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You can't buy love but you can buy heaven.
It is 46 degrees Fahrenheit when our jeep leaves the fishing lodge a little
past seven o'clock in the morning under a blindingly clear sky at East
Rango, Iceland. While the weather is frigid for a July morning in most
parts of the universe, this is Iceland, so close to the Arctic Circle if it
spikes to 58 degrees by noon as it sometime does, the nation will declare it
a heat wave, don their bikinis and cavort under the 23 hours of summer
sunlight, touted by its eager tourist bureau as the hottest place in the
coolest spot in the world.
Iceland is best understood as Alice gone through the Looking Glass where
the untouched beauty and wacky light is so eccentric one is never certain
they are still on planet earth. Overhead, the huge Icelandic sky is a cover
of fierce gray clouds as we snake past the banks of the Rango (pronounced
Rang-ow), a 14-mile long salmon (called Lax) river about 60 miles south of
Reykjavik.
Though East of Reykjavik, we are in the country's Southern part,
the gentlest area of Iceland's bizarre landscape of fire and ice and
thrashing waterfalls which are often turquoise. The South has been
compared to the great plains of the United States, if its fields were lush
green and filled with purple lichen, an imported plant which has
miraculously taken hold and spread all over the countryside causing purists
to become alarmed at the encroachment of foreign ways. There is also in the
countryside endless herds of sheep munching grass; and, the curious
Icelandic horses, short, stocky, sure-footed creatures with calm, eerily
confident brown eyes. The clouds, as we drive are an ever-changing
skyorama like a fast forward edit going from cloudy to blazingly clear,
punctuated by rain slanting behind a rainbow.
Fortunately, the rain is just a tease; and, we're in luck. Better
yet, there is no wind; the most despairing element of the island nation.
Looking around you can hear and see more migratory birds than a National
Geographic Special. Everywhere are salmon and trout rivers lapping over
rocks, sliding past cliffs. Thanks to the smolt (baby salmon) farms, the
country's salmon streams are being constantly replenished and there is no
catch and release policy which is a huge draw for many sport fishermen.
Although the streams are loaded with fish such as the easily caught trout
that actually jump onto the line, we are going for salmon, those arrogant
creatures who despite flies designed to look as beautiful as jewelry, remain
obstinately elusive.
Fear of foreign germs which could easily ravage Iceland's fragile
ecosystem has brought about fairly draconian government regulations. To
insure its waters remain the most pristine on the planet, all imported
fishing equipment must be decontaminated upon entry for a hefty fee.
Horseback riders, eager to try out the famous tolt gait of the small,
sure-footed Icelandic horse are not allowed to bring in helmets or boots.
This obsession for an environment free of contaminating germs from the
outside world also prohibits the importation of livestock. Up until a few
years ago, foreign dogs and cats were not allowed. Now permitted, the
animals who've been certified healthy by yards of documentation by foreign
veterinarians must endure a grueling six to eight week quarantine, on an
island off the west coast of the country.
Lest you think Iceland a quiet place because of its supreme emptiness
and isolated location, the island its natives call the rock, under its
surface its bursting with a gazillion kinds of volcanic activity being
the world's newest European land. Its youth in earth time makes it a
magnet for geologists, its stopover for migratory birds a feast for bird
watchers; and, its fighting salmon, a must for committed anglers. Within
sight of the Rango, rolling fields end at the slumbering outline of Mt.
Hekla, a still-active volcano, swathed in snow at its top. Iceland has a
tale for all its mountains, part of its national obsession with fairy tale,
truth. Hekla is the opening to hell.
We've come at the invitation of Angling Club Lax- to try our hand at
fly-fishing salmon, an endeavor so demanding, challenging, and exclusive
only 1500 anglers are allowed to fish for salmon in Iceland each year.
Each beat or stretch of the Rango is limited to two rods and one guide,
which is worked out in a rotation system that allows each angler to keep
his/her rod active all day long. Such exclusivity and difficulty in
capturing those kingly fish has spawned myriad fish tales, usually tragic,
about a skilled angler diligently saving his money to fish Iceland only to
spend days vainly casting his rod, while those lucky enough to get a bite
must then keep the salmon hooked which may necessitate chasing over the
banks in a struggle to keep the salmon hooked.
