My First Time on the Glomma – And Why I Keep Coming Back

You ever had one of those mornings where the fish seem to know you're coming? I sure did—first time I waded into the Glomma near Atna, my line was barely wet before a grayling damn near yanked the rod from my hands. That’s this river for you: impatient, generous, and full of surprises.

Now, most folks think Norway’s longest river is all about postcard views (and yeah, the birch-lined banks are pretty enough to make your Instagram followers jealous). But the real magic? Those sneaky little islands splitting the current like a dealer shuffling cards. One minute you’re in slow, glassy water where brown trout sip mayflies like they’re tasting wine—next thing you know, you’re thigh-deep in a chute that’ll send your backcast straight to the moon.

The Fish (and Their Personalities)

Grayling run the show here—sassy little devils that’ll hit a dry fly just to watch you fumble the net. But don’t ignore the deeper pockets unless you wanna miss out on the pike. Those toothy bastards? They don’t strike. They ambush. Lost a perfectly good Deer Hair Sedge last summer to one that followed my lure for ten feet… then swallowed it whole like I’d insulted its ancestors.

Oh, and the trout? Personally, I swear by size 16 flies (or was it 14? Hell, bring both). The big boys hide where the fast water tumbles over those granite shelves—you’ll smell the ozone there by midday, sharp as a struck match.

Flies That Actually Work (Most Days)

Forget the fancy Euro stuff. A scrappy Red Tag and a CDC F-Fly have saved my dignity more times than I’ll admit. Local old-timers claim the grayling go nuts when the birch leaves are the size of a kid’s pinky nail. Can’t prove it, but I’ve caught my personal best during that exact week in June.

Just Get Out There

Licenses are over at Koppang Camping—cash only, last I checked. But honestly? The Glomma doesn’t care about permits. It cares about whether you’re paying attention when that one ripple near the third island isn’t from the current.

(And if you see a pike with my fly still in its lip… tell it I want my damn lure back.)