Northern Norway: Fly Fishing for the Queen of the Sea

Northern Norway: FLY FISHING FOR THE QUEEN OF THE SEA

The attempt has been made before with depressing results. Fly fishing for halibut, it seems, is for half-crazy, ingenuous dreamers only. Among them is fly fishing journalist and photographer, Rasmus Ovesen, who has travelled to Northern Norway in the hopes of hooking up with “the Queen of the Sea”.

By Rasmus Ovesen // Images by Rasmus Ovesen & Stina Didriksen

Some fishing plans are more stupid than others - on paper at least. To fly fish for halibut, clearly, is one of the more dubious ones; because how on earth are you going to catch a fish that has perfected, through millions of years, the art of ambush-attacking prey along the ocean floor – in the abysmal depths of powerful tidal currents and along craggy drop-offs out to sea?

I have hatched many terrible and half-witted fishing plans throughout my life. Most of them have never been realized. Those that have, on the other hand, have mostly ended up as thundering failures. Very few have been even moderately successful, but I remember them with the greatest of enthusiasm and joy. For what is more legendary than achieving (some form of) success despite all odds?

An idea is born

In June 2021, I’m fly fishing for seatrout in a handful of different fjords in Northern Norway. During my time there, I’m made aware of random catches of smaller halibut from relatively shallow areas and big specimens longlinefished from shore.

In the past, I’ve heard of people attempting to fly fish for halibut; with oversized equipment, express-sink fly lines and heavily weighted flies – and with minimal success. But, if halibut happen to show up in shallow areas close to shore at certain times of the year, it must be possible to effectively target them with a fly rod?

In between my sporadic catches of seatrout, my thoughts wander, and I see these imaginary halibut rise from the sandy bottom and abruptly inhale my fly. The images are still etched upon my mind as I return from my journey – and it doesn’t take long before I start researching the Internet.

The Internet – The playground of fools

The Internet is a dangerous place for those looking to amplify their existing beliefs (or delusions) – or for those looking for evidence in favour of dubious causes. Consequently, it doesn’t take me long to find a video from 2013 by a crew of Norwegian radicals that catch halibut on fly rods. The Norwegian title of the video roughly translates into; “When the impossible becomes possible” and the people in it would strike most outsiders as either eccentric or half-crazy. And even though they’re clearly blind-fishing in 10 – 20 meters of water with sparse and arduously earned results, I’m convinced that they’re on to something.

One of the people in the film is Tommy Josefsen, who’s a friend of mine. However, when I tell him that I’m secretly plotting to go fly fish for halibut, I’m met with very little encouragement. There are, as he carefully stresses, good reasons why he hasn’t fly fished for halibut since the YouTube-film was made. And they’re too many and too profound for him to list- and elaborate on them all.

I belong to the growing number of illiterates, who aren’t needlessly affected by other people’s experiences or empirics. Instead, I leave my destiny in the hands of the Internet, embrace a now famous Albert Einstein quote saying that: “If it’s on the Internet it must be true!”, and continue my Gonzo research without further ado. (The fact that Abraham Lincoln is quoted for having cautioned people to: “Never trust Einstein quotes on the Internet,” I’m smart enough to rebuff as malignant propaganda).

The big breakthrough?

Disturbingly, there is just that one relevant, on-topic film to find online. But then an interesting guide service pops up in my search feed. An eccentric British expatriate has clearly found a protected little fjord far north where it’s supposedly possible to locate and catch halibut in shallow water. The fact that he offers guided fly fishing for halibut can only mean one of two things: That he has, somehow, cracked the code or (more likely) is attempting to lure money out of the pockets of naïve and dreamy fly fishermen like myself.

After firing away the first email, things suddenly accelerate. A few email exchanges later I’m on the phone with a Jonny Stephenson, who – to my surprise – seems neither raving mad nor maliciously shrewd or conniving. On the contrary, he sweeps me off my feet with his British charm and with promises of a visually striking and periodically hectic halibut fly fishery in shallow water – if (and only if) the weather conditions are favourable.

The by-catches sharpen our concentration and make the pulse peak momentarily “ ”

A few weeks later, by the end of August, I find myself onboard a small airplane east of Tromsø. Immediately below me, a mighty snow-clad mountain range reaches upwards and at its foot, a glistening azure blue fjord reflects the cloudless sky as if it was a big, vibrant mirror. It seems as if, for once, the weather gods have finally sided with me, and – not surprisingly – it’s a particularly expectant and ecstatic Jonny that greets me at the airport upon arrival.

