Everyone knows the grass is always greener on the other side. Not least Adam Westerman. As a relentless fly fisherman and an unapologetic fish-finder to the very tips of his fingers, he couldn’t resist inventing a tool that quickly, firmly, and easily took him exactly where he wanted to be. This is the story of the origin of the Icross – from fleeting idea to finished product.
Text and photos: Ted Logardt
It’s June. A few nights before Midsummer. In northern Västerbotten it’s high season, and the summer night trembles with expectation. Yet there’s one thing gnawing at me. In recent days I’ve been carrying around the feeling that I’ve more often than not been on the wrong side. Of the river, that is. It’s an uneasy feeling. One that holds me back. Makes me lose focus.
The feeling isn’t new. No, it comes and goes – and it has driven me to drag canoes and launch barely seaworthy rowboats in the most inaccessible of places. It’s made me sink with Clas Ohlson inflatables, and it’s made me paddle myself into calf and thigh cramps in float tubes without getting anywhere at all. For a while I even started buying old mopeds to stash at strategic locations around northern Sweden. For the places the car couldn’t reach. But of course that collapsed under its own absurdity.
Still, it can’t be helped – there’s something magical about that other side. Anyone who’s ever been there knows it.
The Other Side
In a certain spot on a certain river, I still have a nearly functional boat. It’s missing a gunwale, but I’ve strapped four or five 95×45 timbers across it in a crisscross pattern. It gives decent stability. The first time I rowed over, Johan lost a fish. The second time, Calle got one. And since then, the boat has stayed put.
I walk down to the river. To that special spot. But on the wrong side. Because that’s the routine: first I fish the car side. With zero expectation of success. Then I walk down to my boat and row across. And with every stroke the tension rises noticeably.
I shrug off my backpack and sit on a stone on the car side. Take in the scene. Catch the moment. Out of the corner of my eye I see something move on the other bank. A bear, I think instinctively. You always do, when alone in the vast northern forests. I look up. Not a bear. In a way, worse. It’s Adam – and he’s on the other side. The boat side. My side.
“What the hell,” I mutter. Could he have nicked the boat?
Like a Soda Crate
Adam fishes down toward the rapids’ edge. I just watch. It doesn’t take long before things go as they usually do. He hooks a salmon. It looks pretty good from where I sit sulking. He holds it hard, and shortly after he grabs the tail wrist of a roughly 100-cm June salmon. I whistle. Wave. Snap a few wildly distant photos.
The salmon swims off, and from a bush upstream Adam pulls out something. White, big as an 80s soda crate.
He places it in the water, chest on top. Styrofoam, I think, as he kicks his way against the current—toward me. He has to fight. Just before he reaches shore the Styrofoam slab splits. Right down the middle. He has to tiptoe to avoid full-on breaststroke.
“Lifesaving? Hardly,” he grins, sitting down on a rock beside me.
“But not half bad,” I admit.
Broadened Horizons
It’s like a coin drops. The Styrofoam piece is genius. In all its simplicity. Deadly, but brilliant. I’ve fished with Adam for over 15 years. I know how his brain works, and I’m not surprised it’s him who came up with the idea. He has a knack for pushing things forward. Never satisfied – always searching for a new fish, preferably where no one else even knew one existed. And he’s secretive. Never on social media. Only reports under duress. Only talks when he absolutely must. He’s simply far too interested in fishing to share unnecessarily.
“That thing would’ve been handy on the Vefsnan,” I say. “Back in the day.”
“Or in the upper Byske.”
“And the lower,” I continue.
“You know,” he says, scratching his head, “if you think about it, you could use it almost anywhere.”
Then it all cascades. Places we want to try from the other side. Or islands worth reaching. Or shallows worth fishing from. We draw in the sand with sticks, move stones, recreate scenarios from the past—and for the future. Salmon rivers on the coast, mountain trout streams, and the varied challenges of forest country.
“But it can’t be life-threatening,” I say, nodding toward the split Styrofoam block.
