when we were occupied in sea-trout fishing. There had been
one of 57 lb. killed on a spoon, and on my first visit to our newly
acquired fishing, a party of young gentlemen, who had taken the other
side of the water, were in high spirits. On the lawn in front of the
house there lay a fish of over 30 lb., another of 29 lb., and two
smaller ones.
The angler who had caught them naturally thought that with a record of
four fish weighing 96 lbs. in a day, and that his first day, too, and
the fish all caught with the fly, he was in for an uncommonly good
thing. But the river, instead of improving, afterwards got worse, and
to the time of our leaving the party had had indifferent sport after
that auspicious beginning. The sight of the big fellows lying white
and shapely on the grass in front of the chalet taught me that I might
have driven up two or three hours earlier, but there was still reason
to suppose that there might be a salmon left for me. I began by
hooking and playing in the first pool a small red fish of, I should
say, 7 lb., which did me the honour of making a graceful twirl when I
had, as I supposed, tired him out; with a flutter of his tail, he
sheered off with contemptuous slowness under my very nose into the
deeps again. An hour later I got a similar fish, small and red (just
under 7 lb.), which did not escape. By and by, with a full-sized
Durham Ranger, I had an affair of the good old sort; it was a
well-sustained contest after I had been landed on the farther shore,
terminated by the landing of a bright, handsome salmon of 25 lb. A
young gentleman on the same side, fishing from the boat with a prawn,
hooked and brought to the top, while I was playing mine, a fish of
equal size apparently, but it got off, leaving him still the
consolation of an 18-lb. fish and another smaller, which lay in his
boat.
One of the most curious days in the way of weather was yesterday. It
was my turn to fish the salmon water, and I did fish it, hard and
honestly, but came ashore with a clean boat. H., on the same day, did
splendidly with the sea trout in his own water, making a bag of close
upon 40 lb. There was a gale blowing in the morning; rain of course
was falling, but the curiosity of the day was an intermittent sirocco,
which came up the valley like blasts from a fiery furnace. The wind
was so overpowering on my salmon reaches that it was hardly possible
either to hold the boat or to get out line. But here is a summons to
dinner, and I have only time to add that on one day last week I had a
very pretty half day with the sea trout, getting six fish, which
weighed 29 lb., and they included one of 8 lb., one of 6 lb., and two
of 4 lb. each, all caught with the small Bulldog. Three fish, weighing
17 lb., is the entry for another day, and that included an 11-lb. bull
trout. On August 15, which was a day of continual losses from short
rising, there were four sea trout, weighing 18 lb., one of them a fish
of 9 1/2 lb. On the following day, fishing from eleven till three in a
bright sun, the take was five fish and some small trout, making a total
of 24 lb.
One morning (it is August 30) the mountain tops were beautifully white.
There has been heavy snow during the night, and the poor hard-working
people I find reaping down their scanty oats, or chopping off their
3-in. grass for hay, in a bitter north wind. The G. P. F., as we
trudge off to his water, draws my attention to that spot in the middle
of the estuary which has been mentioned before as exposed at low water.
There are now a man and three women upon it, mowing and gathering in
whatever growth it bears, so that not even this is unworthy of the
economy enforced by their hard conditions of life. We fall into
converse, as we walk, about the manner in which the Norway salmon are
netted, and truly the wonder is that so many run the gauntlet and reach
the spawning grounds. In ascending the fiords the fish creep along
within some twenty yards of the shore, and this makes it easy for the
native to intercept them. Besides bag and stake nets, there is a
look-out dodge, under which a primitive but fatal net is hung out at
each promontory in the direct path of the travelling fish. The nets
are off, however, and the traps open after the middle of August. Thus
holding sweet counsel by the way like the pilgrims of old, we defy the
north wind, and can afford to stop occasionally to admire the new
panorama which has been arranged during the night. Where there were
only occasional patches of snow yesterday, to-day there is a widespread
whitening, and the folds of the ermine mantle are lying far down the
shoulders, traces of the first heavy downfall of the season. We do not
expect any sport to-day, but a moderately lucky star smiles, and for
myself, on one of Bickerdyke's Salmo irritans (Jock Scott) patterns, I
get a lively quarter of an hour with an 11-lb. sea trout, a grand fish,
so thick that I am not certain about it until I lay it on the grass.
There was a fish of 14 lb. or 15 lb. killed by my friend yesterday,
which he pronounced a fair sample of the richly spotted and burly bull
trout which runs up late in the season. He himself has killed one of
19 lb. My fish I at first fancied might be one of the breed, but it is
not, as indeed I see for myself the moment he points out the
difference. In the afternoon I flank this fine Salmo trutta with a
brace more--3 1/2 lb. and 1 1/2 lb., some compensation for a wet, cold,
blustering day.
