Two Rivers

Writing about Patagonia in his tribute to fly fishing, The Optimist, writer David Coggins draws a distinction between the civilized world and nature that intrigued me and made me think about my recent trip to Greenland.

“I love Florence, Kyoto, Paris. These places make me proud to be a human being. A rare feeling. When I fish, I forget all that. Patagonia is not what anybody’s made, it’s what’s lasted despite all we’ve made. This is the natural world at its most direct and I feel lucky to be in a place that’s indifferent to me.”

Greenland proves to be that kind of place. Raw, jagged and harsh, but full of life when you look a little closer. It’s how I imagine it was like a hundred or even a thousand years ago. The river valley and the fjords they spill into appear like fresh wounds. Dark rock scraped bare and rivulets of ice-cold water spilling down the slopes leave an impression that the retreat of the glaciers is recent history.

See Photos of Greenland

I am at Two River Valley camp at the mouth of the Qorqut River. The second and equally stunning river served by the camp is the Amitsusuk which is reached after a half hour boat ride. Small groups of anglers alternate between them. From my home in Toronto, I have flown seven hours east to Copenhagen and then four and a half hours back west to Nuuk, the capital of Greenland. Its three hours from there by boat up the coast to camp. The boat anchors in the bay where it rises and falls with the tides and we are shuttled to shore in shaky inflatables.

At 65 degrees north latitude the camp is just shy of the arctic circle and in early September the temperature at night is dipping below zero. The taps are left on a slow drip so the spring water running downhill to the camp doesn’t freeze solid by morning. Above us on the north-facing ridge, snow has dusted the tops of the valley. The ground cover along the trail has turned golden yellow and burgundy after a brief and frantic growing season. The bugs which had been voracious in previous weeks are nearly gone.

A barometer of the remoteness of the river, is gauged by the population of spawning arctic char. Just how many are in the river would be difficult to estimate. An exceptional fish here might reach double digits. In the clearer runs, you can look down from the cliffs and see them hovering over the rocky bottom. Swaying in the current. A few show flashes of fiery orange on their sides as they peel off downstream only to circle around in chase and then repositioning themselves. I prowl up a run with an overhead drone, and the number of fish is mind boggling.

On low tide, where the river pours into the fjord, the river looks modest in scale. Further upstream there are places where the gradient relaxes, and the river broadens into a slow lake-like stretch that we row across in a small boat to reach the top of the river and a few more productive runs before the fish are stymied by a set of impassable waterfalls.

The fish hold in all the places you would expect them. On drops or ledges, in deep pools or in the tail out of runs. Focused on their life cycle imperative, they are nonetheless wary and easily spooked at the sight of you or the disturbance of wading into the river.

My only other experience fishing for char was on the Tree River in Nunavut where the fish are much larger. I arrived here over-gunned with tackle and large flies. The preferred setup is a five or six weight rod with a short sink tip and a length of 12-15 lb mono. Small bead head streamers in olive and black were the go-to fly, although on the last day I had some excitement for foam poppers either skating or with gentle tugs. In slick deeper runs I sized down further on nymphs, and they were productive.

Not all the action was on the water. Jesper, shot three reindeer in two days for the winter. Returning to the boat we spotted a reindeer headed our way above us on the ridge. It stopped but it wasn’t long enough for a good shot. Jesper backs out of sight along the river below the ridge to intercept. We didn’t hear the shot, but his radio message said he got it. He field dressed it and carried to the boat on his back. The next day there was a small herd on the other side of the river. Klaus and Christina were fishing the run between the hunter and the prey. Jesper considered his options and elected to shoot two anyways. It meant crossing the river and back twice to dress them and carry them back. He was only wearing boots so it must have been cold. The long walk back to the boat surely warmed him up. Later at camp, he pulled a beer from the tap with a big grin, his hands and jacket bloodied from his day’s efforts.

I don’t know if Lawson is typical of all Welshmen, but he was no non-sense when it came to the running of the camp. He must host so many anglers here and later in Argentina that he had given up trying to remember all the names. Instead, he called you “buddy” or “my friend”. It had spilled over to the other staff who defaulted when a name eluded them. I often heard them call each other buddy.

