“The Nodurá is located just an hours drive from Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland. It is Iceland’s most productive natural river and offers an incredibly diverse fishing experience. In June 2012 Stewart Roberts went to the Nordurá, read on to see how the story unfolds…” Alex
It was the morning of our second full day on Nordura and my knees were already suffering from the efforts of extensive walking and troublesome wading. The locals told me when we arrived that in Iceland the Nordurá is known as “the young man’s river”, now I understand why!
Yesterday had been a good day for my fishing companion Smithy who had caught his first and second ever salmon under the only clouds we had seen so far in our stay, but I still drew a blank.
The sky was spotless today after the clouds had disappeared at sunset last night, or was it sunrise this morning…?. In Iceland at the end of June, they happen at the same time, around 01.00 – 01.30.
Today we were going into Beat 2, the canyon. Elvar our ghillie drove us a short distance from the lodge after breakfast, saying that this would mean it was then only a short walk down to the river. About 300 yds later, down 40 ft slopes and steps that were much steeper, we arrived at the bottom of the canyon directly in front of the Stokkhylsbrot pool. The pool looked serene and very inviting running 40 yds down the near side bank of the crystal clear river. It was about 30 yds wide at this point and narrowing downstream with steep rock faces rising on both sides. We were going to save this pool for later; firstly we were going upstream a few hundred yards to Laugarkvorn which sits around 2/3 mile below the wonderful Laxfoss falls.
Smithy caught one of his fish up there yesterday on a small hitch tube. He fished just the 12 feet of leader that was hanging from the top of his favourite 10 ft #7 Sharpes, his back was hard against the huge rock in the mid right flow of the falls. He held the hitch out at arm’s length as though he was dapping with a Mayfly on floss. As it bounced and skated across the top of the enormous torrent of white water only a few feet away, a bright fresh bar of silver stormed up and out from the depths, turned, and mouth open, engulfed the fly on its way back down. I watched Smithy from the other side of the river as he fought a valiant fight for a couple of minutes before the fish turned and ran unstoppably downstream, riding the thousands of gallons of bubbling water dropping from the falls. Without regard for the security of his footings, Smithy followed out to the side and down river at pace. It’s funny how you often slip or trip when you try to take care wading on rough ground, but with a salmon on the line, you tend to think you’re invincible and you normally get away with it. Eventually finding some quieter water near the bank some 30 yards down river, Smithy spent five more minutes battling until he successfully landed a beautiful, lice covered cock fish of around 6 1/2lbs
To get to Laugarkvorn we had to cross to the left bank. Slightly upstream, the river was at its narrowest, deepest and strongest, and strung tightly across the turquoise depths was a trolley wire with a well-constructed aluminium trolley fit for two. Our ghillie had got to the trolley by dancing around the sheer outcrop of rock, with its short but far too simple drop into the dangerous water below. By this time we had agreed on his nickname (a recommended past time for any fishing party). Elvar crossed the jagged and slippery rocks both on the banks and along the bed of the river, like a mountain goat, and a brief conversation with our lodge host had uncovered the Icelandic translation. From now on, Elvar would be known as Ghillie Geit, “ghillie the goat”.
I crossed first, followed by Smithy, and then the two of us chased after The Goat as he skipped at full speed across the rocks up the left bank towards where I was to fish, with Smithy fishing a further 400 yards upstream.
In the middle of Laugarkvorn, the rapids dropped a couple of feet in short order like a small weir and directly above that was the concentrated tail of the pool. Just left of mid-stream, about 2 yards above the rapids, a sizable rock broke the surface on the far side of the pool and there was another rock a yard or so further up. Nordura is 25 yards wide at this point and with the whole pool being only 10 ft wide and 40 ft long I thought this could easily be a short and unproductive stay. The bright sun and a weak backhand cast complicated by the strong downstream wind, just added to the chances of my continued abject failure.
“It’s the hitch again” said The Goat, “downstream cast, drop it in the slow water to the far side of the pool, lift the rod and let it swing across with the current into the faster flow keeping a nice steady V wake”.
