Boat fishing: To Northern Norway with the SaltPatrol 720
Thorsten Trojan
· 08.10.2026
Our route takes us via Fehmarn to Denmark and then on by ferry to Sweden. We have deliberately chosen the route through Sweden. The roads seem suitable for our large trailer combination, and the itinerary remains easy to plan. Nevertheless, the days will be long.
We’re setting aside five days. When choosing where to stay, it’s the car park rather than the breakfast buffet that’s the deciding factor. You don’t want to have to manoeuvre a long trailer combination through narrow courtyards or between low walls in the evening. The hosts are friendly, helpful and almost always curious about the boat on their doorstep.
In northern Sweden, we turn west. The roads climb; the landscape becomes more expansive, emptier and rougher. We cross the mountain passes into Norway, leave Bodø behind us and approach Tranøy. After a good 3,000 kilometres, we reach the Sommersel Fishing Camp. Ahead of us: the North Sea. At first, we can’t find a suitable slipway. But there is a beach.
The sand looks firm, but a good first impression alone isn’t enough to get a large articulated lorry moving backwards towards the water. Marco and Wolfgang from the camp know the ground well. They know where it’s firm enough to bear the weight, which track works best and how high the tide needs to be. So we wait.
The full moon is drawing nearer
The tidal range is more than three metres. The water slowly creeps across the shallow beach, and at some point the two of them give the signal. The towing vehicle carefully reverses the trailer. Metre by metre, the rear end approaches the water until buoyancy takes over.
After five days on the road, the SaltPatrol is in the saltwater off northern Norway for the first time. A plan has become reality. We rinse the trailer thoroughly with fresh water and take the boat to its mooring. Once the lines are secured, the long journey is forgotten surprisingly quickly.
We know that the sun doesn’t set here in June. We’ve seen photos of the midnight sun. But it’s quite another thing to experience that brightness for ourselves. At first, we keep checking our watches. Later, we do so less and less. What does 11 pm mean when the light hangs over the fjord just as it does in the early evening? What does 3 am mean when you’re working at the filleting table without a lamp and can make out every contour of the mountains on the other side of the water?
Our daily routine is no longer tied to fixed times
The tide becomes more important: When does the water rise? When does it turn? When does the current start? When is there enough water over a shallow stretch? When is it worth drifting through a sound?
Breakfast, lunch and dinner become meals that take place at some point. Day and night become periods of activity and tiredness. Your internal clock adjusts with astonishing speed. Up here, it is no longer the watch on your wrist that decides when to set off, but the water.
Our first exploration begins in the evening and stretches well into a night that isn’t really a night. We leave the harbour without the usual pressure of having to return before nightfall. It feels like complete freedom – but it also harbours a quiet danger. Tiredness cannot be avoided; it simply becomes less obvious.
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We’re not inexperienced. Quite the opposite. We know our way round nautical charts, echo sounders, wind and currents. We’ve spent many hours on all sorts of bodies of water. But experience also means knowing that, when you’re in unfamiliar waters, you have to learn all over again.
A chart shows depth contours. The fishfinder shows what is happening directly beneath the boat. Taken together, these two factors do not explain why there are fish in one spot whilst a similar-looking area remains empty. So we sail along, observing and comparing.
The underwater topography is fascinating. Vast sandy expanses stretch across shallow bays. Light-coloured plateaus give way abruptly to dark depths. Channels cut their way between islands and rocky outcrops. Seaweed beds grow in shallower areas, whilst right next to them the seabed drops away steeply. The depth sounder still reads twelve metres. A few boat lengths further on, it reads three hundred.
Not every spot that looks promising is actually any good. Not every signal on the screen is the fish we’re looking for. We adjust the drift angle, start again, move to a different spot and carry on.
A break with the SaltPatrol 720
And we’re almost always on our own. No traffic, no voices, no sounds apart from the wind, the water and the engine. Mountains rise straight out of the fjord. The landscape seems immense; it’s simply everywhere.