Skuli Kristinsson, 42, the head guide and manager at East Rango
for the Angling Club Lax- the country's biggest luxury sporting club,
drives the jeep in a jaunty fashion, smoking a cigarette with the rakish
aplomb of a Botswana bush baby. Skuli wears fashionable khaki-colored
Gortex waders and Polaroid shades. I am outfitted in a rented wader to
protect me from the freezing waters. The wader has all the comfort and ease
of movement of poured cement.
As we drive toward our beat where we will stand for the next five
hours reeling and kneeling, I recall the stacks of frozen salmon in the
lodge's freezer, wrapped and labeled with the name of their proud anglers,
who've come from around the world and are paying $1100 a day to fish the
Rango, which reportedly netted 800 salmon last year with an average weight
of 8 pounds A young Frenchman and his father who will be fishing
adjacent to us told me that in the past two day they had caught over 20
salmon. They have fished all over the world and go into ecstasy about the
cleanliness of Iceland's water. They are brimming with confidence that
this morning will bring more salmon.
Getting out of the jeep is the first hurdle I face in my awkward
strait-jacket gear. I am certain I will simply fall headlong out of the
vehicle, since clambering in was a momentous struggle. However, such
concerns are momentarily dispatched by the beauty of the scene, the rich
blue waters, the absolute emptiness and quiet of the landscape. This, of
course is why people come, catching fish not the least of the reasons; but
the majestic calm is jarring.
I've never fished for anything I tell Skuli. Icelanders don't
snicker when you reveal your inadequaucies; they make this nasal,
reproachful huh sound.
Skuli, a famed fly maker, who has assisted barons and bankers onto the
secret troves of the river, patiently tied their flies and, in some
instances cast their rods, tells me without a speck of sarcasm it will be a
miracle if I catch anything.
After a few hours, nothing is biting, not as much as a clump of dirt-
there is a moment of great excitement when the older Frenchman thinks he's
hooked a feisty salmon; and, then, the disappointment - it's a fat red
trout. The trout is tossed back into the water. The Frenchmen are
discouraged and anxious to move on to another beat where they are certain
their luck will change. At noon, we take a break and drive back to the
lodge. It isn't that the fish aren't biting they are but where exactly
and how long one must keep their line in the water well, that's where
patience, experience and plain luck come into the picture. While I am
marveling at all of this information that I do not know and realizing that
it will indeed be a miracle if I - or anybody else catches anything this
day, Skuli proceeds to tell me about a particular kind of salmon angler who
is divined to catch fish, possessing some kind of inexplicable talent for
such things. Skuli admits he is not so blessed.
Though he is constantly in the Rango during the fishing season
from June 20 to September 30, Skuli says if he weren't a guide he could
never afford to fish the country's crystalline streams all of which are
privately owned and leased to outfitters such as the Angling Club. The club
arranges fishing tours for 17 salmon rivers throughout the country including
the ultra-exclusive Laxa in sum in the North, which costs $3,850 a day to
fish, limited to two rods. It is said to produce the highest number of
salmon a day and is always booked. It's a favorite of pop star Eric Clapton
who reportedly caught 80 salmon there. He was so thrilled he gave his guide
gold Rolex. Clapton arrives and leaves, as do many of the Lax guests, in
a private jet.
Prior to hooking up with Princess Di, Prince Charles was an
enthusiastic angler in Iceland's Laxo in Adaldal in the North. A few days
before I arrived at Rango, opera great, Dame Kiri Te Kanawa had been fishing
there. In a newspaper interview, Dame Kiri cooed over the two salmon she
managed to hook, one that got away and one that didn't, bragging that it
weighed a respectable 8 pounds. Kiri and her party hauled in a total of
15 salmon.
On the day we are present, there is much excitement over the
approaching visit of 9 bankers from Germany's giant Deutschebank who will be
fishing for a week, and have rented out the lodge and the river, kit and
caboodle. I imagine the major concern among the guides and tour directors
is that they catch something; because I am discovering a few hours into this
that not even the fine French anglers are having any luck and those guys
know what they're doing.