”Welcome! It looks like you brought the good weather”, he says, in his charming British accent. ”I brought much more than that”, I respond with a twinkle in the eye, but regret it immediately. Oftentimes, I’ve been able to explain away and trivialize my lack of success on previous expeditions with reference to unfortunate weather conditions. This time, however, it seems everything is up to me and my capabilities as a fly fisherman. The next three days will show who emerges as the victor: Me or the Queen of the Sea?

Finally on the water

Later that day, I’m on the water with Jonny; a guy that proves to be a knowledgeable, experienced and pleasant boat partner. (The latter is never given in advance – and it can be a great source of concern and anxiety ahead of a multiple-day trip). Also in the boat is Jonny’s sweet girlfriend Stina, who is as mad about fishing as she is about hunting.

After a short boat ride, we’re now sedately drifting a tidal channel and casting flies along a depth curve close to shore where abraded rocks, bladderwracks and sea lace are relieved by pure sand that gradually fades into the shimmering and mysterious depths.

Even with the 12-weight, casting my prototype halibut fly is an arduous task. It reminds me more of a party wig than a fly, and the sizeable Wiggle Tail, that I’ve mounted on the fly –along with a treacherous stinger hook, makes the fly produce a coarse hissing sound when cast across the fjord’s twinkling water masses – not unlike the sound a flag makes when pointed out the window of a speeding car.

Where are the fish?

We fish a rising tide for a few hours with no results. The only hits we’re getting are from sluggish cod and small coalfish. The bycatches sharpen our concentration and make the pulse peak momentarily. Disappointment, however, follows every time. And my doubts, which constantly simmer below the surface, are nourished and emboldened every time my expectations of a fiery-tempered, oversized flatfish are met with a cod’s indolent tail flaps or the subservient pulsations of a small coalfish.

Jonny soon realizes that his client needs a boost of confidence and motivation. He launches into vividly dramatic stories of halibut catches from the area and doggedly maintains that it’s only a question of time. But even though I’m dying to believe him, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep the faith.

I know from experience that when something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I can’t abstract from the fact that there’s an infinity of water to cover – and so many unknown factors to overcome. And what are the odds, realistically, that a scarce bottom-dwelling giant of a predator - one that lies in wait in the depths of the ocean - should rise several meters to an insignificant fly?

Suddenly we’re seeing ominous, table-sized creatures under the boat “

Back to the starting point

Another few hours later we’re back at our starting point. We’ve returned to the tidal channel, and the water is now dropping. We cast like maniacs into 3 – 4 meters of water, but nothing happens – and soon the day is over. The sun is already dropping behind the craggy mountains to the west under a vaguely flaring violet-blue sky.

Then another bloody cod hits my fly. Frustrated, I haul it in as fast as I can. As it appears in the water below me, and I prepare to unhook it, chills suddenly run down my spine. Below the cod, a massive brown shadow manifests itself and the cod disappears into the jaws of its ghostly prowler. The water explodes and my fly rod bends to the cork while lengths of line disappear into the depths.

5 minutes later – after several lightning-quick runs we bring the halibut to the boat. It’s neither 30, 40 or 50 kilos, which I would probably have sworn if it had somehow disappeared forever into the depths. It’s probably more in the vicinity of 10 kilos, but what formidable, muscular, and explosive 10 kilos!!!

A few snap shots later, we release the fish. It obviously doesn’t count as a fly-caught fish, but it provides me with a sorely needed saline injection and renewed hope and faith. There are clearly fish in the area, they’re actively feeding, and tomorrow I’m going to cast until I collapse in order to get one.

Lightning from a clear sky

During our second day, we catch several smaller halibut between 3 and 6 kilos – in shallow bays and near estuaries and islands. Most of them hit the flies in the surface, right along the boat side, after having followed the flies, as if hypnotized, over a long distance. It’s incredibly visual and exciting, and I am now in a state of euphoria and relief.

My newfound belief now seems to shape reality, and - suddenly - we’re seeing ominous, table-sized creatures under the boat randomly appearing and disappearing like ghosts. We even see a giant halibut smash a sizeable coalfish to smithereens on the surface using its brown snow shovel-sized tail as a deadly club. (Suddenly, Jonny’s speculations that it might be possible to catch halibut on poppers seem far from crazy anymore).

My mission is accomplished, but the climax still awaits. Later, in the evening, we’re back at the familiar tidal channel, drifting outwards with the falling tide, and casting our flies into 3 – 5 meters of water. Then, at one point, Jonny’s fly rod arcs and I turn around to see what’s going on. “Cod”, he growls laconically in response to the cod’s lazy headshakes, and – as if it were some sort of command, I turn around to make another cast. In that very instant, the water explodes beneath me, and the fly line is almost ripped out of my hands.

An enormous crater-like whirl crashes against the boat and through its veil I see a big shadow rapidly disappearing into the depths. All slack line comes tight and suddenly the tormented snarl of the fly reel fills the air.