Nature is beautiful, but it also demands our attention. And it very quickly makes it clear just how small a boat really is, even if it seemed large when on land. In this region, the water is far more than just a backdrop. It is a habitat, a transport route and the basis of life. Houses, harbours and small settlements are oriented towards the fjord. Boats are part of everyday life, not as special leisure items, but as a natural link between people and places. The sea nourishes, separates and connects all at once.
The nearest large supermarket is a 30-minute drive away. We don’t want to buy much there anyway. A few side dishes, potatoes, vegetables and butter. We want to catch the rest ourselves. The idea sounds sensible: we’re by the North Sea, we have a well-equipped fishing boat and we only want to eat the fish we catch ourselves.
And then, to start with, we catch absolutely nothing. Not even a small cod. Nothing that could be thrown into a frying pan. What started out as a charming holiday idea is slowly turning into a matter of food security. Hunger is setting in, and our concentration is waning. Even the discussion about the right bait is being taken more seriously than it was at the start.
It’s not until the middle of the bright night that we finally succeed. The first cod are hauled on board. No record-breaking catches, no catch report that would impress anyone. But at this very moment, they could hardly be more precious.
We drive back, fillet the fish and start cooking. By the time the first piece of cod is on our plates, it’s five o’clock in the morning. Perhaps the latest dinner of our lives. And one of the best.
The strait where the water boils
The next flood will mark the start of our next trip. We’re heading towards a strait. Even as we approach, the surface begins to change. Lines in the water indicate different currents. Small eddies form, disappear and reappear elsewhere.
Then we reach the narrows. The water seems to be boiling. Here, the tide does more than just affect the water level. Enormous volumes of water are forced through the gaps between islands, rocks and shoals. The current accelerates, rushes over ledges, forms eddies and tosses the boat about. Coastal currents, tides, wind and the highly varied underwater landscape all converge here. We keep a close eye on the surface and maintain a safe distance from rocks and shoals. Every drift is planned to allow room for course corrections. Where the current concentrates food, plankton and small fish, there is life. And where there is life, predators are usually not far away. Nevertheless, we forget to fish at first.
Over the flat sandy seabed, the water shimmers turquoise, green and blue. You can see right down to the depths. Dark kelp beds and rocks stand out clearly. For a moment, it feels just like the Caribbean. Only without the palm trees. We drive slowly, looking around and marvelling. Sometimes the greatest fishing experience is simply forgetting about the fishing for a moment.
An unexpected visitor whilst fishing
Then we start drifting again. The first bites come in; the rods are working. Suddenly, we hear a short, powerful hiss, as if a valve were being opened somewhere on the fjord. It is the blow – that jerky exhalation from a whale. Away from the boat, the surface of the water arches into a circle, as if the fjord were being lifted from below. The water piles up, then breaks apart, and from the commotion a dark back emerges. For a few seconds, everything around it seems to shrink: our boat, the sound, even the rocks on the shore.
We can not only see and hear him. We can smell him too. The wind carries his breath over to us – warm, pungent and distinctly fishy, with a slightly musty tinge. Then his back sinks back down and the water smoothes out.
Only the fish seem to have vanished. Just a moment ago we were getting bites; now the bait is being ignored. We change the colour and depth, adjust the drift, and search the edges once more. Nothing. We don’t know whether the whale is to blame. One thing is certain: from this moment on, the fishing ground seems to have switched off. Northern Norway reminds us who’s in charge here.
In the shelter of the sheer cliff face
The next day, the wind picks up to force 6 on the Beaufort scale. At the same time, the current is flowing in the opposite direction. The waves are becoming shorter and steeper; further out to sea in particular, the sea is already rough. The SaltPatrol is built for challenging conditions. But having reserves doesn’t mean we should push them to the limit. We consult the nautical chart to find a sheltered route and a fishing spot close to the shore. A high, sheer cliff faces the wind in such a way that it shields a wide area.
The difference is striking. Outside, the crests of the waves are breaking; the water looks grey and choppy. Just a few hundred metres away, we lie almost calmly in the shelter of the rock face. The boat drifts slowly. The lures can be guided with precision. The wind loses much of its force, and we stay there all day.