After returning to the lodge where we discard (temporarily) our
waders in the spiffy new drying room, where the more fortunate fisherman
register and pack what they've caught and deliver it into the freezer, we
barrel into the dining room starving and exhausted. The lodge is luxe by
all standards of fishing lodges, with a formal dining room set with linen
and china. There is a heavenly smell of fresh baked bread, a huge salad
brimming with sweet Icelandic tomato and hydro phonically grown lettuce (a
new and welcome addition to Icelandic tables) creamy mushroom soup, chicken
casserole with rice and a dessert of strawberry parfait with miles of
whipped cream. This is all prepared from scratch by a cheery, ginger-haired
young woman named Christy, a transplant from Zimbabwe who spends the winter
in Greenland and has worked her magic for as many as 26 guests.
At four o'clock, after a nap in the Spartan but spanking clean
shared bedroom, there are two rods to each room - its back into the waders
and six hours of fishing in a new beat.
Buoyed by the luxurious rest, the wonderful food and
encouragement of the guides and fellow anglers, there is every belief
salmon will be caught on this round which will last until ten in the
evening, when it will still be light thanks to the midnight sun. We pass
green fields stacked with circular bales of hay wrapped in plastic that look
as though they might come rolling down onto the road at any moment.
Attached to the hood of the jeep are two fly-fishing rods that stick out in
front like strange antennae.
Other than the Frenchman and his son fishing adjacent to us, their
lines streaking out over the pristine water with the ease of smoke trailing
from a cigarette, there is nobody here. The clear, icy water moves gently.
The sky is cloudier, which our frustrated neighbors report is a good sign,
more fishing lore that fish bite more readily when the weather is cloudy.
Skuli scoffs.
The salmon is immune to the weather, he states. The salmon have
only one reason to return. They're horny. It is up to the anglers to
seduce those indifferent creatures with their brilliant flies, keep them
interested long enough to hook them; and, most important keep them on the
hook no matter how much running and falling are necessary.
As Skuli calmly ties flies, he directs his assistant, Jakob, who
is to be my personal guide, to go with me down stream and magically suss out
the invisible salmon. Jakob, I am told, has a talent for seeing under the
water.
As Jakob and I clump off in search of the intrepid salmon, I steal a
sidelong glance to watch Skuli cast off. He does it so perfect and
effortlessly, it could be an ad.
For a few glorious moments, Jakob and I stare at the running stream
waiting for a school of salmon that he confides has been sighted up stream.
They should be here any minute says Jakob, allowing it would be much
easier if we were fishing for trout. We'd have dozens by now he says.
After a half hour, it is apparent that the salmon have, the rascals
that they are, evaded us. I sit on the bank watching Skuli and the
Frenchmen intently involved in some mystical communication between
themselves and the absent salmon. It is so quiet that the only sound you
can hear is the sound of the lines whistling above the water and the birds.
Above us fly flocks of pink-footed goose, snipes hover making their
unique vibrating sounds; golden plover glide, arctic terns dive-bomb. The
elegant black tailed godwits are nearly invisible in the high grasses of the
river bank.
We very well might be the only people on earth; which, Skuli says
is the other great joy about salmon fishing. Some people might call that
heaven.
At ten o'clock in the evening, the anglers return to the lodge,
the lucky ones weighed down with their catch. The waders are placed in a
drying room and guests may choose to relax in the bar, soak in the hot tub,
cool out in the sauna. About 10:30 or 11:00 p.m. dinner is served. Given
all day to be creative, Christy and her assistants are full of delightful
surprises. Here in the middle of the wilds, there is such cosmopolitan fare
as sushi appetizers; Icelandic free range lamb roast stuffed with feta
cheese and dried tomato; baked new Icelandic potatoes, home-baked bread.
Dessert is a lemon meringue tart. A half dozen languages are being spoken
in the most congenial fashion. A group of Spaniards have brought their own
olive oil. There is coffee and liqour.
And then to sleep. The rooms, all doubles, are simple, but
almost too fancy by all sensible fishing standards. Yet, this is not
ice-fishing in Minnesota. The beech wood floor bristles with cleanliness.
There are two narrow twin beds with crisp white linen duvets covering down
comforters, two pillows and reading lamps for each bed. There is a private
bath and good shower and on each pillow there is placed a piece of wrapped
chocolate for sweet salmon dreams.
Invest in your soul - go fishing..
To: Contact Angling Club Lax - A
please call +354 557 6100
or visit him on his page.
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