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The River of Ghosts: Preserving the Future of Fly fishing
The River of Ghosts:
Preserving the Future of Fly fishing
The scotch was hammering in my temples as I forced myself out of bed and blundered into the shower. Less than four hours ago, opening yet another bottle of 18-year-old Glen-what-ever-it-was had seemed like an excellent idea. Now, in the cold light of day, I could see that reckless impulse for the lamentable decision that it was.
By: MATT HARRIS
This morning, I had a ticket for Zone 8 and any Reisa River fanatic will tell you that means you have the opportunity to fish one of the river’s special gems. Svartfoss. All season, a colossal Atlantic salmon had shown itself in the pool. It had gained almost celebrity status, and I felt as if I was the only one who hadn’t seen it.
Now, well into August, most anglers had headed home. For once, I had a realistic chance of being first through the pool. But I’d handicapped myself massively by drinking till quarter past four in the morning, and I could barely stand up, let alone wade the powerful currents of the Reisa. Somehow, I forced myself into my waders. There was no time for breakfast, and even waiting for the coffee to brew risked some brighteyed Finn getting in front of me. I decided to forego the much-needed caffeine. I grabbed my rods from the rack and glanced ruefully at my friend Roar’s huge Hummer SUV parked outside the lodge. In my condition, I knew I’d have to walk the 15 minutes up to Svartfoss.
Remembering salmon
The late summer sunshine was cruelly bright as I stumbled up the road, cursing my stupidity all the while. I was still two hundred yards from the path that leads through the trees to the pool when I heard a car’s engine approach from behind me. I muttered more curses as a big Volvo estate with a bundle of Spey rods perched on its racks passed me, but mercifully, it kept on going.
Perhaps it was the car that broke my dream. Suddenly, a whisky-fuddled nightmare from the night before came back to me with vivid clarity. I remembered sitting in the little gapahuk shelter at another favourite pool, Mikanakken.
I was chatting to a young local guide, my friend Christer Vangen. Christer was somehow a little older. We were talking about the salmon of the Reisa. But we weren’t celebrating them. We were remembering them. They were gone. All gone. The mighty fish of 30, 40, and even 50 pounds that mark out the Reisa as a river of a fisherman’s dreams had all been destroyed: the smolts had been devoured by the vast legions of sea lice that have proliferated around the wretched open cage salmon farms up and down the coast, and the returning adults had been butchered by the nets and the catch and kill anglers. It was over.
Christer got up and eased himself into the pool. He flexed his long Spey rod and sent a beautiful cast arcing across the crystalline waters of the Reisa. But he was wasting his time.
He was fishing in a river of ghosts
My throat was dry as I trudged wearily off of the road, but the densely wooded birch forest was cool and offered some respite from the harsh, dazzling sunlight and the troubling dream that dogged my thoughts.
The forest floor was carpeted with the late summer patina of ferns, mushrooms and blueberries, and the fragrant scent was intoxicating. My mood lifted as I glimpsed the river through the trees, and as I stumbled out of the forest and down to the water, my heart leapt as I saw that Svartfoss pool was vacant.
I dipped my little wooden cup into Reisa’s sparkling stream and took a long draft. The water was clear and cold and delicious.
There were more than ghosts swimming in the crystal waters of the Reisa on that golden morning in August 2017.
I hooked a fish on perhaps my third cast that was the biggest Atlantic salmon that I have ever seen, including the huge salmon that I saw on the Alta two years before.
Two experienced Finnish anglers arrived after I had been playing the fish for the best part of an hour and when they saw the fish jump at close quarters, they both let out the classic Scandinavian expression of excitement: “Oy-yoi-yoi-yoi-yoi!” and told me that they believed the fish might weigh 25 kilos. That’s 55 pounds in old money. When the hook hold gave way half an hour later, I sank to my knees in despair.
We must have cut a comical sight as two men I had never met before crouched over my catatonic frame and tentatively patted me on the shoulder by way of commiseration. Like me, they knew that statistically, my chances of ever hooking another fish of that size in my lifetime are around the same as being struck by lightning or winning the lottery for a second time.
They had seen me lose the salmon of my life. However, as I finally picked myself up and thanked my new friends for their kindness and concern, I consoled myself with the knowledge that at least a few of the
monster salmon for which the Reisa is rightly celebrated were still swimming in the river’s sparkling waters.
