We had for the last days been discussing if the great fishing we had been experiencing soon would come to an end. Talking with Randulf Valle, who had recommended the route to us, prior to our trip, he told me that we would find the best fishing before entering Snowdrift River. There were still some thirty kilometers to Snowdrift, but we wondered if the good fishing slowly would diminish, or if it would stay this great all the way until Eileen River merged with the Snowdrift.
Our concerns were soon swept away. Even before breakfast, half a dozen lake trout were dragged ashore, and our island turned out to be a fisherman’s paradise. On every second or third attempt, a trout averaging at about 1,5 kilos would take the bate. It felt like we had died and gone to heaven.
After yesterdays hard work, there were obvious that this spot would be our camp for the day. Walking around, I could hardly lift my heavy feet, and it took great effort just to stroll around exploring the small island.
The dogs had been feed mostly on fish for the last days, and we tried to save the dog food for when the fishing would get poorer. Linc had become quite thin, and we kept on dragging fish out of the water to stag his hunger, but the beast had no bottom in his starved belly. Finally Bernt proclaimed that the feeding had to stop, fearing that the dog would get serious bellyaches, or worse.
When night came, the weather suddenly changed. During the day, it had been a light wind from the north, but suddenly it became quite still. I caught the opportunity to get my flyrod out, but just as sudden the wind turned and picked up a great speed, whipping the lake white from the south. Again the Land showed us how fast it could change from friendly to harsh in just minutes. And again we were lucky not to be out on the water. The wind brought the night, and with our bellies full we crept into the tent.
Bernt: 0,3 0,5 0,6 1,0 0,6 1,4 1,8
Håvard: 1,2 1,2 0,4 1,4 1,5