Highlights
ICELAND LUXURY SALMON FISHING
You cant buy love but you can buy heaven. $1100 a day including meals.
Iceland - Luxury Salmon Fishing
By
Roberta Ostroff
You can’t buy love but you can buy heaven. $1100 a day including meals.
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 Rangį, 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 Rangį (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 Rangį, 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-Į 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 Rangį 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 Rangį for the Angling Club Lax-Į 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 Rangį, 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 Rangį 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 Lįxa in Įsum 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-Į guests, in a private jet.
Prior to hooking up with Princess Di, Prince Charles was an enthusiastic angler in Iceland’s Laxį in Adaldal in the North. A few days before I arrived at Rangį, 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 ½ 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 liqueur.
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.
