Exactly a week ago, I parked my car south of Arnarfell. At that time, there were no other cars in the lot, and for a long while, I had all the fishing spots to myself. This Sunday morning, however, was a different story. There were already four cars in the lot, I was the fifth, and I had barely stepped out of my car when a sixth pulled up behind me.

As expected, all the usual fishing spots near Arnarfell were occupied. This congestion prompted me to look for new territory. I walked south along the eastern bank—certainly further than I usually go, as from where I stopped, I could see the farms of Miðfell and Mjóanes. On my way south, I soon came across a spot that looked promising, but I decided to save it for the walk back. I eventually stopped in the bay where my wife and I had fished on August 4th, 2017. I had a brownish nymph on, cast it out, and it was taken almost immediately. The strike wasn’t particularly aggressive, so I assumed I had hooked a small Arctic char or a ‘murta’ (small landlocked char). I took my time reeling in the slack line, handling it rather casually. Suddenly, the fish bolted—it turned out to be much larger than the initial strike had suggested.

Afterward, I strolled back along the bank, casting in places where I thought fish might be lying. I hadn’t gone far when another fine snail-eating char took my fly, a Peacock. I continued along the bank and saw that two boys had claimed the spot I had scouted earlier. I’ll just have to save that spot for another time. Just south of them, I took a few casts and got a powerful strike. That fish got away, but of course, I cast a few more times. After a few tries, there was another hard hit. The fish immediately showed itself by jumping several times. It was clearly a brown trout, not a char. This time, I managed to land it.

I then landed one more char in the hollow by ‘the stone.’ So, in this trip, I landed three Arctic char (1 lb, 1.5–2 lbs) and one brown trout (1.5–2 lbs). I sat down for a bit with the fisherman by the stone; he had landed one handsome trout. There seems to be no question about it: the trout population in the lake is increasing. Back at the car, I ran into the boys who had been fishing ‘my’ spot. They had landed about ten char.”

The construction at Brautarlækur has been a bit of a distraction this summer, but our house has finally reached a stage where we can relax. There is no urgent rush to finish the rest, so my wife and I decided that fishing and the outdoors would now take priority. The season for the moorland lake has arrived, so that was our destination this weekend. There is no road to the lake; the hike is entirely uphill, and since we’ve reached 'maintenance age,' we were a bit anxious about the trek. However, the conditions were all in our favor. The weather was wonderful—a northerly breeze that later shifted to the east. It wasn't too warm, just bright with a light wind.

We were determined not to let our enthusiasm for fishing cause us to overexert ourselves on the hike. We walked slowly and steadily up the steep slope, resting several times along the way. As a result, we felt quite refreshed by the time we reached our fishing grounds by the lake. We started on the bank between Breiðavík and Lómavík. The name Lómavík (Loon Bay) is curious. Why on earth would it be called that? I suspect the explanation is simply that someone in the past misidentified the bird that actually 'owns' the lake: the Great Northern Diver (Himbrimi). Then there’s the other thing—why give the bay a bird's name when the bird itself is never seen there? We have never seen a sign of fish in that bay, and presumably, neither has the Great Northern Diver. That explains why neither we nor the bird have any business being there.

I left the fishing spot to Guðrún and walked west around the lake to the bank south of Lómavík and Breiðavík. I cast there for a while. Looking across the water, I could see Guðrún busy on the bank and suspected she had landed one. Then she waded out, and shortly after, I saw a splash; she had landed another. I, however, didn’t have a single bite. I then crossed Réttartangi and cast where the lake narrows into the South Bay. I saw no sign of the Great Northern Diver and wondered if something had gone wrong for him this summer. Just then, he popped up from the depths right in front of me and stayed with us from then on. The pair of swans is also at the lake, so everything on the moor is as it should be. There also seems to be plenty of ptarmigan, as a covey flushed from the brush on our way up. I saw no fish, so I strolled back.

When I reached the spot between Lómavík and Breiðavík, my wife was lying flat among the tussocks, staring up at the sky. Not because she was exhausted, but simply because she was at peace with the world; she had already landed two brown trout. The first was about four pounds, and the second a bit lighter. The latter didn’t look well; it was quite thin and bore net marks, even though we thought there was no net fishing in the lake. Someone must have been poaching. I cast into the same patch where Guðrún caught hers and hooked a sizeable one, followed by another around two pounds. A third fish then took the line in Breiðavík—a four-pounder. In total, five brown trout ranging from two to four pounds were landed this trip.

