SALMON AND TROUT MEMORIES 



the Stjordal ; and, a little farther south, the Surendal and the 

 Sundal. This latter is a noble river, one of the longest and 

 finest in this part of Norway, and, like the Rauma, a true glacier 

 stream. I once hooked the monster of my dreams in the 

 Sundal, on the Gravem beat. Alas for the bitter disappoint- 

 ments of fishing ! This particular monster — he showed a 

 back like a porpoise, and tore the line off my reel for 150 yards 

 at a stretch like a runaway grampus — took me down the river, 

 after I had just managed to scramble into the boat with a few 

 remaining yards of line on my reel, for half a mile or more. 

 Then, just as I had retrieved most of my line and thought to 

 be on terms with a great fish, the hold gave, the rod straightened, 

 and the sickening sense of irretrievable loss, familiar to all 

 salmon-fishermen, seized me in its grip. No language is equal 

 to occasions such as these. All a man's philosophy is required 

 to stand the strain. Let us hope that such episodes supply 

 the necessary discipline and corrective in all true sport. 



But the Sundal recalls the more agreeable recollection of a 

 red-letter incident on its Gjora beat, where one season I was 

 fishing with a friend. The weather had been clear and bright 

 for some days, the water had run somewhat low, and sport 

 was poor in consequence. So we, my partner and I, had taken 

 to prawning. But opinions differed as to the best time of day 

 for tempting the apparently jaded appetites of our salmon with 

 the crimson bait. My partner was a firm believer in the even- 

 ing cast, and " rest the pools in the middle of the day " plan. 

 Nevertheless I eventually persuaded him, more by example 

 than precept, that in the bright noonday sun it was possible 



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