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Rob Yorke ‘T'm sure that’s him !" “Check out the tight drainpipe black jeans ~ the mous- che!” “No way man, what would Lemmlg being doing at ‘Trontheim airport 2” No sign of guitars, the only odd shaped baggage in this airport involved a rod. A black T-shirt clad man, similar jeans, approaches ‘our’ rman, Heavy metal rings on guitar sliced fingers, he whis- pets something in his ear. Suddenly another man, also in black, joins them, They go to the front of the queue. As our rods are swept to one side by a loaded trolley of heavy-metal fenders, we stare with awe at the tattooed arms making their way to the plane. And so began the annual boys’ fishing trip at the same time as Motorhead's tour of Norway. One of the boys, Colin, knew of a tractor dealer in north Norway who was going to lead us t0 a river of lights. Any river would have done but Colin’ friend Dave, over a beer fuelled presentation to the test of us, had ad us drooling in anticipation. What we hadn't realised, shough, was this tractorman’s idea of fishing. Our imag nation had already soared ahead: mighty salmon-bending ap fly rods double. But Dave knew nothing of fly, and having caught a salmon the tractorman way, had urged us <0 follow local cradition Worming. A whiff of apprehension had swept over us purist boys. More used to fly, the idea of worm horrified 1s, Well, some of us. Will and Colin had readily packed their even cheaper spinning rigs while Jeremy and I held out to Ay. Rubbing shoulders with’ Motorhead a few hundred les shy of the Arctic Circle was a suitable boys’ tour start heading north from the airport ata sedate Norwegian -ed = 50 mph - we stopped to shop at a local store. A couple of the boys, away fiom wives, develop strange Jinary tastes. These have to be curtailed by the others to event us eating huge quantities of plastic frankfurters, cid cheese slices and not a single fresh vegetable However, a whole leg of dried pork was added to the bag sn case we didn't catch enough to eat. As if! Nothing much happens on these empty roads, except fr serums to one side of the minivan when crossing a 2. We find the accommodation basic but perfect for reason: walking distance to the river. And with the sound of a nearby stream and reels being untangled, we are soon well ensconced. That evening, tractorman led us to the river: massive, white water, sicing smashing rapids across a 50-metre width! We are all way ont of our depth both literally and piscatorially, but fine spray fom the ‘waterfills goes to our heads and, stripping off shirts, we shout maniacally into what we think is one of the mighty Namsen’ finest waterfills. We're then informed that its not the Namsen, only a tributary; and my idea of batting salmon with a 10-foot single-handed salmon fly rod is further dashed by a fast talking Geordie who appears in an ancient camper van wielding a 16-foot rod and fuelled by ‘numerous cans of bee. We crowd around him, asking questions. He cells all about the Namsen. “Great river, massive run but We lean in, “Fly's no. good this time of year; worming and spinning work best.” ‘Tractorman nods sagely and we venture to the river Clif rise majestically, bitch and alder sprawl over lower slopes while sandpipers patrol the bank as a deranged oys- tercatcher mobs me. My fly swings into the main current. A tug. No, it just the force of the water. Tractorman is, farther downstream practising his well proven technique ... bombing. This is basically a heavyweight paternoster kit -a home- made contraption of plastic tube with lead inserted, to allow for wastage on the rocky bottom, and a large hook on to which both a real and fake worm are threaded (the latter being soaked in a foul smelling liquid). The whole lot is lobbed into the current. Sometimes a piece of red is added to jolly up the whole rig. To say that this didn't require skill, would be a disservice. Gnarled finger on the line, sensing the weight trotting down the riverbed, con- centration on the knocking on the line = tractorman had the patience. All I can say is tha boys’ leg of pork was well chewed half way throu. week, whereas tractorman was happily drinking beer w: Geordie lad while wrapping his twelfth salmon in plas and black tape. ‘And what I haven't mentioned yet was the lack o' “Twenty-four-hour daylight plus an insatiable u even if against the odds, melted my brain into 2 merging the week into an incoherent collec fish, eel or rock midnig hou shifting © Wond All mo: than I do... sali mibep ceeenss. whisky all gravel ine naps,