The next day is hard, clear, exhilarating. The snow has spread out
rather than melted, and encroached still farther down the hillsides,
but the sun waxes strong as we drive to the upper water, and the bolder
mountains up at the lake are in dazzling splendour, and apparently
close. There is a wire across the stream, an easy means of crossing
for the ladies and gentlemen who inhabit the handsome fishing lodge
built by an English gentleman on the very edge of a grand salmon pool.
The stalwart Norsk gillie who attends him found it a trifle too easy
yesterday, for it gave way and let him into the river. The house-party
were making ready to leave, however, and the young ladies, who had been
doing well with the salmon, had the concluding excitement of their
favourite henchman floundering in the water to take on board the
steamer as a final remembrance of their visit. The toss by which the
lake water escapes is a magnificent commotion of white roaring water,
tossing at first sheer over huge rocks, then tumbling headlong down a
broken slope. Just below is a deep hole, always, however, in a state
of froth, upheaval, thunder, and spray. Away races the water in a
turbulent pool about fifty yards long, rough and uproarious on either
side, but more reasonable in the middle. Below are the rapids again.
The game is to kill a salmon in this pool. There is not much
difficulty in finding him, for there are always fish there, and they
take well when the humour is on them. By every right, human and
otherwise, Hooper should take first toll of this ticklish maelstrom; it
is called by his name, but, as usual, he insists upon his guest making
or marring the chance, and leaves me for other pools bearing the names
of brother anglers, members of that Anglo-Norwegian band of sportsmen
whose names have been welcome household words in these parts for many a
year. I confess I like not this pool. To command it you have to wade
out in a very rough shallow, amongst bushel-sized boulders, each more
slippery than its fellow. The din of the foss is deafening; the rush
of the water as you stand with uncertain foothold over the deep dark
swirl bewildering.
Before leaving me my friend finishes his brief explanation of the
conditions with the application of the whole. "Hold on"; that is the
ABC, the Alpha and Omega of it. So mote it be. Still, saying it is
one thing, doing it another. My steel-centred Hardy I know pretty
well, and have no fear, though it is small by comparison with the
full-sized greenhearts to which my attendant is accustomed, and I can
see that he distrusts it. Of the line and twisted gut collar I am
reasonably sure; the hook, of course, is what it may be. But I test
the tackle all along, and fish down the pool with a large Butcher. It
does not take long, with this express speed of water, and, I think
rather to my relief, nothing happens. Then I flounder out, sit on a
rock, fill a full pipe, and look through my flies. Here is a Wilkinson
that brought me a big fish on bonny Tweed last autumn; for auld lang
syne I meet the blue-eyed gaffsman's shake of the head with a confident
smile, and put up the Kelso fly. I know the hang of the pool now, and
get back again to my precarious ledge, feeling much more master of the
position.
What is that feeling you get in salmon fishing that tells you so surely
that the fly is doing its work well? Certain it is that such an inward
assurance helps you amazingly. Thus at the fourth cast there is a
thrilling pull under water, a momentary, but shrill, complaint from the
winch, and a quivering arched rod. "Hold on," of course, means
shutting the mouth of that reel. The House of Commons gag was never
better applied. Not five yards of line, in fact, go out after the
first rush, stopped with a firmness that amazes myself. But I have to
follow down, in stumbling cautiousness for another ten yards, which
bring me perilously near the torrent of the pool's tail. Now it is the
salmon or the angler. And the fish responds to the insidious sideway
slanting of the rod, and is good enough to head, ever so gingerly, up
into the heavier water. Never no more, Salmo Salar, unless something
smashes--not an inch, be you of gold instead of silver. How the good
man gaffs the fish in the rough edge stream I know not; only he does it
masterly, and with back and knees trembling, and breath puffing hard
and short, I drop upon the moss in an ecstasy of silence.
Yet it is only a salmon of 15 lb.; but that quarter of an hour of "hold
on" is the most intense thing, so far, of my experience with salmon,
not forgetting that surprise, many a year back, when I killed my first
salmon with a No. 1 trout fly by the dorsal in the Galway river. The
split-cane rod comes out of the fray as straight and happy as when new,
and I notice that, as I am recovering my equanimity, the gaffer
examines it closely, handles it fondly, and pronounces it correct, in
warm English words. The rod indeed seems to have entered into the fun,
and to say, "Get up; don't waste time." We therefore move off to
another pool, and in the course of a couple of hours, after trying two
or three different patterns in a bright sun, I get a 12-lb. salmon on a
Carlisle Bulldog, medium size; this, however, in a pool where we all
have fair play.
