When the River Goes Quiet

Photograph: Esa Ylijaasko / Fishing Tales

The sound of a stream changes when you are standing in the middle of it. From the bank, you hear water moving over stone. In the current, the sound surrounds you completely.

The water was cold—perhaps too cold for the brown trout to feed with any confidence. It was also unusually high, pushing heavily against my legs and covering many of the rocks and seams I knew from previous years. The few takes I had felt uncertain, as though the trout could not decide whether they wanted the fly or simply wanted it gone.

In the distance, I could see the glow of the campfire my fishing buddy and I had built on the bank.

“So, you came to sit there, did you?” I heard him say.

“There’s a fox sitting beside the fire with me!” he shouted across the river.

While I stood in the cold water, casting desperately for a brown trout, a fox had wandered into camp and settled beside my friend as he warmed himself by the flames.

It was good to be back on this small river in Finnmark—a river whose name I would rather keep away from the internet.

Every year, around the end of August and the beginning of September, we make the journey north to Norway. This time, we packed my black four-wheel-drive and headed towards Finnmark without any hurry.

That is part of the trip. There is no reason to rush when the road itself is carrying you away from everything you need a break from.

For a while, life becomes simple. You sleep beside a river, cook over a fire and spend your days moving between pools and streams. You let the sound of running water lower your stress. If the river is generous, you might even catch a fish.

Cold Water and Careful Trout

During the first few days, I did not land anything, although there were signs of life. I lost a couple of decent brown trout, probably somewhere between 35 and 40 centimetres—roughly 14 to 16 inches.

Neither take came when I was fully prepared. Both trout struck while I was retrieving the line, at moments when I was already thinking about the next cast. The line was too loose, my reaction was too slow, or perhaps it was simply one of those things that happens in fishing.

Still, the missed fish gave me useful information.

As expected, a completely black streamer with a small touch of gold seemed to attract the most attention during the day. A similar black pattern with a restrained red hotspot also produced interest. Against the cold, dark water, those small details appeared to be enough to wake something in the trout.

But when daylight began to fade and the best feeding period should have arrived, the entire river seemed to shut down.

At dusk, there were no rises, no follows and no sudden pulls through the line. Even the most trustworthy flies in my box failed to produce a response. The pools looked perfect, but beneath the surface, everything felt empty.

I was fishing with a nine-foot, six-weight Hardy Aydon rod and a Ross Reels Evolution LTX reel. I tried swinging the streamer across the current, retrieving it slowly, stripping it quickly and allowing it to pause between movements. I fished close to the surface and deeper through the pools.

Nothing seemed to interest the trout.

The previous year, I had caught at least one fish every day. This time, every take had to be earned, and even hard work did not guarantee a result.

Sometimes fishing makes you believe you understand a river. Then you return, and the same river humbles you completely.

Those trips rarely feel rewarding while you are still living through them. It often takes a few days after returning home to understand how much they taught you.

Finally, a Fish

Later in the week, we decided to explore a stretch I had barely fished before. Although I had been visiting this river for five years, there were still pools, bends and streams I had never properly studied.

It was around six in the evening, but there was still plenty of daylight. We began upstream near a place where my friend had hooked a large trout the previous year. He had lost that fish, but memories like that are enough to bring you back to the same water.

This time, the river finally paid us back.

A trout took my streamer and immediately broke the surface, throwing itself almost half a metre—around 20 inches—into the air. The hook held, and the fish began using the high current against me.

I kept steady pressure on it and played it patiently. My fishing buddy happened to be on the phone, so I knew I would have to net the fish myself. After a fight of around five minutes, I guided it over the rim of the net.

There it was.

The brown trout was 40 centimetres, or 16 inches, long. Its colours were unusually bright against the dark mesh of the net. It had taken a size-six black streamer I had tied myself, finished with a little gold flash and a red hotspot.

It was not the largest trout in the river, but after days of missed takes, cold water and empty pools, it felt like an important fish.

For once, everything had gone right.

I began to think the trout might finally be active. Perhaps this would be the evening when the river came alive.

But as the sun disappeared, the water went quiet again.

My friend caught one small brown trout of around 20 to 25 centimetres—about 8 to 10 inches—and had a few other signs of interest. After that, neither of us caught anything.

The places we fished looked almost unreal. Some pools have a kind of presence that immediately tells you there must be trout beneath the surface—and probably large ones. Yet no matter how perfect the water appeared, its fish remained hidden.

Photograph: Petri Posti / Fishing Tales

Rain Over Finnmark

Heavy rain eventually forced us to take a day away from fishing.

We went on a small road trip with a friend who had lived in Finnmark for years and had worked as a fishing guide in the area. We drove to Alta, where he showed us stretches of water with potential for sea trout, along with some of the landscapes that make northern Norway so difficult to forget.

In my opinion, Norway is one of the most beautiful countries in the world, especially when seen through the eyes of an angler. Almost every valley seems to hold a river, and every turn in the road reveals another mountain, waterfall or dark line of water disappearing into the distance.

Even a day away from fishing still felt connected to it.

Photograph: Esa Ylijaasko / Fishing Tales

A Visitor in the Bushes

After the rest day, my fishing buddy and I decided to return to the place where I had caught the 40-centimetre trout. Several fishless days had passed since then, and the brown trout still seemed selective and largely inactive.

I returned to the same pool while my friend continued to another stretch.

I was casting upstream and minding my own business when I noticed something moving in the bushes. A small animal with dark fur emerged from the vegetation and began walking directly towards me.

It was a mink.

It showed no obvious fear. The mink came all the way to a rock beside me, rose onto its hind legs and sniffed the air. For a moment, it simply stood there and watched me cast.

I picked up my walkie-talkie and quietly told my friend what was happening. When his reply crackled through the speaker, the mink turned and disappeared back into the bushes.

That was the only action I experienced during our final evening.

I worked through my most reliable streamers and then began trying the strange, rarely used flies that usually stay hidden in the corners of the box. Nothing produced a take.

My friend had better luck. He landed a beautiful 49-centimetre brown trout—just over 19 inches long—with dark golden flanks and vivid red spots.

The larger trout were there after all. They had simply chosen their moments carefully.

When darkness settled over the camp, the northern lights appeared above Finnmark. Their pale green movement was a reminder that there was more happening around us than anything measured by the number of fish in the net.

Photograph: Esa Ylijaasko / Fishing Tales

What the River Gives You

We had planned to stay longer, but the weather forecast showed another period of relentless rain approaching. There was little sense in spending several days trapped inside the tent, waiting for a brief opening that might never come.

We packed the camp and began the long drive home.

We had not caught the brown trout over 50 centimetres—around 20 inches—that we had hoped for. The high water and cold temperatures had made the fishing difficult, and the river had remained strangely silent during the hours when it should have been most alive.

Still, the trip had given us something.

A fox had joined my friend beside the campfire. A curious mink had watched me fly-fishing from a nearby rock. I had caught a bright Finnmark brown trout on a streamer tied with my own hands, and my friend had found one of the river’s dark golden fish before the weather turned.

Sometimes a fishing trip gives you the trout you came looking for.

Sometimes it gives you cold water, empty pools and a lesson in patience.

Either way, it is always worth going.