FLY-FISHING ON THE OSTRA DAL RIVER, SWEDEN. 41 



was cold and damp, the boatmen laid down six long 

 nets, making fast one end to the shore. The men 

 rowed out at daybreak to examine and take in their 

 nets, but there was nothing whatever captured. Mean- 

 time I had landed, at the inflow of the Hagaan, twelve 

 of the finest trout I had hitherto seen in the Ostra 

 Dal Elv or its tributaries, with lake trout flies, scaling 

 just under a pound a piece. 



Two log-houses or shanties now lay ahead of us, 

 both named Hagadalen, one distant twelve English 

 miles, and the other six miles farther, and beyond 

 them a wild and unknown tract of uncertain breadth, 

 and about which there was no information except that 

 a house, whether inhabited or not, existed near Lake 

 Rogon, but perhaps twenty or even fifty miles across 

 the frontier from the upper of the two hamlets. A 

 quick march of three hours along an ill -defined track, 

 across wooded uplands, mounting ever higher and 

 higher, and enjoying at each step a wider view over 

 the seas of forest and ridge, plain and mountain, 

 which gradually unrolled themselves, brought us to 

 the lower of the two shanties rejoicing in the name of 

 Hagadalen. 



Not a single human being was visible. The bearer 

 of the baggage stated that he must at once return, 

 and insisted with equal certainty that the inhabitants 

 were not far distant and would surely appear before 

 night. And depart he did, after making a meal of 

 whatever he could find to eat. We were now alone 

 for a period of uncertain duration. He had assured 