Suddenly, something stirs amongst the dark rocks. A white-tailed eagle soars along the cliff face, turns towards us and flies close past the boat. A few flaps of its wings, then it hovers almost motionless in the updraft. For a few seconds, nobody looks at their rod. Four anglers look up.
With every trip out, we get to know the fishing grounds a little better. We target our drifts more precisely and, above all, look for shallow ledges and sandy areas. Natural bait is widely used and successful in Northern Norway. We prefer active fishing with artificial lures. Our tackle boxes are stocked with soft lures in almost every colour, shape and size. Everyone has their favourite. This creates a bit of friendly competition on board: colour versus colour, tried-and-tested lures versus new ideas, experience versus gut instinct. We fish mainly at depths of between 10 and 30 metres. There, the lures can be actively worked along the seabed, the sinking phase can be controlled, and bites can be felt immediately.
Cod are found along the edges and amongst the seaweed beds. Some are well over a metre long; indeed, there is one specimen measuring more than 120 centimetres lying next to the boat. It has a broad head and a stocky body, marked by many years spent in these waters. We unhook the fish, hold it in the water for a moment and let it swim away again.
From catch to food
We catch only selected fish that are suitable for consumption. The exceptional specimens are left to live on. In between, impressive pollock are caught. They put up a different fight to the cod that stay close to the seabed: faster, more direct and often making long dashes through open water. The boat becomes a shared working platform. One person reels in a fish, whilst the others move rods out of the way, control the drift or stand ready to land the catch.
The fishing highlight of the trip begins with a phrase that doesn’t usually spark much enthusiasm: ‘I’ve got a snag.’ The rod is locked tight. The soft lure seems to be stuck between rocks, seaweed or some other structure on the seabed. A quick attempt to free it. And then something moves. “Oh no – surely not.” The supposed snag takes plenty of line. The rod is pulled deep down. Within seconds, the casually mentioned snag turns into a fight that demands everyone’s full attention on board. A halibut.
The other rods are pulled out of the water and the deck is cleared. We manoeuvre the boat so that the fish, the line, the current and the hull are not working against one another. The flounder stays deep at first. Every metre of line we take in seems only to remind it that it can pull it back.
The strain is felt in the arms and back. Exhausting. Highly concentrated. Communication on board becomes more sparse. One person holds the rod, one steers, whilst the others keep an eye on the angle of the line and the fish.
Then the halibut surfaces beneath the boat. A dark, broad shadow in the clear water. For a moment, its entire body is visible, then it turns away and takes line off the reel once more. We gain a few metres, lose them again, and start all over. But when the fish rises to the surface once more, everything is ready. One more run, and finally it is safely landed. A fish you’ve caught yourself is not just some anonymous product. We know the spot, the drift and the bait. We remember the bite, the fight and the landing.
A little piece of Norway in my luggage
Whatever we take with us is prepared quickly and neatly. We eat some of it on the spot. Cod, pollock and halibut are turned into simple meals. Potatoes, a few vegetables and butter. That’s all it takes. Eventually, the mooring lines are cast off for the last time. The boat is hauled out of the water; salt runs down the hull. We sort through the equipment and stow the fish crates. Anything we don’t eat on the spot is filleted, portioned and vacuum-sealed. We then freeze the packets completely at minus 20 degrees.
For the long journey home, we use a high-quality, well-insulated cool box. When packed carefully, the fillets will survive even the journey back to Germany, which takes several days. However, Norway restricts the export of fish caught by anglers and makes it subject to clear conditions. These rules must be carefully checked before every trip, and the necessary documentation must be obtained in good time.
However, regardless of the permitted amount, the fact remains that nobody has to use up their entire quota. Just ten kilograms of fillet is enough for many evenings at home. And when that piece of halibut is sizzling in the frying pan, the fjord suddenly comes back to life.
The light of the midnight sun. The sound where the water was churning. The sheer cliff face that offered us shelter when the weather changed. The whale whose spout brought a moment’s silence to the fjord. And the white-tailed eagle soaring on the updraft. Cod measuring over 120 centimetres. Dinner at five o’clock in the morning. And a sun that refuses to set.
Thorsten Trojan
Freier Autor, Angelexperte