The Rivers That Haunt My Dreams

You ever had one of those places that just gets under your skin? For me, it’s this stretch of Norway—eight rivers, all within a two-hour drive, each with its own personality. Some are feisty little spate streams, the kind where you can practically high-five the opposite bank while casting. Others are big, moody beasts, the hydro-controlled ones with deep pools that make your line hum like a tuning fork. And man, the valleys—so stupidly pretty it almost hurts. Last summer, I watched a beaver slap its tail not ten feet from me, and an osprey nailed a trout midair while I was untangling my leader. Just another Tuesday out here.

Now, let’s talk about the fish. Atlantic salmon and sea-run brown trout—the kind that make grown anglers whisper like kids telling ghost stories. We’ve got salmon pushing 16, maybe 20 kilos on a good year (though Old Bjorn claims he lost one "the size of a Labrador" back in ’98). Most run closer to 4 kilos, but even those’ll bend your rod double. Sea trout? Sneaky buggers. Average about a kilo, but every season someone lands a 6-kilo monster, and the legends swear there’s a 10-kilo grandma lurking in the lower beats.

Here’s the thing about salmon fishing: it’s equal parts magic and misery. You’ll watch a hundred fish porpoise at dawn, tails waving like they’re mocking you. Weeks can pass without a tug. I once forgot my lucky hat—a dumb, grease-stained thing—and didn’t get a sniff for three days. But then… that moment. The line goes tight in a way that’s not snag or current, just this electric thud shooting up to your elbows. Doesn’t matter if you’ve fished 30 years or 30 minutes—that first pull hits like a caffeine jolt to the soul. "The tug is the drug" ain’t just a saying; it’s the gospel.

Course, hooking one’s only half the battle. Salmon fight dirty. They’ll head-shake, roll, dive for roots—I’ve seen a 12-pounder spit a hook mid-leap, flashing its silver belly like a middle finger. But when you finally slide one onto the gravel? Man, it’s church-quiet. Just you, this wild thing, and maybe an eagle screaming overhead like it’s demanding a cut.
Take my advice: pack a thermos and a sandwich. Sit on a boulder after lunch, let the river noise wash over you. Some of my best memories aren’t the fish landed, but the hours in between—watching mayflies hatch, hearing a red deer bark in the hills. Norway doesn’t just give you salmon; it gives you the whole damn symphony.

(And if you’re smart, you’ll check the moon phases. Bjorn’s crazy, but he’s not wrong about sea trout.)