salmon-fishing extraordinary.

norway, 14th july, 1868.

yesterday was a peculiar day in my experience of salmon-fishing in norway.

the day was dull when i set out for the river, seven miles distant, in a small boat, with a norseman. a seven-miles’ pull was not a good beginning to a day’s salmon-fishing, the weight of my rod being quite sufficient to try the arms without that; but there was no help for it. arrived there i got a native, named anders, to carry the bag and gaff.

anders is a fair youth, addicted to going about with his mouth open, with a mild countenance and a turned-up nose.

“good weather for fishing, anders,” said i, in norse.

“ya,” said he, “megit god,” (very good).

this was the extent of our conversation at that time, for we came suddenly on the first pool in the river; and i soon perceived that, although the weather was good enough, the river was so flooded as to be scarcely fishable.

and now began a series of petty misfortunes that gradually reduced me to a state of misery which was destined to continue throughout the greater part of that day. but hope told me flattering tales—not to say stories—for a considerable time; and it was not until i had fished the third pool without seeing a fin that my heart began fairly to sink. the day, too, had changed from a cloudy to a rainy one, and anders’ nose began to droop, while his face elongated visibly.

feeling much depressed, i sat down on a wet stone, in my wet garments, and lunched off a moist biscuit, a piece of tongue, and a lump of cheese. this was consoling, as far as it went, but it did not go far. the misty clouds obliterated the mountains, the rain drizzled from the skies, percolated through the brim of my hat, trickled down my nose, and dropped upon my luncheon.

“now we shall go up the river, anders,” said i. anders assented, as he would have done had i proposed going down the river, or across the river, or anywhere in the wide world; for, as i said it in english, he did not understand me. evidently he did not care whether he understood me or not!

up the river we went, to the best pool in it. the place was a torrent—unfishable—so deep that i could not wade in far enough to cast over the spot where fish are wont to lie. in making a desperate effort to get far in, i went over the boot-top; and my legs and feet, which hitherto had been dry, had immediate cause to sympathise with the rest of my person.

anders’ face became longer than ever. all the best pools in the river were tried, but without success, and at last, towards evening, we turned to retrace our steps down the valley. on the way i took another cast into the best pool—going deeper than the waist into the water in order to cast over the “right spot.”

the effort was rewarded. i hooked a fish and made for the bank as fast as possible. my legs were like solid pillars, or enormous sausages, by reason of the long boots being full to bursting with water. to walk was difficult; to run, in the event of the fish requiring me to do so, impossible. i therefore lay down on the bank and tossed both legs in the air to let the water run out—holding on to the fish the while. the water did run out—it did more; it ran right along my backbone to the nape of my neck; completing the saturation which the rain had hitherto failed to accomplish. but i had hooked a fish and heeded it not.

he was a small one; only ten pounds; so we got him out quickly and without much trouble. yet this is not always the case. little fish are often the most obstreperous and the most troublesome. it was only last week that i hooked and landed a twenty-eight-pound salmon, and he did not give me half the trouble that i experienced from one which i caught yesterday. well, having bagged him we proceeded on our homeward way, anders’ face shortening visibly and his nose rising, while my own spirits began to improve. at another pool i tried again, and almost at the first cast hooked an eighteen-pounder, which anders gaffed after about twenty-minutes’ play.

we felt quite jolly now, although it rained harder than ever, and we went on our way rejoicing—anders’ countenance reduced to its naturally short proportions.

presently we came to an old weir, or erection for catching fish as they ascend the river, where lies one of our favourite pools. the water was running down it like a mill-race. pent up by the artificial dike, the whole river in this place gushes down in a turbulent rapid. there was one comparatively smooth bit of water, which looked unpromising enough, but being in hopeful spirits now, i resolved on a final cast. about the third cast a small trout rose at the fly. the greedy little monsters have a tendency to do this. many a small trout have i hooked with a salmon fly as large as its own head. before i could draw the line to cast again, the usual heavy wauble of a salmon occurred near the fly. it was followed by the whir of the reel as the line flew out like lightning, sawing right through the skin of my fingers, (which by the way are now so seamed and scarred that writing is neither so easy nor so pleasant as it used to be).

the burst that now ensued was sudden and tremendous! the salmon flashed across the pool, then up the pool, then down the pool. it was evidently bent on mischief. my heart misgave me, for the place is a bad one—all full of stumps and stones, with the furious rapid before mentioned just below, and the rough unsteady stones of the old dike as an uncertain path-way to gallop over should the fish go down the river. i held on stoutly for a few seconds as he neared the head of the rapid, but there is a limit to the endurance of rods and tackle. what made the matter worse was that the dike on which i stood terminated in a small island, to get from which to the shore necessitated swimming, and if he should go down the big rapid there was little chance of his stopping until he should reach the foot of it—far below this island.

all at once he turned tail and went down head first. i let the line fly now, keeping my fingers well clear of it.

