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.