Looking at a scene like this, the thinker, the artist, the photographer, the writer in me is consumed by reflection: reflection of light, of big sky, of the beauty we are privileged to indulge ourselves in and, thanks to the tranquillity the scene evokes, reflection also of the day’s events, mortality or some tiff over the cost of a mere bauble. Drifting on the water, chilled, looking deliberately away from the reluctantly setting sun, it is the barely flexing surface and the infinite space above it that seduces the imagination.
The angler though is otherwise engaged. Beneath that slightly distorted sky, in a dimension invisible to the naked eye, is another world. Limitless depths play host to nutrients and currents, layers of life, weeds and reeds, submerged vaults rich with shrimp, the sinking hoards of deceased insects and the emerging larvae of those yet to flex their wings. In this dark, unfathomable cosmos there’s a universe as bewildering in its complexity as that in the heavens beyond the clouds above. And there are fish. From the humble Roach, to the gargantuan she Pike nestling along those shores: millions of largely untouchable lives that will never collide in that infinitesimal space at the tip of a barbless hook, with ours.
The big questions aren’t “What is the meaning of life?” and “How big is the Universe?” No, they are “Have any of the 2,500 trout introduced two years ago survived the onslaught of Pike and Perch?” and “Are there really any Arctic Char in here?”

Chuffed. Words and picture by Nick Small.

Back in 2002, we had our first adventure in the subarctic wilderness of Northern Sweden. Taking the hire car we travelled just out of Arvidsjaur (a town fans of Northern Exposure would recognise it as a sort of Swedish Cicely) and followed a rough forest track along the Byske river.
The girls were 10, still a good way from their sullen teens. Swimming and generally messing about by water were still acceptable, indeed desirable, ways to spend a day. I fashioned them each a fishing rod from birch twigs, and with some glee they were able to dangle bait off a ledge into a deep pool, where shoals of psychopathically ravenous perch competed with some ferocity to be unceremoniously yanked from the water.
This was Dorigen’s first ever catch. The mixture of surprise and delight is there for all to see. She didn’t much like the killing bit (well, not at first anyway) but within five minutes this particular perch had been grilled to perfection, dangled from a pointed stick over a campfire. With a quick squeeze of lemon juice it was wolfed down. Then, wearing the primal satisfied glow that only comes from catching and cooking your own lunch, she was back to the river for more.
Back then I was still snapping on a battered old Canon Ixus, but the technical deficiencies of this cropped scan matter little when the moment means so much.

A Moment. Words and picture by Nick Small.

A fifteen year old girl, wrenched from the boy she loves to some remote and forsaken land, finds a moment. Here the mobile phone lies indolent and the threads of the worldwide web have yet to form. But the bristling anger and resentment subsides, and the dearth of shops selling goth accoutrements is temporarily forgotten. There’s nothing to do but stand upwind of the smoke from the lakeside campfire, digest the grilled Perch, and idle away some time.

The surface of the water aids reflection, and amplifies all sound….even that of the silence. She gazes absently and says quietly, for the thousandth time in a week “I really miss Sean”.

“I know”, I say “but take the time to drink in this view, and attach it to what you’re feeling: this moment will stay with you forever”.

She almost smiles, but I can see the shimmer of a tear. For a brief instant, we stand together, she and I, the hateful man that dragged her to this dismal and desolate hell.

I know there’s a beautiful picture in front of me.

“Just stay still, exactly as you are” I say, as I slide the little Sony T3 from it’s pouch. No sudden moves…she may take flight. Slowly I frame the shot. There’s little light, and the lens is small, so a steady hand is essential. To my surprise, her patience holds, and I’m able to shoot.

I look at her. I’m filled with love and empathy. We all know that gnawing pain of helpless adolescence.

She holds her gaze a little longer than I need, and then explodes in a blur of flailing arms and fury:

“Fucking bastard mosquitos. I hate the fucking bastards. Why do they always pick on me? I fucking hate this place. Why did you bring me here you arsehole. I hate you”.

Kvarn. Words & picture by Nick Small.

“Although the waters of Järvträsk are ultimately bound for the Baltic to the East, they take a perverse route westwards to meet the Skelleftea River. The lake decants itself via a narrow channel through an extensive swamp, where Great Northern Divers call ludicrously, and leggy elk wade amongst darting dragonflies, wearing halos of back-lit mosquitoes. Emerging from the swamp, the water is detained by the small sluice of an ancient mill, forming this still pool. Here the water takes a final breather before hurrying on its way to the sea.

Although the tranquility comes with the gushing accompaniment of the mill race, this is always a place I love to stand and stare. Sometimes it’s into the impenetrable forest, and on other occasions, it’s the changing sky, given a mesmeric, kaleidoscopic wonder by the glassy water. But mostly, I’m looking to the margins, seeing through the surface, and counting with my minds eye, the hundreds of monstrous pike that I know are poised, motionless in the reeds….waiting to strike”.

Järvträsk Sunset. Words & picture by Nick Small.

In Swedish Lapland, the summer sun doesn’t so much set, as kiss and flirt languorously with the western skyline for a few hours, before finally going down.
Järvträsk translates as Wolverine Marsh, though I’ve yet to clap eyes on the beast itself, as they are yet another victim of climate change: inconvenienced by the gradual thinning of the snow pack.
Järvträsk is the lake and village where we spend our summers, and although my body always returns to Blighty as Autumn approaches, my heart and spirits stay stubbornly put.
Most evenings I take the old clinker built rowing boat onto the water as the wind drops, and the first rings of rising fish appear. Initially, I took these to be trout, as thousands have been released into the lake in recent years. Excitedly, I’d take the fly rod with me and drift slowly, dropping flies delicately at the bubbling surface. I don’t know why I am always disappointed when the fish turns out to be a roach.
Inevitably, the rod is rested on the stern as the display to the west becomes too beautiful to ignore. I always take my little T3 point and shoot digital camera with me, and after 4 years, I still haven’t tired of filling the memory card up with moments of splendour like this one.