On either side of a foss below that above mentioned is one of the
salmon traps peculiar to the country, built in the slopes which form a
natural salmon pass. It is a grating of massive timber and stone
blocks, roughly fashioned like an inverted V; and, on the principle of
the Solway stake nets, when a salmon swims into it he cannot return.
He is trapped in a narrow chamber at the end of the open entrance. The
old timbers of these particular traps remained, an irregular line of
upstanding palisadings, at the top of the foss nearest the roadside,
protruding a yard or so, jagged and weather-stained, out of water.
Hereby hangs a tale worth telling. My friend was fishing the short
swift pool above, on his favourite "hold on" principle, but there was
no checking the salmon. "Do they ever go over?" he asked his man, in
the midst of the battle. "No, sir," was the reply. "Well, there's one
over now," said my friend, as the fish shot over into the churning
foam. At the foot of the foss the little road curved round with the
stream, making a sharp bend at the tail of the rapid. Altogether it
was an ugly situation at the best; as the line had become entangled in
those weather-worn palisades it was hopeless. There was a hang-up.
The angler looked at his winch, which was nearly empty: he could see
the barrel between the few coils of line left--left of 120 yards. The
gillie was (and is) one of the smartest, now that he has had a few
years with the Englishman. At the suggestion of his master he departed
to reconnoitre, got round the bend of the road, and was lost to view,
the master remaining rod in hand above the foss, as well hung up as
angler could desire. The man, it seems, saw the fish in the tail of
the rapid, tied a stone to a piece of cord, threw it over the line,
hauled in hand over hand, and gaffed the salmon, a beautiful fish of 25
lb. Then he went up and told the angler, who was still holding on to
the tight line, for it was jammed and would not answer to a pull. A
consultation followed, and the man went back round the corner, and
discovered that the line would slip from below. The angler thereupon
cut it at the winch and the line was recovered. This is the kind of
adventure, demanding resource upon the spot, and experience in every
move on the board, that so piquantly spices angling in Norwegian rivers
of this kind, where the ordinary methods of fishing with the fly are
practised.
On the morning when the breechloaders are cracking amongst the coveys
there is incipient frost, followed by a blazing sun, which finishes off
the remnant of new snow which did not melt yesterday; and there is a
violet hue upon the shallower water which ought to look brown.
Beautiful to look at, but fatal, they tell me, is this reflected tint.
The shade of the alders and the velvet pile of the mosses induce a fit
of idleness; it is only the flycatchers, in great numbers, that are
busy in the heat and glare, twittering as they hawk for insects, in
notes that suggest robin redbreast on a winter day. By and by the
clouds obscure the sun and we tackle our pools, with the result, for
myself, of sea trout of 7 1/2 lb. and 3 1/2 lb., and a miscellaneous
lot of a dozen and a half of brown trout whipped out on a small cast in
the evening hour. Before this happens, however, I sit me down for a
spell, and, in pursuance of a determination to make these notes as
practical as can be consistently done, jot down the following sketches
of pool types as they present themselves to my friendly vision. They
will answer, I dare believe, for many a river in Scandinavia.
i. This is a true boiler, a torrential pool never at rest. It charges
down amongst huge masses of rock, and just where the descent is
comparatively easy the inevitable salmon trap is fixed. Sometimes the
salmon takes in the very boil, if you cast fly right into the milky
tossings, and believe me you need not strike. Hooking is quite an
automatic affair if the fish comes. Downward it goes at speed, and
your man will have to steady you maybe as you follow amongst the
stones, at least until the rapid has become something like a stream.
ii. Here you have a very strong stream, making a ridge of wavy
upheaval in the middle. The fishable water is on either side in an
average height of river. Wading is the plan, and you can fish every
inch of likely ground. I know the fish lie in this central
disturbance, for I saw one dart out amongst the waves, and follow the
fly for some fifteen yards, by which time the line was at the proper
angle for sport if the salmon had inclined that way. Pity that it was
not so, for I have always found turbulent water likely to send a
turbulent customer. I love a pool of this kind, if only for the bright
life and music of it.
iii. Now we have a totally different type. The pool is at least 200
yards long, is, in fact, a broad straight section of the river, with
two distinct streams, and an oily passage between, in which the salmon
lie. A favourite method here is to be let down slowly in the boat.