A ½ inch Hairy Mary hitch tube was tied to the end of the leader, waving in the wind from the last ring of my 10 ft #8 Sage rod, bought especially for the trip.
The first 20ft of the pool was really a casting lesson…. A bad casting lesson. When I tried to hit a good 45’ angle, the required back cast direction change, twisted the line in the wind behind me and many times wrapped around itself and sometimes flicked me in the back of the head as the cast flew forward. The leader hardly straightened.
Eventually I managed to construct a single handed backhand snake roll. It looked overly dramatic but it straightened the back cast nicely and allowed me to punch the line across the flow with the help of the wind. Now it was all working, the fly flew cleanly at 45’ through the wind, hit the slow water, and waked beautifully as it coursed down and across the current; I worked my way down the last few metres to the tail.
I had to hit the slack water just after the first rock allowing the hitched fly to swing round across the bow wave at the front of the second. Easier said than done but second time out it landed on the target.
Lifting the rod, the fly picked up and rode across the bow wave and into the tail, as it built up speed a tungsten coloured head suddenly broke through the surface right behind it and then disappeared again. Time stopped, along with my breathing. The fly continued across the rest of the flow but the water remained quiet. ‘Was that a salmon?’ I said, stating the bleeding obvious. No answer was required.
The next cast fell short but a quick mend let it stay straight as it moved to the last rock and the tail again. I stared intently trying to relax and telling myself not to strike. This time the fish came early, chasing across the surface for a few inches before hitting the fly. The line tightened quickly and the rod ducked but the tug lasted only a moment. Again there was no repeat as fly completed its drift.
As the line lay nicely across the pool for the third time, the fly passed the previous hit point and continued; my luck had exhausted me. Then without warning, a full 18 inches from the waking fly, my tungsten tormentor burst clear of the pool, showing its full torpedo shaped body and jumping from right to left across the pool, landing right on top of Hairy Mary. I was holding the rod with one hand, the other being clear of the line so I wouldn’t strike, as it immediately bowed down again. The click drag on my Hardy reel made a wonderful zipping rasp. And then stopped!
Two more adrenalin filled casts failed to hit the right spot but then I reached the rock again. I had lost hope but, the salmon had not. It was definitely either annoyed or in love with Mary so it came again on the following cast and yet again on the one after that. There were no tugs but an aggressive chase on both, just a few inches behind the fly.
As I went to cast again Elvar said we should change the fly, was he kidding? What was wrong with this one, the fish loved it?
As my brain overruled my heart it reminded me that he had chosen the pool, he put me on the fish and he’s fished the river for around 20 years (he’s only 30). It was time for a Sunray Shadow, about 3/4 inch long with the protruding plastic tube cut at a 60′ angle to a point to help it move up and down.
The change in fly and its weight disturbed my casting rhythm a little but soon enough the Sunray landed out near that rock. I stripped slowly and it coursed fast across the flow just under the surface. As it went through mid-stream, the sun caught the glinting back of my quarry as it broke through the water from behind the fly and surged towards it. A tug on the line, a zip of the reel and a quick shake of the rod tip, but again all went quiet.
I turned and somewhat in self-defence and for some necessary self-preservation and reassurance, said out load “I didn’t strike, I waited, and I waited! What else can I do?”
I cast again.
This time, a jump and another tug as the fish landed directly onto the fly. I’m sure the grilse was having more fun than me but I was fitting a week’s worth of hits into 15 minutes and really couldn’t complain, this action was astonishing, even if incredibly frustrating.
If I knew I could find another fish in another pool that might want my fly this much, I would retreat to the bank, light a cigar and then move on, but I couldn’t give up now so twice more across the pool I sent the Sunray to do its job.
My legs were now aching; I had locked my knees against the current 20 minutes ago and hadn’t moved much since but as the fish broke the surface yet again, this time to chase my fly for another 2 feet without taking. The pain was definitely more mental than physical.
The previous night in Nordura lodge we’d been chatting with some of the locals. They were fishing the river for the sixth year in a row and at one stage, while their minds were still clear of libation; there was a comment about the bright conditions being best satisfied with a micro fly being fished on a traditional swing. This was our next option and short of a hand grenade, probably our last option.