The world’s finest game fish
Ted Williams, the celebrated baseball player and sport fisherman, once declared that Atlantic salmon are the world’s finest game fish. This despite the fact that Ted was fortunate enough to have tangled with a panoply of wonderful species, including huge marlin and yes, behemoth tarpon and trophy bonefish. Ted famously and unambiguously stated: “I guess if I had to spend the rest of my life fishing for just one fish it would have to be the Atlantic salmon.”
Well personally, I don’t want to have to choose. I love every last fish that I pursue, from the humble chub of my local River Cam to the mighty sailfish of the Pacific Ocean. However, I am willing to concede that despite the comparatively modest size of even a trophy Atlantic salmon when compared with leviathans like tarpon, arapaima or giant trevally, there is something special – even heroic –about salmo salar.
I have been lucky enough to fish in nearly 40 countries, and I’ve tangled with most of the world’s most celebrated fly-fishing quarries, yet, swinging a fly for the “silver tourists” that come back from the North Atlantic to the rivers of their birth still holds a very special place in my heart. The moment when a big Atlantic salmon arrests my fly way out in the icy waters of a big northern river is still a uniquely exhilarating experience.
What is so singular about Atlantic salmon?
To me, salmo salar are the pure physical embodiment of everything wild and free. To briefly put your hands on one of these precious fish, and to sense the extraordinary odyssey that each of these special creatures has been on is one of the most special, life-affirming moments that you can experience with a fishing rod in your hand.
Few other species endure the remarkable journey that Atlantic salmon go through. Born in the tiny burns and tributaries of the salmon rivers that empty into either side of the North Atlantic, the infant parr spend two or three years in their natal stream before swimming downstream to the river’s estuaries, where they adapt to saltwater and go through the silvering process of smoltification that camouflages them and prepares them for their epic marine voyage. As smolts, they swim out into the wild, hazardous environment of the ocean. If they somehow survive the vast number of seals, dolphins, cormorants, and other predators that queue up to feed upon them, the smolts travel across the vast wilderness of the Atlantic before finally arriving at their feeding grounds around Greenland, typically thousands of miles from their birthplace. Here, they feed voraciously on capelin, shrimp, sprats, sandeels, and large zooplankton organisms such as krill.
Eventually, after anything between one and four years, using navigational abilities that we still do not really understand, the salmon cross the vast oceans once more and return to the river of their birth, where they battle their way up through rapids and waterfalls before they reach the stream of their birthplace, where they dig redds and spawn.
Unlike Pacific salmon, ‘Atlantics’ often survive the spawning process, and after spending the winter in the river, the survivors try to return to the sea. Unable to eat whilst in freshwater, these spawned out fish, known as kelts, are weak and are often devoured by seals or dolphins, but occasionally, they manage to return once again to their feeding grounds and even occasionally come back once again to the rivers of their birth as ‘repeat spawners’.
There are surely few creatures more valiant or more courageous in all of nature. In recent times, however, these remarkable fish have been assailed by a huge number of diverse factors that have combined to see the Atlantic salmon’s numbers decline dramatically. Between 1983 and 2016 alone, reliable scientific evidence tells us that salar’s numbers have been halved.
Numbers in sharp fall
Fishing lodges are often understandably reticent to flag up the decline – their revenue depends upon attracting anglers to their fishery, so it is not in their interests to declare that their resource is dwindling fast. Many do their best to hide the sharp fall in numbers, and some even declare catch numbers that are factually inaccurate. However, most anglers will attest that Atlantic salmon are clearly experiencing a frightening downturn in their numbers. My friend, Professor Ken Whelan, is a distinguished scientist and an eminent authority on the multitude of issues threatening the future of the Atlantic salmon. Ken held the post of president of the North Atlantic Salmon Conservation Organisation between 2004 and 2008 and is currently Research Director at the Atlantic Salmon Trust.
Ken lists numerous issues that all take their toll: Salmon farming and the resultant unnatural proliferation of sea lice that have had a savage impact on the wild smolt population; endemic netting at sea and in river mouths and estuaries; intense farming methods, which have degraded water quality through pollution and abstraction; and, lest we forget, catch and kill fishing by sport fishermen. Ken also observes that there is a myriad of other factors in play – notably the effects of global warming both at sea and also in freshwater.