An audience with the queen

An exhausting fight ensues. Time and again, we’re close to landing the powerful fish but every time it somehow evades the tail gaff, flaps its tail and heads irresistibly into the depths. One time, it heads right under the boat resulting in an unnaturally concave angle in my fly rod. A sharp riffle-like “boom” rips the air, and – to my great horror - the fish is now taught directly to the fly reel. My fly rod has broken in two right above the handle.

In an eruption of water and seafoam, Jonny manages to tail gaff the fish “

During the rest of the fight, I feel more like a local longline fisherman than a fly fishing globetrotter. I’m bursting at the seams with nerves a few minutes later as I pull the fish to the surface one last time. This time, it’s make or break!

Miraculously - in an eruption of water and sea foam - Jonny manages to tail gaff the fish. And with it firmly secured along the boat, we break out in loud cheers, hugs, and high fives!

We gently tow the fish a short distance to shore, measure it at 134 cm (an estimated 32 kilos) and shoot a couple of quick pictures. The fly is barely clinging on to a leathery flap of skin in the fish’ enormous, craggy mouth, and I can’t help but think that, if I hadn’t looked away when the fish attacked, I might have pulled the fly right out of its mouth from pure startlement and shock.

I hold the fish by its tail, then loosen my grip as the fish starts to show signs of wanting to swim away. In no time at all, the fish has changed its colorations and camouflaged itself against the shallow bottom. When it kicks off and heads for deeper water, it disappears almost disturbingly fast in the otherwise translucent and gin-clear water, like a fading dream that refuses to be captured.

One thing, however, is unequivocally obvious: My crazy dream has come true. And even though I missed that fateful moment when the Queen of the Sea decided to inhale my fly, I can just close my eyes and vividly imagine what it looked like. I’m a dreamer after all – and a dreamer’s powers of imagination are great!

Fact File – Halibut

The Atlantic halibut (Hippoglossus hippoglossus) is the world’s largest flatfish. Its geographic range stretches from Canada and Greenland east towards Northern Europe and Russia – limited, mainly, to the arctic reaches but in some instances occurring all the way down to the 36th parallel.

Halibut are typically found in deep water (some scientists believe that they can be found down to 2 kilometres of depth), but they also appear in shallow water, particularly during fall and winter. Here, they settle in areas with sand, abraded pebble and rocks, clay, and scattered vegetation.

Halibut are fierce but slow-growing predatory fish that feed on everything from herring, eel and crabs to coalfish, trout, and salmon. They become sexually mature at the age of 7 – 10 years depending on the habitat, but they can live up to 60 years. And in the meantime, they can reach lengths of up to 3 meters and weights in excess of 300 kilos. Halibut are bottom-dwelling fish that ambush unsuspecting prey, but they are also known – on occasion - to hunt pelagically or in the surface film.

The world’s largest Atlantic halibut ever caught on a rod was landed by a German fisherman in 2004 – after a fight that lasted 1,5 hours. The fish weighed 234 kilos and measured 274 cm. In comparison, the largest Atlantic halibut ever caught on a fly rod is relatively small. It was caught by Jo Stephenson in 2016 in Reisafjorden, Norway, and was estimated at 44 kilos (147 cm). In the meantime, that fish has been topped by a halibut landed by one of Jonny’s clients in September 2021 – a fish estimated at somewhere between 65 and 70 kilos.

Fact File – Halibut

Halibut are targeted with the heaviest of equipment. I used a 9’ #12 Scott Meridian fly rod in combination with a Waterworks-Lamson Cobalt fly reel pre-spooled with 250 meters of 100 lb backing and a Scientific Anglers Big Water Taper S3/5/7 with a 100 lb core. The leaders I used were a little less than a rod’s length and ended in an 80lb tippet section. In terms of flies, I used imitations of herring and mackerel tied on powerful 6/0 – 10/0 hooks – preferably with stinger hooks and jig tails in the end.

Want to catch halibut on a fly?

Jonny Stephenson guides in the Reisa area, and you can book him via email: jonny@wild-pursuits.co.uk Additional information can be found here: www.wild-pursuits.co.uk

The right fly line for the job//

Drenched in various mixtures of tungsten powder, the Sonar Tital Triple Density is a series of fully tapered sinking lines that casts like floaters, but provides a straight-line sinking connection to your streamer. The lines proved perfect for chasing halibut along drop-off and along semi-shallow sand plateaus.

Keeping constant tension of the fly and setting the hook swiftly is pivotal - and the straight connection to the flies that the Triple Density Sinking Lines provide is key.

The S3/S5/S7 is perfect for fishing water that ranges from 3 - 10 meters.