Lost in the fog

There’s a place my family has, a cabin tucked away in what I like to call trout mecca. Lakes and rivers are scattered all over, and I could spend a lifetime exploring them without even scratching the surface. It’s the kind of place that pulls at your heartstrings, knowing there’s always something bigger, wilder, and untamed waiting for you.

 

Once a year, I try to make the trip, but time is never on my side. This year, my girlfriend, sister, and dad joined me for a weekend, and while it wasn’t going to be a hardcore fishing trip, I packed my fly rods anyway, because you never know.

 

The first day, we stayed close to the cabin. I took out my float tube while my girlfriend paddled around in the kayak. The wind made things tricky, and the fish weren’t much to brag about, but it was still a good time. Later, we fired up the grill, shared some beers, and talked late into the evening. Even with all the good company, though, I couldn’t shake the thought of the big trout out there. Late summer is their season, and I knew there were spots nearby that could hold true giants.

 

By the time night rolled in, I couldn’t hold back anymore. The sky was still bright enough to see, as it often is in Norway this time of year, so I geared up, grabbed my electric scooter, and headed out. The road was quiet, no cars, no city noise, just the hum of my scooter and the occasional rustle of leaves. The fog was thicker than I’d ever seen, a blanket of white that swallowed everything more than 10 meters away.

 

Twenty minutes later, I arrived at a spot between two lakes, connected by a short current, too short to call a river, but deep enough to hide big fish. This place had delivered some amazing trout last year, and I had high hopes for tonight. The water was glassy, the air was still, and the fog made it feel like the world had disappeared.

I tied on a black streamer, knowing the big boys in this area rarely bother with dries. These trout, once they hit a kilo, turn into predators. They hunt fish, mice, anything that moves. I swung my fly through the current, letting it drift, waiting for that tug. For two hours, I worked the water. Nothing. Just the sound of my line slicing the air and the occasional splash of something in the distance.

 

Finally, as I let the fly swing through the current again, there it was, a strike! The fish missed the hook, but my heart was racing. I cast again, the streamer disappearing into the fog. A few strips later, it hit again, this time sticking. The reel screamed as the trout ran with the current, but after a short fight, I netted it. Not the monster I’d hoped for, but a solid fish nonetheless.

 

I moved downstream to where the lake opened into a long gravel run. The water here was something else, crystal clear, knee-deep for over 100 meters, with a deep trench just off the gravel bar. It was the perfect setup: calm, rippling water with fog hanging low like a curtain. If I were a trout, I’d be here.

 

I waded out, step by cautious step, until I couldn’t see land anymore. Just water and fog. The silence was eerie, but I loved it. I cast into the ripples with a small black streamer on a long fluorocarbon leader, letting it drift slowly. A splash behind the fly made my heart leap, but the fish didn’t commit.

 

I kept moving, casting, stripping, watching. Then I saw it, a massive trout cruising in the shallows right by me. It moved fast, hunting. I cast ahead of it, and the wave of water behind my fly told me it was locked in. But again, it turned away at the last second.

 

This time, I made a longer cast, giving the trout space. The streamer vanished into the fog, and as I stripped it back, I saw it, the water bulging and parting like a plow behind the fly. The trout was so close to the surface, its pursuit pushing a wake through the calm water. My heart raced as the disturbance grew larger, each strip of the line bringing it closer. This time, the fish didn’t hesitate. A swift attack, a hard tug, and my reel sang as the trout bolted. I held tight, the rod bending under the fish’s power. It charged back to the ripples, shaking its head violently, and the line disappeared into the fog. My heart raced.

 

The fight was long, back and forth, with the trout taking line, me gaining it back. Finally, it started to tire. I guided it gently into my net, my hands shaking as I realized how big it was. A male trout, dark-backed with a crooked jaw and a tail like a paddle. I knelt in the water, letting both of us rest, the fish recovering in the net as I caught my breath.

 

After a quick photo and a heartfelt thanks, I slipped him back into the water, watching as he vanished into the fog. My hands were shaking, heart still hammering, and I figured nothing could top that moment. But, as it goes in fishing, you never really know what’s coming next.

 

I threw another cast, figuring it was worth one more go. The fly hit the water and WHAM, a hit almost instantly. This one wasn’t just strong, it was angry. The rod bent hard, and before I could blink, the fish went airborne, thrashing like it was auditioning for a circus. Then it darted straight under my legs, and for a second, I thought I’d lose it right there.

 

Somehow, the hook held, and I managed to turn her back around. She bolted again, this time running hard into deeper water, the reel buzzing as I gave her some room to fight. It wasn’t a long run, but she was deliberate, every head shake felt like she was testing every knot and inch of my setup.

 

I kept steady pressure, slowly working her back toward me, step by step. When I finally got a good look, her golden sides flashed under the surface, cutting through the still, clear water. She wasn’t as long as the first, but she was thicker, built for power. Even as she tired, she kept surging, refusing to make it easy.

 

Eventually, I guided her into the net, my hands shaking as I knelt down in the cold water. She rested there for a moment, her gills pumping, the light catching the faint hues of gold and silver along her body. I let out a deep breath, soaking in the moment. Two fish like this, back-to-back, in the middle of nowhere, it was something special

 

After a few pictures and some time resting in the net, she seemed ready to go. I lifted her gently, and as soon as she slipped from my hands, she bolted in a splash, vanishing back into the depths as if the fight had never happened. Just like that, it was over.

 

I stayed there for a moment, knees in the water, letting it all sink in. The fog was starting to clear, and I could make out the faint outline of the land again. There was no need for another cast, I had everything I came for. Feeling grateful, I packed up my gear, waded back to shore, and made my way to the cabin.

 

Back at the cabin, I cracked a beer and sank into the chair by the window, staring out into the stillness of the night. The fog lingered in my mind, just as thick and quiet as it had been on the water. I might catch bigger trout someday, but the feeling of that night, the solitude, the thrill, the connection to something wild, will stay with me forever. It wasn’t just the fish, it was everything about that moment that made it unforgettable.