Food staples at sea have been hugely affected by the changes in sea temperatures and ocean currents, while increases in our river’s water temperatures are resulting in depleted oxygen levels which have created poorer conditions for Atlantic salmon once in freshwater. Ken is the first to admit that we are still trying to fully understand many of the factors involved, but most of the issues that are decimating our Atlantic salmon stocks are incontrovertibly manmade problems, and many could be prevented or at least diminished if we choose to tackle them.
We can do more!
To me, it seems baffling that we as anglers do not do more to fight for the protection of the fish that we love. After all, there are plenty of us, and anyone who can afford to fly fish has – by definition – a reasonable amount of cash in his or her pocket. Participation in sport fishing, in general, is flourishing. The United Nations recently estimated that the global number of recreational anglers stands at anywhere between 220 million and 700 million, with this higher estimate almost twice the number of estimated commercial fishers. Regardless of the actual numbers, participation in angling is recognized to be increasing on a global scale, particularly in developing nations as we see an expansion of their middle-class demographic. In many nations, visiting recreational anglers bring much-needed income into the local economies, and unlike commercial fisheries, catchand-release sport fisheries are absolutely sustainable.
An estimate in 2012 by the World Bank reckons that anglers spend approximately US$190 billion annually related to recreational fishing, contributing about USD$70 billion per year to the global gross domestic product.
These are most likely to be low estimates, as they do not account for the large additional revenue streams attributable to fishing tackle expenditure. These are large sums, and if we allow our fisheries to flourish, they can offer sustainable long-term income to communities all around the world.
Where our governments are allowing pollution and habitat vandalism, we must call them out and shame them into action.My personal fervent belief is that the first thing we have to do is to embrace 100% catch and release at all fisheries where taking fish is unsustainable. Right now, this means nearly all of them. The critical element in the debate is sustainability. While many grew up fishing “for the pot”, and feel that taking a fish home is an integral part of the fishing experience, we have to accept that to do so is simply no longer sustainable.
There are many more anglers - and far fewer fish - than ever before, and if every angler takes just one fish home, most rivers simply can no longer sustain the resultant impact on their stocks. Even more crucially, we simply cannot dictate to others – commercial and subsistence netsmen, aquaculturists, farmers et al – when we are impacting on the fish stocks ourselves.
Many older anglers talk of tradition, citing the fact that they have taken fish for generations, but we simply have to accept that this is no longer sustainable. Many invoke the argument that catch-and-release fishing is cruel, but this defence for catchand-kill is a tired and divisive one.
We ALL fish for the enjoyment of it, and if we didn’t, those that wanted to eat their catch would just pop down to the local fishmongers. Catching a fish to kill it is no more kind to the fish than releasing it. More importantly, as acknowledged by the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation, catch-and-release fishing allows us to maintain sustainable recreational fisheries. However, if we do not ACT now, our fisheries – and the benefits that they can bring will be lost for all time.
Be in no doubt: Atlantic salmon fishing is fast arriving at its Rubicon. As it becomes less productive, fewer youngsters will be attracted into the sport, and a vicious circle of declining participants is unavoidable.
The benefits that angling can bring for our mental health and well-being are well documented, and this facet of our sport is one that we would do well to promote. However, newcomers need to catch something – or at least see others do so and thus believe that there is a chance of a fish. If they don’t, they will drift away very fast. Without young blood, our num- bers will dwindle fast, and without a healthy number of anglers, our power as a significant lobby that is capable of defending our fisheries will diminish very quickly indeed, with tragic consequences for our fisheries.
Back to the Reisa
I have recently been embroiled in heated arguments with a number of anglers illegally killing Atlantic salmon on the Reisa. This argument represents a microcosm of what is happening to our sport fisheries across the world.
Reisadalen is a stunningly beautiful valley, and as noted earlier, its river produces huge Atlantic salmon every year: even in what was considered a very poor season, 21 fish over 30lbs including 6 over 40lbs and 1 over 50lbs were reported in 2021, and many more will have been caught and not declared. Only a tiny handful of rivers in Norway and Eastern Canada can boast Atlantic salmon of this size. Believe me, if this river was properly looked after and allowed to flourish, it would be a salmon angler’s paradise.
