Ammarnäs from --:-- to --:--

Better late than never, an oft revisited theme of posts on this blog. 

I finally got my shit together this past summer to visit the Shafongs in their new habitat. On my arrival I was unsurprised to see Aarön was already displaying phenotypic adaptation to the novel environment. 

We tooled around Uppsala for a few days, had some late night bike-doubling run-ins with the cops, hit up the local snus merchant. A couple times. And visited a few of the university nation houses. All I'll say about that is the beer selection they keep on hand puts the average university bar to shame. 

Forget Nobel Prizes, this may be the greatest gift
Sweden has given the world.

After a couple days of acclimation we packed a whole bunch of food into the Volvo, watched Kim finish building a rod (literally until the last minute - the polymer was hardening in the car), and drove north towards Ammarnäs, pretty much at the Arctic circle. Which looks not a whole lot different than the foothills of the rockies near Nordegg. Except for the daylight, as we made the trip over midsommar (the solstice). Also the potato hill.

There were to be no romantic solnedgångs in Ammarnäs.

Mostly booze.

Totally reasonable timing.

Pretty much how busy the roads were for the whole drive.

Lappland welcomed us. Also, västerbotten is the name of a cheese that I
apparently can't pronounce. When ordered I receive spaghetti bolognese.

Reindeer, being feral.

Traditional midsommar crown of flowers, expertly crafted from ditch flora.

We eventually arrived at our Ammarnäs home, the cabins of Urban Berglund, Vindelåforsens Stugby. We showed up in time to meet he and his apprentice Michelle, and buy fishing licenses that started at midnight, which is a reasonable time to begin fishing up there.

Licensed. Also this cabin was rad, with a tiny woodstove and a sleeping area up above,
reached by treacherous stairs, though I never tried them totally sober.

Fuelling up on tube product...

...and some tippet checks at 11:45, in preparation for the first of the ritual midnight bites.

The midnight bite became an important part of our time at the stugby. It helped us keep track of the passing days, as everything else was a glorious blur of river, gluttony, snus, and box wine. 

KJ breaks in the new rod. Probably 12:30 am.

Also probably sometime between midnight and 2. According to local 
lore, a domestic dispute culminated in some guy being thrown from 
that small cabin into the river below.

Playing 'just the tippet'.

We explored a couple of the rivers in the area, and the bite was not crazy but we did see a few grayling and a brown that Aaron pulled out of the clearest, cleanest water I've ever fished. We were there early in the season, and the water had just come down from freshet. Ammarnäs has a famous strain of lake-run browns that get huge. We never saw these monsters. There is also an invasion of non-native lake trout in these rivers, stocked by some mad fisheries scientist of days gone by. They call them Canadian char. Apparently they are competing with the native browns, and this is obviously going to be a thesis chapter now. 

Michelle wanted to guide us up to some lakes one day to chase native trout and feed the flies. So we hiked into this series of lakes near the lower limit of the alpine and fished dries to rising browns. They were fishless until being 'stocked' by the indigenous Sami - reindeer herders - as they moved around the landscape following their herds. We appreciated their efforts. 

Glassy water revealed trout enthusiastically taking midges 
at the surface.

Coaxing my first native brown trout to the shore. This cemented a 
sort of deal I had made with myself. More on that later. 

All trout were released. This one just needed a breathing hole.

A note on surströmming - I consider myself to have a high tolerance for strange, fishy and strong flavours. I like anchovies, pickled herring, sardines. Surströmming was a lesson in humility. Opening the pressurized can in a beautiful mountain setting - not safely underwater - then consuming it nearly sober - not completely rocked on akvavit - were two major mistakes. I managed two pieces, and the rest is buried somewhere by a lake in northern Sweden.

Upon descending from the magical waters we prepared a feast, put forth a good effort on the box wine, had a quick dip in the refreshing waters of the Vindelälven and drew up plans to get our artisanal Potato Hill Vodka on the top shelf the finest hipster bars in Stockholm. I still think this is a good idea. 

Smoked trout, potatisar, and stories probably about pike fishing.

We eventually headed south again. The box wine ran out. And I had to get to Stockholm to follow through on a plan I had made months earlier. The one that catching a native brown cemented.  

Then a quick jaunt to Copenhagen where one of us ate so much that they vomited. You have three guesses on who this was. The food scene in Copenhagen is insane. Young chefs doing cool things. We got ourselves on the waiting list for Noma, but somehow over three days they didn't manage to seat all 10,476 people that were ahead of us. The beer there is also ridiculous. Scandinavia in general, I think. What will it take for Dave to hook us up with a nordic ale guest post?

Finally, on July 1st, a ride to the airport for my flight back (image below). Tired, sore, confused, but plotting how to get back there, somehow. They really have it figured out, the Swedes.

NERDS