June 2007 - River Orkla
and Trondheim region, Norway
Anthony Luke has caught many handsome fish in fifty years
of scouring the world for salmon. But he has never caught
a 40-pounder. That’s what draws him back to Norway
year after year.
Sitting by the camp fire, a burnt black kettle simmering
on the griddle, he tells stories of battles won and lost,
scrunching his long nose as he becomes the fish that attacks
his fly. Invariably it’s a powerful brute rising to
a Sunray Shadow skating across a pool.
He’s old enough to want that fish on his own terms
- a fly fished at or near the surface. As the name suggests,
the Sunray Shadow imitates something riffling across the
top, sometimes ignored, sometimes not.
“You don’t come to Norway to catch a lot of
fish. You come here to catch the fish of a lifetime,”
he says.
I have flown out to Trondheim with Peter McLeod who asked
me along on a fact finding mission for his fishing travel
company, Aardvark McLeod*.
“Try to get some sleep on the plane,” says
Peter. Midsummer in Norway means no darkness and little
rest. Marry this suspension from the diurnal rhythm to a
grand obsession and you have a recipe for the kind of fishing
that plays with the mind.
We drive to the Orkla beat leased by Anthony and his German
business partner Valentin Moul who are offering anglers
the chance to catch one of the 30 lb plus giants landed
here every year. “There was a 44 lb fish caught on
the Gaula yesterday,” says Valentin in hushed tones,
staring in to space. The river is waiting.
I failed to pack thermals and the water is icy from snow
melt. My waders are leaking and by the early hours I’m
in the first stages of hyperthermia.
We light a fire by the hut. Apart from a splash when we
arrived, there has been no sign of a fish. I grab some sleep
and wade back out in pyjama bottoms under some borrowed
waders
Like all the rivers draining in to Trondheim Fjord, Orkla
is free of Gyrodactylus Salaris, the deadly parasite that
has destroyed salmon stocks in many of Norway’s rivers.
There is a theory that the rivers may have been protected
by a high metal content in the water. This is a traditional
copper mining region and scientists have discovered that
the parasite does not thrive in water with traces of base
metals such as copper and aluminium.
Anthony thinks we need to see some more water so we drive
over to the River Forra that feeds in to the larger river
Stjordal. We’re guests of Heidi Fornes whose family
has farmed here for the past 500 years. It’s a pretty
stretch of water on a different scale from the Orkla and
Gaula but catches have been sparse. The Forra run has barely
started.
As the river becomes bathed in glaring sun we take a nap
and explore some beats of the Stjordal. We’re told
of a fisherman’s death on the Orkla that same day.
It’s very sad but there’s a nod of agreement
– there are worse ways to go.
I’m fishing alongside another of Peter’s team,
Jamie Hammond, a former guide on the Ponoi in Russia who
cut his teeth salmon fishing on the border Esk in Scotland.
He fishes deep with an ultra fast sinking tip. A Norwegian
angler has noticed it and word travels down the river beyond
the speed of his sinking line.
The upshot is that we receive a last minute invitation
to fish the Stjordal in replace of a party that can’t
make their day. It’s the section just below the junction
with the Forra and fish have been caught. Junction pools
on any salmon river are always promising spots and this
is no exception. Our rental van gets stuck to its axles
in the sandy track so we dump it and grab our rods.
As I shake the hand of Gunnar, our host, I glimpse a broad
flank of silver, followed by the kind of deep water splosh
made by Mafia victims weighed down by their concrete overshoes.
Flies are tied feverishly. Only Anthony holds back. I think
he knows these are not his fish.
Gunnar cares only about the fabled sink tip. “A thousand
grains?” he asks. Five hundred, says, Jamie. Gunnar
shrugs. His tip is weighted at 700. “What’s
a grain?” I ask. No-one seems to know but there is
conjecture that it is some kind of lead measure.
All I know is that my tips are comparative lightweights.
This is bad news because the junction pool is deep and fast
and the water is cold. In summer conditions a salmon can
be enticed to the surface but it’s rare in cold water.
They need deeply fished lures. Jamie is using a colourful
“temple dog” pattern. How could any fish resist?
Inside ten minutes he has hooked a salmon. I take in my
line and watch. It’s a strong fish but he plays it
well and quickly to the bank. Jamie plans to put it back
but Gunnar is horrified at the thought. This is Norway.
It weighs in somewhere over 17 lbs, a good fish by any standards.
But there are bigger ones and we’ve seen them.
Some of the biggest are on the Alta where a prime July
week on a good beat will produce average size fish in the
mid 20 lbs. I’m told of one week where the average
is 27lb with 10 fish per rod. Two of those fish will be
in the 40 lb class and every year there are still 50lb salmon
being caught.
Think dead men’s shoes, think serious wealth, but,
most of all, think connections. You have to know the people
here. More than that, you have to fit. “There are
waiting lists to get on the waiting list,” says Jamie.
The alternative is to live in Alta itself where the locals
get the chance to win some fishing every year in the town
hall draw. “I’m thinking of moving there,”
says Peter.
But it doesn’t have to be so exclusive. Thirty pound
fish are caught on the Stjordal where good fishing can be
bought on a £20 day ticket if you don’t mind
sharing the beat. A bigger financial layout buys privacy
but not always bigger fish.
For me, it’s another fishless trip to Norway. But
I know my fish. Its great hulking body lurks stubbornly,
deep in the overworked limbic system of an addled brain.
I’m learning Norwegian, river by river and wondering
about house prices in Alta village. I’ll be back.