There is a tough trail to the top of the river that bypasses the rowing stretch, but we never use it having been warned it was dangerous. We cross the lake-like stretch in a blunt-nosed boat bent out of shape and leaking from the seams in the bottom. It required a lot of bailing before setting out in the morning and again before our return. By the end of the second day, I realize my waders are leaking in the foot. I have worn a hole through the neoprene with my big toe. I see it is in the same spot where I have pushed through my canvas camp shoes. Luckily there is a rubber rafter repair kit, and I cut off patches for inside and outside. The repair holds and I have no more trouble with a wet foot.

Lawson was not a big fan of mending your line. Franco encouraged it. But both agreed the fish were spooky and the less wading the better. Don’t go too deep. They’ll see you and hear the rocks under your boots.

One afternoon, leaving the upper stretch of the Qorqut, we see two circling eagles. They are huge Greenland Sea Eagles, a strain of White-Tailed Eagle called Nattorlalik locally. I find their tracks in the sand the next day and they are as large as my hand.

Back in Nuuk with a couple of days until my return flight to Copenhagen, I have a chance to collect my thoughts. It’s been some time since I went on a trip where I didn’t know anyone or hadn’t spent some time on the rivers. It was nerve wracking transferring money and showing up alone at the dock, until others started arriving. It takes some effort to put on my best impression of a cordial extrovert while remaining cautious not to come across as the kind of braggard who has a story for everything and must one-up everyone.

I’ve had a lot of vivid dreams on this trip and I’m not certain what to attribute this to. Missing home, late dinners and drinks. A surplus of unfamiliar stimulation. Waking up they seem extraordinarily clear to me. Populated with familiar places. Adjacent to reality that makes me wonder if they are truly dreams or my mind replaying the day’s events. In the moment I was convinced I could recite them fully in the morning, only to find they had evaporated.

I carried with me a small packet of Harper’s ashes. In my travel paranoia, I convinced myself that since he had received radiation treatments, they would set off alarms or at least trigger suspicion. I poured them into the bottom of an aluminum fly rod tube like some amateur smuggler. The similarity to the Tree River was unmistakable. Bill would have loved this place. It was there we had first met, and fishing for char in Greenland was something we had talked about before he got sick. At the top of the Qorqut just below the falls I held my solemn ceremony, toasted with some scotch from the bee flask. I envisioned his ashes being carried down river past the fish and into the sea. It’s a full circle moment, and the last of three places where I had said farewell to him.

On all longer trips there is an ebb and flow to the days. By the end of the second day, I usually have a moment when I wonder how I will make it through the week. By the fourth or fifth day, I can hardly believe it is nearly over. The talk at dinner turns to next trips. Many of my companions are avid travellers and have been to many world-class destinations. Have you been to Argentina? They are already planning a next trip, if one isn’t already in their calendars. For my part, this is an exceptional trip. A bookend in many ways on my friendship with Harper.

When the dog steps on my six-weight rod (one of the very first rods I owned) and breaks the tip, I don’t react. Is it the universe telling my I’m done with it? There are rivers close to home, but for me fly fishing more often involves travelling somewhere. It becomes a once or twice a year adventure. With everything going on in the US, I have ruled out Cape Cod for a while. Imbach had invited me to the Babine for freeze up week in November, but it was not something that I felt enthusiastic about this year. I had gone the same week last year and the fishing was great. That time, I was convinced by the reports of strong returns made more urgent by the looming shadow of pessimism that this could be the last good year for the river. The collapse of a fishery is never something you want to hear about, but it hits harder when it’s a place you have come to know. Sure enough 2025 proved to be the 8th worst steelhead return on record.

There’s a common thing I hear from anglers – “you should have been here last week” or “a few years ago”. Which is usually followed with a description of how the fishing was incredible, or how, in this exact run, a guy who had never fished before caught a huge fish. Although it can be reassuring to know that great days still happen, and big fish are still in the river, it distracts from the darker reality that we have caused lasting change to the habitat and impacted the health of nearly every fishery.

An archive photo of anglers with a stringer full of fish, stands as a testament to what the river used to be like and an indictment of just how much we have degraded it.

My lasting impression and what I say to others about my trip to Greenland, is a sense relief that there are still some wild places left on earth and a hope that they remain that way. There is reason to be optimistic about the health of these rivers. They are managed ethically and responsibly, and they are so inaccessible that they exist beyond the reach all but those who are committed to keeping them wild. I felt privileged to have had a chance to spend some time here.