11 minute read
NORTHERN NORWAY: Hitching in the Arctic Circle
As the sun finally starts to disappear over the vast granite massif on the far side of the valley, I swallow my whisky, and snatch up my rod. Wading carefully and quietly into the long run, I lengthen the line, and send the big sunray shadow arcing out across the golden waters.
BY MATT HARRIS
It has been a long day, and I have nothing to show for all the long hours of wading in the powerful, icy currents of the early season. My shoulders ache after what feels like about a million spey-casts, and the rest of the Macallan is sitting in the canoe, just a few yards upstream. Yet the wind has dropped away, and the air is warm and full of promise. A big silver fish rolls downstream, and my heart leaps. The sunlight is off of the water, and as any salmon angler worth his salt will tell you, now is the time.
Forty yards downstream, just past the wires that cross over the river, the pool starts to tail out, and it takes on a flat, glassy quality that is just made for the riffle hitch. I’m a sucker for the surface fly, and on reaching the wires, I retrieve the fly and re-rig.
I cut off the big single hook, and before re-attaching it, I push the leader through the hole in the side of the tube, so that the fly will skate across the surface. Despite the local wisdom that the fish like a big sunk fly, I’ve caught enough big silver stunners from this brawling river using the riffle-hitch to know what it can do. Unless the water is really high and cold, I always tie on the waking fly with a huge degree of confidence.
I find the little “V” wake of the skating fly a great way to read the currents of a pool, and the sight of the V wake has a bewitching, magical quality that seems to just dare the salmon to come and have a go. I’m lost in the meditation of cast and step, utterly at peace in the warm evening air, with the vast, golden ramparts of the mountains all around.
Suddenly, way out in the river, a big blur of chrome silver rolls lazily through the surface. It has just eaten my fly. Even as my brain is processing what I have just seen, the line snaps up tight, and the loop of running line comes fizzing up through my fingers. Line starts to peel off of the big reel, and I lift the rod sharply. I feel the violent, magical electricity of a large salmon, and a moment later, the fish clambers into the cool blue shadows of the evening, a sparkling silver behemoth shrouded in spray.
In an instant, the fish is rocketing downstream, and then it is barrelling up into the air again, as it goes greyhounding back to the sea. I watch helplessly as first fifty, then a hundred yards of line cascades from the big, saltwater reel.
My fishing partner and long-time friend Roar comes to the rescue, wordlessly ushering me into the classic Nordic canoe that he has quietly brought downstream. I clamber aboard, and then we are off to the races, chasing the fish off down the river.
Finally, nearly thirty minutes later, I am gazing down at a stunning silver pearl of a salmon, as it lays submerged in the shallows. Not the fifty pound monster that I dream of, but magnificent nonetheless: 27 pounds, and covered in the sea-lice that betray it as fresh from the Arctic Ocean.
The fish gleams in the clean, clear waters, and it is a thing of utter beauty – its deep, iridescent chrome-silver fuselage is flushed with a shimmering band of sapphire blue and its flanks are tattooed with tiny black spots.
Its eye searches out the depths, and for a moment I marvel at this heroic, indomitable creature, a fish that had ventured across the vast wastes of the North Atlantic to Greenland and beyond, to harass the baitfish through the long, dark arctic nights before returning, somehow, three long years later, to the river of its birth.
A big, fresh Atlantic salmon is – to me at least – one of the most beguiling creatures on earth, and the long hours of hard work often involved in catching one always seem well worthwhile when you finally get to enjoy the privilege of seeing one close up.
I lift the fish briefly out of the water for a quick picture, and then I nurse it carefully back to full strength, watching it revive in the gin-clear water. Suddenly, with a powerful flourish of its mighty spade of a tail it is gone, and the big rooster tail of spray that the fish kicks up leaves us both soaking wet, and laughing. I’ve been fishing the Reisa River in Northern Norway for four seasons now, and it is a simply magical place to fish for Atlantic Salmon.
Although I would be the first to admit that the fishing can be tough, I’ve had some fantastic fishing on this beautiful and relatively unknown little gem. While I’m still waiting for the fifty pounder that all salmon fishers dream of, I know that they swim up this spectacular little river every year. In the meantime, I’ve caught a good number of stunning silver beauties weighing twenty pounds and more – fish that on most of our home waters would represent the fish of a lifetime.
Fifty pounds may sound like an impossible dream, but believe me, on the Reisa it can and does happen. My excellent Reisa guides Morten Berglund and Trond Isaakson have managed fish of 54 pounds and 50 pounds respectively in recent years, and another friend, talented young local angler, Truls Bergmo has pulled out fish of 52 and 44 pounds in the last few seasons.