The tiny Night Hawk, tied on a size 16 double, went on. To make sure it got a little depth as it swung off the last rock I stretched a large upstream mend to slow the drift.
Twice it went through and twice I felt a knock, but having not previously fished below the surface, it could have been catching on the rapids. Elvar assured me that there was just one sizeable rock in the middle of the very bottom of the tail and I was short of that, so our salmon was interested in the Night Hawk.
Third time through, a big mend, the fly was passing the rock and then the line went solid.
I slowly lifted to pull the fly from the rock but the rock pulled back and the reel span once. I lifted further and a jogging curve shaped into the rod, I was in!
The fish held station for a few moments that felt like an age but then ripped upstream. A wonderful bow wave, with the top of its tail showing, it was quicker than I could wind so after 20ft the rod was vertical and I was desperately trying to regain contact and put tension back into it. My salmon stopped in the middle of the pool and as it kited left and right across the flow I stepped away from it to try and get a better angle to bring it out of the fast water.
It held tight and the tension delivered a beautiful curve back into the rod. The strength of the flow along with the fish, which could only be 6 or 7lb, was enormous, it just moved wherever it wanted to go, and where it wanted to go next was upstream again. It shot up and out of the pool, 20 ft, 30 ft and then 40 ft above me, out of the neck into the open water, spray spinning off my reel as I lost more than just the little line I had gained since the battle started.
I fought to keep my balance as I side stepped against the current and over the rocks to try and recover a good position while the fish continued upstream. If I could keep contact and then get just above it, pulling the fish across to the bank was going to be a lot easier above the pool as the flow was much wider and less severe.
I’d been playing the fish for about 4 or 5 minutes, it had been playing me for about 20! But we were getting close to the time that matters, and as I drew level and still had good contact, for the first time I thought I might ultimately be the victor.
With the salmon sitting solid in the middle of the river I tightened down further, a little more drag and a slight side strain and my line started to move and cut cleanly towards the bank.
One foot, two feet, it was coming steady but sure.
Another lift and wind and the salmon turned towards me, but with a flash of its tail it made a perfect pirouette, and immediately headed downstream at full throttle.
As though it was jet propelled, it tore into the fastest current and down into the pool, the reel screaming a monotone rather than a click. 5, 10 and then 15 yards, it wasn’t going to stop and there wasn’t much further before I’d see it disappear over the drop at the end of the pool.
Gritting my teeth, I palmed the reel to lock it up and swung the tip of the rod away from me to try and turn its head. It torpedoed to within a foot or two of the drop and as the reel locked up my rod bent to the butt and the 10lb tippet took the full strain. Thankfully it held firm.
The fish turned 90 degrees right and swung briefly away from me across the very bottom of the pool and stopped in its tracks on the far side. I still had it, but it was over 60 ft away so I started back down the river, over the same rocks that tried to trip me on the way up. If it turned again, it only had a couple of feet to go before it would definitely escape, so I carefully kept full pressure until I got back to the middle of the pool.
As I settled into position to try and gain the upper hand again, I could feel it had gone much deeper than previously. I lifted and ultimately lent in with the full strength of the rod, but it stayed deep and wouldn’t move. I thought the fish must have been weakened from its recent runs so I wanted to take advantage of that but I couldn’t shift it, side strain to the left and then to the right made no difference.
A minute or two passed and it dawned on me that I couldn’t feel the fish moving. The fight was over.
My fish had taken me to the very tail of the pool, swum around that one sizeable submerged rock at the bottom, and come back upstream the other side, skilfully lodging my size 16 into the rock on its way by. It was over.
In around half an hour, I had developed a new cast, clambered 150 ft up and down the pool, and repeatedly held my breath as the salmon went for my fly a total of eleven times.
As Ghillie Geit hopped across the sunken rocks and waded deep into the pool to dislodge my fly from the rock he shouted over, “it was a very fresh silver hen! It had to be a hen as only a woman can screw with you that much!!!!!!”
Stewart Roberts