No four-pounder this year……, Taavaetno.

At noon we crawled into the well-filled old Beaver plane by the beach of River Tornealv. Our pilot, with for the latitude somewhat southern dialect, gave the throttle a push and we were on our way to this summer’s great adventure.

The trip had started early in the morning from Skelleftea and Umea with four expectant fly fishermen looking forward to a week in the wilderness.

We probably looked a bit silly with our pockets filled with provisions in order to cut costs for overweight (55 sek/kilo). The feeling in the stomach when the plane took off was probably as much caused by the last tuck-in as by the expectations. Expedition Taava consisted of “Janne”, “Hasse”, “Bosse” and last but not least “Berra”.

When the plane finally landed on a mountain lake nearby “our” river we met with another group of fishermen catching the plane back. They looked a bit strange in their winter caps but we quickly realized that it was to protect the head from an abundance of mosquitoes.

Once the unpacking was done we made camp on a sand ridge beside River Tavvaetno. With the tents in place we started pumping up the rubber boat that we were going to use for floating back to the civilization. Settling down, the coffee cooked on that old and sooty Trangia kitchen tasted better than coffee ever does back home.

Finally we had arrived in that part of the tundra so popularly called “Sand Ridge Country” in the fishing press. The topography of this area is tundra with alternating sand ridges and moors bedded in by man high undergrowth and crystal clear mountain creeks. Honestly, I had thought that the terrain would be rougher this far north instead of the soft landscape that was before us.

The first 24 hours of fishing along Ittejokk creek, a tributary to River Tavvaetno, was very intense. A long days journey was moving along into the almost unnoticeable night with us managing to stay awake on a never-ending stream of coffee cups. We presented our flies to huge graylings ploughing the water like pikes in their hunt, making smacking sounds as they sucked the insects from the surface. Back in base camp at 04.00 in the morning we had dinner. The night frost had coloured everything around us and for a while the mosquitoes had taken a rest. This far north of the Arctic Circle the bright summer nights did something to our diurnal rhythm and we often had dinner in the small hours of each 24 hour period. Our cook had composed an incredible menu for the week, or what do you say about cognac flambéed steak with red wine, tortellini with cheese sauce? Normally this kind of luxury would have been impossible, but floating down a river rather than carrying your packing does make a difference.

Summer was, according to the locals, three weeks late and the first hatches of caddis had just occurred the week before our arrival. Other fishermen that we met often became very silent with a strange look in their face when Hasse used to ask them: No four-pounder this year then?

The sound of the water was only drowned by the never-ending buzz of perpetual mosquitoes. In spite of all thinkable insect repellents we finally gave up and put the mosquito hats on as the intensity was too much for us. My lips got all swollen and Janne and Berra became slightly sick with a strong headache on top.

Hasse had gotten a tip about a hidden pool under a small waterfall that was said to contain large trout, but after extensive searching we realized we were not going to find it. I guess it stays hidden.

On some nights the civilization felt very remote, especially when the fog came creeping in the early hours and bedded the red sun so that only the silhouettes of the surrounding sand ridges could be seen.

In the larger calm waters of River Lainio whitefish rose to natural insects close to our boat. However, they totally ignored our flies. Most of the fish caught was also released. The thing is to outsmart the fish not to exterminate, wouldn’t you say?

We saw, during our trip, an abundance of locally common birds, for example ptarmigan, as well as reindeer and bear. I’m sorry to say that we missed taking pictures of most since it isn’t too smart having you camera at hand whilst rift water rafting. After a couple of days we were getting the hang of how to actually steer our boat through the rapids and we appointed Berra captain of the boat. We started paddling more efficient after that, something well needed in the class 4 rapids. Despite this, our repair kit had to be used more than once……..

The choice of fly was by no means obvious and the fish quite selective, but one fly that worked really well was Hans V. Klinken’s “Klinkhamer”.

Many of the rapids were named by acquaintances of Hasse and amongst others there were “purpur-selet”, “”3G”, “Loodh-strykan” and “Westrin-udden”. Berra that with the help of one of the most chewed up caddis flies you’ve ever seen, name “Rackelhanen”, caught four large graylings from the same spot and got the place named “4B” by us. One of the largest trout seen on this trip took the fly and leader from a frustrated Janne, but it’s the ones that you loose that inspires you.

When we landed at Jårkastakka we had travelled 92 kilometres and forced our way through 28 rapids by boat.

We were picked up by a man of the forest and mountains who fascinated us with his bear stories, and his driving technique with a trailer on a small forest road. Not even Janne dared to look elsewhere than on the road.

The part of Taavaetno that the County Board of Administration had given us permission to fish bore little trace of man and we tried to leave no trace of us (except for Hasse’s well-filled fly box with large affectional value).

Many say that this is a grayling fisherman’s dream water, and we cannot but agree even though we did not catch that four-pounder. We only got half the way.

/Bo Lindfors