“he’s off, anders!” i shouted, as i took to my heels at full speed.

“hurroo-hoo-oo!” yelled the norseman, flying after me with the gaff.

how i managed to keep my footing in the rush over the broken dike i know not. it is a marvel to me. the bushes on the island overhung the water, the earth having been cut away by the force of the rapid. i tried to pull up because they were too thick to crash through; but the fish willed it otherwise. the line was getting low on the reel; the rod bent double; presently i had to straighten it out—in another moment i was in the water over the boots, which filled of course in a moment. but this did not impede me as long as i was in deep water.

i was forsaken at this point by anders, who sought and found a safe passage to the mainland, where he stood gazing at me with his eyes blazing and his mouth wide open.

i soon reached the end of the island, to my horror, for i had not previously taken particular note of the formation of the land there. a gulf of water of five or six yards broad of unknown depth lay between me and that shore, by which in the natural course of things i should have followed my fish as far as he chose. the rapid itself looked less tremendous than this deep black hole. i hesitated, but the salmon did not. still down he went.

“now, then,” thought i, “hole or rapid?”

the question was settled for me, for before i could decide, i was hauled into the rapid. no doubt i was a more than half-willing captive. anyhow, willing or not willing, down i went. ah! what a moment of ease and relief from exertion was that when i went a little deeper than the waist, and found myself borne pleasantly along on tip-toe, as light as one of those beautiful balls with which juveniles—in these highly favoured days—are wont to sport in the fields!

and oh—ho-o! how my spirit seemed to gush out through my mouth and nose, or out at the top of my head, when the cold water encircled my neck as i lost my footing altogether, and struck out with my right hand, endeavouring the while to support my rod in the left!

i heard anders gasp at this point; but i saw him not. in another second my knees came into violent contact with a rock, (alas! every motion of my body, as i now write, reminds me painfully of that crash!) immediately after this i was sprawling up the bank, having handed the rod to anders to hold, while i tossed my legs again in the air, to get rid of the water which weighed me down like lead. how earnestly i wished that i could tear these boots off and fling them away! but there was no time for that. on regaining my legs i seized the rod, and found that the salmon had brought up in an eddy created by the tail of a gravel-bank in the centre of the river between two rapids.

“good,” i gasped, blandly.

anders smiled.

presently i found that it was the reverse of good, for, when i tried to wind in the line and move the fish, i perceived that the resistance offered was not like that of a salmon, but a stump!

“i do believe he’s gone!” i exclaimed.

anders became grave.

“no fish there,” said i, gloomily.

anders’ face elongated.

“he has wound the line round a stump, and broken off,” said i, in despair.

woe, of the deepest profundity, was depicted on anders’ visage!

for full five minutes i tried every imaginable device, short of breaking the rod, to clear the line—in vain. then i gave the rod to anders to hold, and, taking the gaff with me, i went sulkily up the river, and again taking to the water, made my way to the head of the gravel-bank, over which i walked slowly, oppressed in spirit, and weighed down by those abominable boots which had once more filled to overflowing! water-proof boots are worse than useless for this sort of work. but happily this is not the usual style of thing that one experiences in norwegian fishing. it is only occasionally that one enjoys a treat of the kind.

in the middle of the gravel-bank the water was only three inches deep, so i lay down on my back and, once again elevating my ponderous legs in the air, allowed a cataract of water to flow over me. somewhat lightened, i advanced into the hole. it was deeper than i thought. i was up to the middle in a moment, and sighed as i thought of the boots—full again. before i reached the line the water was up to my shoulders; but it was the still water of the eddy. i soon caught the line and found that it was round a stump, as i had feared. with a heavy heart i eased it off—when lo! a tug sent an electric shock through my benumbed body, and i saw the salmon not three yards off, at the bottom of the pool! he also saw me, and darting in terror from side to side wound the line round me. i passed it over my head, however, and was about to let it go to allow anders to play it out and finish the work, when the thought occurred that i might play it myself, by running the line through my fingers when he should pull, and hauling in when he should stop. i tried this successfully. in half a minute more i drew him to within a yard of my side, gaffed him near the tail, and carried him up the gravel-bank under my arm.

he was not a large fish after all—only thirteen pounds. nevertheless, had he been fresh, it would have been scarcely possible for me to hold his strong slippery body. even when exhausted he gave me some trouble. gaining the shallowest part of the bank i fell on my knees, crammed the fingers of my left hand into his mouth and gills, and held him down while i terminated his career with a stone. thereafter i fixed the hook more securely in his jaw, and, launching him into the rapid, left anders to haul him out, while i made the best of my way to the shore.

this is about the roughest experience i have yet had of salmon-fishing in norway.

the season this year bids fair to be a pretty good one. i have had about twelve days’ fishing, and have caught sixteen fish, weighing together two hundred and seventy-six pounds, two of them being twenty-eight-pounders.