The big fish don’t just surrender themselves to the locals: my great pal, Jens Olav Flekke caught a 51lb fish a few years ago, and another great mate, legendary spey-caster Scottie McKenzie has caught some belters from the Reisa, including his personal best fish - a fabulous 38 pound salmon caught in June, 2015. In 2017, another great friend, Ken Dunston, put a chrome-silver 45 pound fish on the bank, and it was a vintage season, with no fewer than 7 fish of over 40 pounds, and forty of over 30 pounds in weight reported.
Despite these eye-popping catches, be warned: at the risk of repetition, the fishing is not easy. If you want numbers, look elsewhere. The river is crystal clear and the fish are as neurotic as any trout. It takes real cunning to get near them in all but the highest water, but if you can cast quietly and delicately, with a long leader that falls gently on to the glassy waters, you may just have a chance of fooling one of these magnificent fish. Approach the river with caution. Bide your time, and wait until the light is off the water, unless the river is high or discoloured by rain. Fish through the pool once, and then rest the water before going through again with a smaller fly.
I like to fish as stealthily as I can. In all but the highest water, I use a floating line with long, tapered leaders, and small, drab flies in quiet colours like black, blue and green, with little or no flash. I love to hitch a simple Sunray Shadow across the surface, but if that’s not working, then the classic Frances pattern – a fly that is a killer in other countries but seldom used in Norway – is a killer.
Make sure you have all sizes in black, red and my favourite – Fire Orange. A small,1/4” tungsten tube can get the fly down without the need for clumsy, heavy tips, and combined with a 15 foot leader, is a great way to fish subsurface with the minimum of disturbance. This tactic can be especially successful in brighter weather, when the fish are less inclined to come up for a fly.
In high water, a heavy tip and a big flashy fly like a Green Highlander Templedog is the way to go, but a bigger Frances, German Snaelda or Sunray shadow can also work well. The fish often respond to a big flush of rain in the high Lyngen Alps upstream, and the first hour of the rise is a very productive time.
The Reisa is as beautiful as anywhere I have ever thrown a line, and on sunny afternoons, it pays to stop fishing and simply enjoy the stunningly beautiful scenery with just a few good friends and perhaps a bottle of speyside malt for company.
The valley is an enchanted place, with countless sparkling waterfalls cascading all around, and the fragrant scent of the pine trees emanating from the dense alpine forests that carpet the valley floor. Buzzards and golden eagles soar over the old granite crags that stand sentinel over the clean, clear waters of the river, and occasionally, a moose will lumber into view.
Now is a time to just appreciate this exquisite wonderland, resting the pool and taking the time to enjoy a plate of sizzling sausages, fried by the river, along with a cold beer, a glass of good red wine, or perhaps another dram or two.
Once the sun is off the water, wade back in – now is the time when the big fish of the Reisa come out to play. Fish as quietly as you can, and avoid splashy casts, heavy Skagit heads and clunky tungsten sink-tips, unless high, cold water absolutely necessitates it. Go through the pool quickly – in this gin-clear water, the fish will see your fly a mile away. Fish hard and THINK about fishing the pool differently every run through. Trust me, a hitched fly or a stripped sunray will often bring one of these big fish up to the surface, and it is just about as exciting as salmon-fishing gets.
The Reisa’s fishing hours seem to change from year to year, but they are currently fixed from 10am to 2am – plenty of time to choose your moments, without the pressure of having to get out of bed too early in the morning, after a late night by the river.
Come to Reisa knowing that you may hook the fish of a lifetime, and make sure you use stout and reliable tackle. Employ a scrupulously maintained 30lb leader, ultra-strong hooks and a heavy-duty reel loaded with 400 yards of backing. Be ready to jump into the boat in a hurry if circumstances dictate that you have to chase a fish downstream. Don’t be under any illusions – the Reisa is a hard taskmaster. I have had tough weeks here, but I’ve never gone home empty handed, and I’ve sometimes managed to average a fish a day.
When the fish are of the size and quality that the Reisa can offer, it makes the tough times very much worthwhile.
There is surely no more beautiful place to be, in between those very special moments of mayhem.
Info:
If you are keen to try your luck on the Reisa, then I would recommend that you fish out of my friend Roar Olsen’s excellent and intimate Reisastua Lodge, which stands high above a lovely pool on the middle river. Roar’s lodge is everything that an avid salmon angler could want – as well as delicious food served in suitably hefty quantities for guests who have spent a long day wading in the icy waters of the river, there are comfortable beds and a warm, convivial atmosphere.
Roar is a keen angler and knows the river intimately. His guides are all excellent boatmen, and they navigate their long canoes through the rapids and riffles with consummate skill.
Contact Roar at http://www.reisastua.no/
Matt Harris visits Reisastua every year & will be hosting weeks at Reisastua Lodge in 2018. If you are interested in joining him, contact