The Norwegians are extremely clever in this work, and it is a treat to
see one of them tow the boat up with one line attached to the bow and
another to the centre thwart. They steer it between boulders and round
spits with the certainty of driving a horse with reins. By letting you
down, the boat never disturbs the pool proper, and you command every
portion. On hooking a fish you get out and play it from the bank, a
practice, of course, followed also on the necessary occasions when the
boat must be rowed.
iv. A stately sweep of dark deep water, with a high-wooded bank of
rock on the farther side, and ample wading ground on your own, with
pleasantly shingled bottom perhaps, and a current where you may work
breast-deep in safety. Yet it is strong and even enough to make very
tolerable a notion quite new to me, though, no doubt, well known to
many. I learned it in this very pool. When you are wading about to
the fork, just sit down on the water, lean back upon it, and you find
delightful support and help from the buoyant easy chair of running
water. There will be the inevitable rapid by and by, and the salmon
have a great fancy for taking you at about the last cast at the end of
the glide. This is a capricious sort of pool, but when the fish do
take they are worth the having, and are not given to fooling. A cock
salmon of 40 lb. was killed here this summer.
v. This is a swift and massive stream that is ever troubled and
seething rather than rough, patched with smooth areas that look much
more innocent than they are. Your line will get drowned somewhat until
you know the tricks of the under-currents and eddies. From the boat
you often have a chance of casting right and left as you drop ever so
slowly down, and it must be a good man who knows how to keep on rowing
without advancing faster than the stream.
It is in such a pool that I make my last cast for salmon in this
delectable valley, and it fully satisfies my chief ambition of this ten
days' fishing; humble enough in all conscience, being nothing higher
than to finish up knowing that I have not once returned at night with
an empty bag. Even that is something, and it is something done. In
the last two hours I get a 12-lb. salmon, a 2-lb. sea trout, and a
leash of 1/2-lb. brown trout, all on the same No. 3 Jock Scott.
On one of our days we see a procession of carioles proceeding up the
valley, and all the natives are in a state of agitation, if such
sober-minded people ever are agitated. _The Midnight Sun_ is in the
fiord, and these ladies and gentlemen are ashore for the day bound for
the glacier. We dine on board at night with the captain, who is a
brother angler, and who makes light of a sea trout of 10 lb., which he
has caught in the afternoon. Well; I have met many anglers in Norway
who feel disgusted at such game; they want salmon, and think themselves
hardly used if sea trout intrude. But I thank the gods (when I suppose
I ought to sit in sackcloth for perverted taste) that up to this
present Salmo trutta, great or small, evokes my fervent gratitude, and
I can only say that, while I paid my five gaffed salmon the highest
respect, I recall with no less satisfaction my seventeen sea trout;
and, while serving this week on the grand jury at the Old Bailey,
sketched the best of them one after another on the margin of the
prisoners' calendar, and found a true bill for at least the fine
fellows of 11 lb., 9 lb., 8 lb., and 7 1/2 lb., which headed the list.
They are good enough prisoners for me, anyhow. However, I really
believe our captain was after all secretly proud of his ten-pounder, as
he sat at the head of the table in the palatial saloon of the
magnificent steam yacht of oceanic size. The passengers seemed
entranced with their luxurious life and the charms of the fiords they
were visiting, and we heard a concert on board that was really
first-rate. A fortnight of this sort of yachting for twelve or fifteen
guineas is, verily, one of the privileges of this age of enterprise.
On my way south I broke the journey to spend a couple of days upon
another river, but only added a few sea trout to my achievements. The
salmon were plentiful enough, but they were waiting, sullenly yet
restlessly, for a rise of water, and I left the two anglers, owners of
the river, who were living in a snug Norwegian home of their own,
waiting, too, with patient resignation. There they were amongst the
fishing tackle, guns, cartridge cases, dogs, and miscellaneous
paraphernalia essential to noble sportsmen who, poor fellows, in these
hard times, can only spend a few months every year with a lovely fiord
under their noses, and a few hundredweights of salmon, and odds and
ends of reindeer, blackcock, and ryper now and then to engage their
attention. I wonder no more that English sportsmen go a little mad
about their beloved Norway; and that hard-working judges, bishops,
university dons, and professional men of all sorts and conditions, find
their best balm of Gilead amongst its picturesque valleys and hills.
Of course the sportsmen are not always happy. If in the smoking-room
on our homeward passage A. was able to remark that he had finished up,
two days previously, with a 30-lb. salmon, and B. stated the heavy
totals on a few favoured rivers, there were C. and D. to bemoan
deplorable blanks, and tell of anglers who had gone home disgusted
before their term of tenure expired; indeed, one fellow passenger
whispered me near the smoke stack that a gentleman of his acquaintance
had paid close upon 400 pounds for a river that yielded him just thirty
fish for the entire season.