Adam nods. He’s a firefighter by profession. So he understands the seriousness.
Unfished Water
It’s as if everything changes. Right then and there. Those hours on the rocks a few nights before Midsummer. All of northern Sweden—really all of northern Scandinavia—opens up. For real. For the first time. The Styrofoam block—or rather the idea of a craft no bigger than an 80s soda crate—shakes our fishing psyche to its core.
Think about it: fishing in northern Sweden is almost entirely shaped by open access. Buy a license and head out. The only real obstacle is physical accessibility. Often limited by frost-damaged asphalt, potholed gravel roads, and dusty logging roads.
“But it could just as well be reaching an island or a shallow,” Adam says, staring blankly into the summer night. “Doesn’t have to be the other side.”
“Or just presenting the fly from a different angle. From a different shore. You know that can make all the difference. Everything is different from the other side. Everyone who’s been there knows that.”
“Getting at unfished water. Plain and simple.”
Our imaginations run wild, and the sense that everything the sky touches lies at our feet is… intoxicating.
“Invent something,” I say, pulling on my backpack. “But don’t tell anyone.”
Taking Shape
“It has to be small. Easy to bring. Preferably fit in the trunk. A little over a meter, maybe? And it must be inflatable so you can pack it. But it mustn’t feel… inflatable. It has to be stable. Ridiculously stable. And entirely built for a fisherman.”
A few weeks have passed, and Adam is dead serious. You can hear it a mile away. Apparently, he’s found both the form and the material.
“It’s called Dropstitch. Gets rock hard when inflated. Rock hard. You can drive a car over it.”
“That could be useful,” I say.
He pulls out a drawing from his pocket.
“Here’s the paddle mount. And here’s where you grip it when carrying it. Under your arm. Or if you’re going far, you clip on straps and carry it like a backpack. And the rods secure like this. You can also attach a small seat if you want to fish from it. Like a float tube.”
“Paddle?” I ask. “No kicking?”
“No, you sit on it and paddle. A thousand times better. Tons of power and full control. And you don’t get wet. You don’t even need waders. And here’s an anchor line you loop around a tree or clip to your wading belt. For fishing from a mid-river shallow. And by the way, it’ll be called the Icross. You know – because you cross.”
“Not bad,” I say, studying the paper. “Not bad at all. You’ve got the whole winter ahead of you.”
If the Grass Is Greener
It’s nearly summer. Again. And with summer, life shifts. You stay up late and rise early. Live with the sun – one that never really sets. Over the winter Adam has developed and tested a handful of Icross prototypes. He’s tinkered with details and logistics. And now it’s ready. Almost. The Icross.
In a way, Adam has condensed all his experiences and insights from 40 years as a relentless fish- and trail-finder in the north into that idea – born from a Styrofoam block the size of an 80s soda crate, which snapped in half and eventually evolved into something real. Something substantial. Something most fly fishers have probably dreamed of without even knowing it.
“Now we can finally reach everything,” he says with a grin. “Stay out of whitewater, always wear a life jacket, and otherwise—you’re good.”
“What a sales pitch,” I laugh.
But he’s right. Even though I’ve only test-sat an Icross and paddled prototypes among ice floes in a regulated powerhouse river, I know there will be a before and an after. What it will mean for my own fishing and trail-finding only the stars know – but one thing is certain: if the grass really is greener on the other side, the coming salmon seasons will be examined thoroughly.
ICROSS
Icross is an inflatable watercraft developed for anglers. It becomes rock hard thanks to the dropstitch material, whose special structure allows extremely high air pressure. This means you inflate your Icross once, and it’s ready for the rest of the season.
Icross is available in two models:
– A smaller model measuring 126×88×20 cm, recommended up to 100 kg
– A larger model measuring 140×95×20 cm, carrying up to 140 kg
An Icross weighs around 7 kg and is easy to bring along. For anyone fishing the big, long rivers of northern Scandinavia, an Icross opens entirely new possibilities.
More information at https://www.icross.fish
