By this time we had a long distance to travel to get back to our tents. Fortunately the light fades so little that it hardly signifies; still great care is required to judge of the best footing after leaving the snow, as the hunter leads, and can go any way, even to rolling down places like a hedgehog, and sometimes sitting down for a slide. Indeed, going home becomes a kind of steeple-chase over unknown ground. In such cases woe and grief must be the fate of the novice. At the highest elevation we passed an immense boulder, very much like the Logan Stone, and of similar dimensions, though perhaps larger. On the top of this was a much smaller one, but of different geological formation. This gave rise to considerable discussion about the glacial theory, as there was a non-believer present. What could have produced this remarkable combination but the action of glaciers passing over the surface, bearing huge masses of rock from distant parts, and, as the ice melted away, depositing them? These boulders were found at an elevation of 5,000 feet or more. We also met with a most interesting instance of pink snow, very marked indeed in colour. All these varied phases of nature did much to repay us for our disappointment respecting the deer. This the difficulties of the descent also made us for the time forget, as Danjel Kulingen was tearing away as hard as he could possibly go, sometimes letting himself down, then hanging on to the undergrowth of heather, sliding, rolling, or jumping. We often solaced ourselves with the idea that if we could only get him on the flat for ten miles for a finish, we could give him a spin and run him in at high speed.
Red Deer Head.
Whilst we had been telescoping the deer our Aalesund friend was having sport. On our return we found that he had been over to our tent to see us, and had left word of “Sport, sport,” and a message to try for a meet. This, unfortunately, could not be arranged, or we should have seen joy depicted on his face when he described to us where and how he killed his first reindeer.
The Norwegians believe that the horns of the reindeer, boiled down, are good for consumptive people. There is no doubt that the reindeer themselves eat, or rather gnaw them when they are shed, which occurs in November. The males shed their horns first, the females retaining them longer. We found several horns partially gnawed through, and, when we consider the number of deer, there must be some reason why the shed horns are not more frequently picked up. The same idea of horn soup for consumptive cases occurs in Scotland, where the horns of red deer are also found gnawed. One would imagine that the best time for this potage would be when the horn was first formed, and the “velvet” is on, or when the horn is being renewed; and during this period it is very warm indeed, as large arteries run inside the velvet, or horn skin, and are engaged in depositing bone on the old stems, until the horns are complete and the velvet fretted off in September.
The reindeer, like ptarmigan, become white during the winter, and in their wild state present a great contrast to the sheeplike tameness of those possessed by Laplanders. The Laps have a regular call for their tame deer, which generally come at once; but if not, the proprietor has generally his lasso with him, which is thrown over the animal’s loins, and he is at once a prisoner. The good travelling pace of reindeer is well known, being about ten miles an hour, with two hundred pounds weight at their back. In their wild state their pace was beyond computation when we were behind them. We could well say that we had been “after reindeer,” and that is all. The only way to have sport in such a country as Norway is patiently to settle down to it, without fixing a time for returning. A river is not always right, nor the water in condition. So is it with the reindeer hunter: a thousand things may occur to mar his success. The very wind is sometimes wrong, and may chop round at the moment when he hopes it will hold on steadily for an hour or two; while, on the other hand, it may change at some fortunate moment exactly in his favour. No; there is no royal road to such sports as these. The charm of uncertainty must at all times attach to real sport. It must be worked for, and directly the uncertainty is removed its real charm is gone, and the relish for it dissipated. The mere act of shooting and killing lasts but a second of time; it is the surroundings which afford the real pleasure—the fresh air, the change of scene, the care required in every detail, the sportsman never knowing but that the very next moment some interesting incident may transpire which would make the day, hour, and spot a landmark; the necessity for watching every breath of air, the most delicate zephyr being registered and measured by the painstaking hunter, as he brings out tenderly some carefully preserved pieces of the finest floss silk, or, better far, some of the eagle’s down feathers already alluded to. Again, the dogs require constant attention; and, to be quite complete, a coronet of eagles’ eyes—optical all-rounders—would be an assistance.
•••••
ISHING for salmon, and the love which Englishmen have for that grandest of all sports, have led to the opening up of Norway to the general traveller. Our first pioneers, finding how importunate were the inquiries of the new-comers respecting the best spots and methods for sport, and that the inclination of some led them to try and bid above others for the waters they had really well earned by their own energy and perception—all this, we say, tended to make men on board the good ship Tasso rather taciturn. (Excuse the approach to an unintentional pun.) This, however, is not surprising, for men are compelled to be reticent when they know the inevitable consequences of giving details of their sport. Nothing will secure success but earnest work, patience, and biding your time for the happy combination which the best rivers can only afford now and then. Why, as we have just observed, the whole charm of sport would be dispelled if it became a dead certainty, and a man knew he would kill so many pounds of fish one day, and none the next. No; like the glorious uncertainty of cricket and hunting, the uncertainty of fishing is one of its charms; the average of good and bad is equalised, and the old French proverb comes in, that “Patience et longueur de temps font plus que la rage.” The noble salmon has become liable to increased and more subtle dangers within the last few years, besides his old natural enemies. The peasants have new means of torture. His natural foes are the bull-trout and sea-trout, which are the vermin of every river, destroying the spawn wholesale, and even lying in wait for the moment when the female deposits her milt, an instance of which came under our observation. The nets at the mouth of the river are an old institution, but they should be well constructed and supervised; also the tine, or stage, described in a former chapter, where the bonde is anything but the “sweet little cherub that sits up aloft;” still it is an old custom, and we like old customs. So also is the “worm box” which hangs from the peasant’s belt as he goes for some trout, or anything else that may be tempted. The worm box is a very primitive construction, its simplicity being well carried out in the birch twig by which it is suspended, and the two pieces of leather through which the lid slides. It is a picturesque relic of old days.