However, the river’s estuary still suffers from a high degree of netting and this is having a dramatic impact on this special river. Of the seven handsome fish I caught on my last visit, four had severe net marks – and I’ve heard reliable reports of just one netsman alone catching six hundred kilos of these precious fish in 24 hours. Yet how can we complain, if we as anglers are routinely taking fish ourselves? Despite explicit rules forbidding the killing of any salmon weighing more than five kilos, many anglers on Reisa openly kill magnificent trophy fish, often weighing 30 pounds and more, thus removing them from the gene pool before they can spawn.
According to a number of local anglers I spoke to, many are not even eaten but are left to rot in bulging chest freezers and are routinely thrown away come the following spring. What a tragedy!
Many anglers I’ve crossed swords with on this issue employ the argument that it is “traditional” to kill the fish. I should respect their “traditions”, they tell me. Well, tradition be damned. Tradition is often employed as a lazy excuse for adhering to outmoded and unsustainable modes of behaviour that are no longer defensible, and we HAVE to discard this flippant justification for the killing of Atlantic salmon and other endangered species… before they are all gone.
The future is here
I often fish the Reisa with my friend Scott Mackenzie and his son Ross. Many know Scottie as a world champion caster, and the first time I saw him cast a line clean across the wide waters of Canada’s Miramichi, I was genuinely astonished. However, those close to him will also know that Scottie is not just a remarkable caster - he is also an extremely talented salmon fisherman.
Scott has caught three special Atlantic salmon from the Reisa - fish of 31, 33 and 38 pounds. However, in recent years, Ross has been catching big fish too. I came in one night after catching a nice fish myself to see Rossie grinning from ear to ear. He’d just released a beauty of 25 pounds, and it was disarming to see the pride etched upon his face.
Over the last few years, I’ve watched Ross grow from a boy into a bright, confident young man, who seems to have inherited his father’s warm, likeable nature, not to mention a twinkle of that same mischievous humour. Like my friend Christer Vangen, Ross is the future. He deserves the chance – as do his grandchildren – to catch one of the big salmon of the Reisa. We have to give him and other young anglers that chance if we are not to be remembered for all time as the selfish generation that allowed the Atlantic salmon and other wonderful species to go the way of the dodo.
If we do not act now, we will leave our grandchildren with nothing more than a river of ghosts, where only the spirits of the Reisa’s mighty Atlantic salmon swim through this beautiful valley. Atlantic salmon are a bellwether for the myriad other species that we chase, and we need to recognise that all will eventually disappear if we allow our environment to continually decline as we are currently doing.
In 2023, I will not fish the Reisa for its peerless Atlantic salmon. The river is closed to sport fishing due to dangerously low numbers of fish returning to spawn in its waters over the last few years. Without catch-and-release anglers guarding its banks, who knows what nefarious activities might befall the remaining stocks?
I don’t want to die a heartbroken old man, telling my grandchildren about the mighty salmon that once came barrelling up this beguiling river.
It is time for us to come together and fight for all the species and the wild places that we love so that our children and our grandchildren can enjoy the same magical experiences that fly fishing has given us.
Under the umbrella of global angling organisations like the IGFA and using the new and burgeoning opportunities for worldwide communication that the internet provides us, we can – we MUST – start to all work together to help fight each other’s battles, lobbying and petitioning on each other’s behalf in order to change things for the better for all fishermen and women.
This means that members of the Atlantic Salmon Trust and the Atlantic Salmon Federation can help fight the battles of the IGFA’s Billfish Initiatives, the Bonefish & Tarpon Trust, the Wild Steelhead Coalition, Trout Unlimited and so on – and vice versa – with a real sum gain for all anglers and, more importantly, for our fish stocks and their environments.
Let’s do it! Let’s unite to protect ALL of our precious fisheries. Let’s do all we can to save the Atlantic salmon and ALL the wonderful species that we love to target… before it’s too late.
You can buy Matt’s book, The Fish of a Lifetime, at the following link:
https://fieldsports-journal. com/shop/product/TheFish-of-A-Lifetime
