XVI. Foul-hooked. "And his language to me in the boat, sir, A MAN once said to me that he did not care about fishing, what he liked was exercise, which shows that I number amongst my acquaintance at least one very ignorant person; he fancied, I suppose, that the whole art of angling is practised by the Sunday watcher of bobbing floats, and that to be as lame as a tree is rather an advantage than otherwise to the poor deluded creatures who seek their recreation at the waterside; he could not appreciate the real labour of salmon-fishing, and it is difficult to do so properly until you have foul-hooked a heavy fish, fresh run, and with a notion of his respon sibilities. Casting a long line with a big rod, in sun or wind especially, tires the brain, the back, the arms, and the legs of even the most enthusiastic; but you can stop to breathe when you like, and even venture to sit down on the bank or in the boat, until the long-desired moment arrives when you hook your fish, and then your time and energies are no longer your own. Directly the tug is felt, your fatigue vanishes like a dream, and if the hold is a good one, and your tackle worthy, all goes well; but sometimes a clumsy fish muffs his shot, and then all sorts of complications arise. You begin to understand that something is wrong when you have seen your salmon in mid-air, and know that he is nothing very tremendous, but still he will not come: he must be wellhooked, because the hold does not break under a strong and continuous strain, but beyond that you know nothing; and as time goes on, you wonder at the suggestion that a minute per pound is well under the proper limit of time to allow for the whole performance from cast to gaff. I gathered some experience in the following manner: It was very late in the season when I arrived at a certain log-built, match-boarded house on a certain river in the middle of Norway, but the news that nearly 2000 lbs. weight of salmon had been killed during the previous months made me hope that all the good things were not yet over, and I was early on the water. Anders, the tall, red-whiskered, flat-nosed boatman, was told off to carry my gaff and tackle-bag; and having crossed the hay-field beyond the picturesque farm buildings, we embarked in one of the clumsy, leaky boats of the country, which you can buy for the price of a silk hat: they are heavy to row, but impossible to upset, a pleasant quality to reflect upon when a big fish takes you down a piece of tumbling water, which at first looks anything but navigable to a British eye. After a little unsuccessful casting we floated into a long even pool with a high tree-topped bank on one side and dry stones on the other, which plainly told that the stream had fallen to its minimum: in a few minutes a salmon showed himself, and gave notice by his vermilion colouring that he had been residing on |