Embarking on the final day by the river, I set out with a heart brimming with anticipation and a rod eager to dance with elusive companions beneath the watery depths. My goal was ambitious, to trace the river's course from its upper reaches to the serene lake downstream, where the salmon find solace and relief. The weather, a capricious companion, unfolded its repertoire from rain to overcast, with a hint of sun to grace the evening.
Choosing the top pool, where the river converges with the lake, the charm of watery sunshine embraced me. Fishing along the right bank, the pool unveiled its secrets—a deep channel running along the left side, forming a V at the end, where the water quickens into a cascade. Casting to the left bank, my fly danced in the current, invoking memories of intercepting salmon on their final journey to the lake. Though the salmon proved elusive this time, the river's surface echoed with the jubilant leaps of triumphant fish reaching the sanctuary of the lake.
Alone in the fading light, at the stroke of 7pm, I cast my last line. A symphony of nature unfolded—the late summer sun setting below the pine trees, casting a warm glow upon the water. Ducks soared overhead, and the lake sprawled to my right, shadows pirouetting across the evening hills. The atmosphere exuded magic, and with a fond farewell, I tipped my cap to the salmon and the river, knowing the battle would recommence next year.
In the evening's embrace, a robin, a winged harbinger, visited me. Two years since my mother's passing, her memory lingered, intertwined with the robin's visit—a symbolic connection to generations past. Grateful and reflective, I embraced the fleeting moment.
As the rain descended, I dismantled my camp, seizing the brief interludes between downpours. The kit, saturated yet resilient, awaited the promise of drying at home. Bid farewell to the Bjerkreim valley, I ventured into the mist-shrouded rain clouds, where the landscape blurred into obscurity. The relentless downpours, a testament to nature's might, veiled the land in a cloak of wetness. In a town, emergency crews battled the deluge, a valiant but seemingly futile effort. Nature's power and the land's beauty unfolded, feeding the streams that, in turn, nourished the valleys and farms.
Norway, untainted by commercialisation, emerged as a healthy land, proud of its landscapes that wielded power even in the south. Pushing through the rain to Mandal, I arrived amidst a thunderstorm. Undeterred, my mission beckoned—North Atlantic shrimps, a Friday delicacy, accompanied by a crisp white wine. A perfect repast to welcome the evening.
At Mandal's beach, the salmon ladders from the 1800s stood as silent witnesses to history. Illuminated by the clearing storm, these ladders spoke of a bygone era, where fishermen sought the coveted salmon entering the Mandal river. A roundabout held a ladder, a historical testament worth exploring for any angler keen to understand the river's legacy.
Heading north of Mandal, I found solace in cabins perched above a rocky outcrop, providing a panoramic view of the river below. Wood-clad and well-equipped, these cabins served as sanctuaries for fishermen and occasional wanderers. Engaging with a Danish group, seasoned fishermen in their late 50s, we swapped tales and observations. Fishing, it seemed, was not just about the pursuit of salmon but also a journey of camaraderie.
As the weather cleared, and my ticket permitted, I cast my line for an hour, yielding modest results. The evening rain returned, and a cooling breeze whispered of an impending change. Deciding to call it a night, I eagerly anticipated the warmth of shrimps, white wine and the promise of a new day, where the clearing skies and fresh rain might coax the salmon into a dance beneath the ever-flowing river.
Comments