We then walked back in the bright evening light and reached the house around half past eleven. We remarked to each other that it hadn't been nearly as difficult as we had expected. Perhaps the constant construction work over the past year has boosted our strength and stamina—and, of course, everything is easier when the weather is on your side.

I suppose one can’t always count on luck being on one's side. It certainly wasn't with me during the Carpentry Club’s trip to the 'Unnamed Lakes.' The trout seemed far more interested in biting anyone's line but mine on this journey. We had set a goal of catching 92 fish; if we reached that mark, the Carpentry Club would have landed a total of one thousand fish over the course of its 22 fishing trips. Based on our catch in previous years, this was a perfectly realistic goal. Our record for a single trip to these lakes is 122 trout.

Arnarvatn was my assigned lake for the first shift, while my partners headed to Harðarvatn and Vallavatn. I parked the car in the usual spot above the lake. I felt quite relaxed; the weather was good, and a sense of calm hung over everything. I sat down by the western bay and recorded a short video. Then, I tied on a fly and began casting. When nothing happened, I set out the ‘lazy rods’ (bait rods), but not a single fish showed interest in the bait. I continued fishing along the bank to the east with my fly rod. I finally got a strike in the next bay and landed an Arctic char weighing nearly three pounds. That was the extent of my catch for the first shift. My partner in Vallavatn fared much better, landing twenty fish—a mix of char and trout. The partner at Harðarvatn caught three, if I remember correctly.

The following morning I had Vallavatn and was quite optimistic. For some reason, I had very little luck. I caught two one-pound chars on the bait but nothing else. I suspect I didn’t manage to cast far enough into the deep hole where the fish usually lie. I strolled over with my fly rod to ‘Lake Two,’ which has now been named Kelavatn. There, I hooked a two-pound trout on a black Nobbler and landed it. I had another strike later but couldn’t set the hook. Since nothing was happening in Vallavatn, I decided to retrieve my bait rods and set them up in Lake Two. A four-pound trout took one of them, so technically, I was satisfied with the shift. My partner in Harðarvatn could not say the same; it was stone dead there. Meanwhile, the partner in Arnarvatn landed one char and one trout.

For the second shift, I decided to try Harðarvatn. I should have skipped it; the bait was never touched, and I didn’t see a sign of life on the fly, despite fishing the entire southern bank from west to east. Meanwhile, one of my partners caught seven decent trout in Vallavatn, while the other had little luck in Arnarvatn. Above Kelavatn, there is a tiny pond where fish are sometimes caught, and to the east of that is another pond I had never even considered casting into. The partner who had caught the twenty fish in Vallavatn decided to try it and, very unexpectedly, landed two or three nice trout. Naturally, the pond was promptly named Óvæntavatn (Unexpected Lake).

By the final shift, the weather was postcard-perfect. Two of us went to Vallavatn while the third headed to Arnarvatn. Everyone caught something during this last shift, though no one landed many. The one who had found luck in Óvæntavatn decided to give it another go, and lo and behold—he hooked a five-pound trout! By the time we headed home, the Carpentry Club had landed 48 trout in total. I caught seven, Hörður caught 13, and Valli caught 28. Among them were one 5-pounder, one 4-pounder, and seven 3-pounders, with the rest being smaller. Our group’s Excel expert then dove into the records and, believe it or not, found a calculation error. The Carpentry Club has actually landed 1,019 fish in its history!

One might think I’d be very bitter after this trip, but that couldn't be further from the truth. My wife was actually delighted that I didn't catch more—though I still caught plenty for several meals. The whole fishing season is still ahead of us, and there will surely be more fish. For me, spending time with good friends in beautiful nature, topped off with a few fish, is more than enough.

I wonder if the trout in the moorland lake have their minds on something other than feeding once August comes to an end? I haven’t tried fishing the lake in September very often, but on the few occasions I have, the results haven’t been great. On the first Saturday of September, I made a trip to the lake. The conditions were exactly what my father-in-law used to call ideal: a strong southwesterly wind. He always said that in those conditions, the trout would move right into Veiðivík.

I didn’t start in Veiðivík, though. Instead, I walked straight to the cliff south of Grunnavík. I began casting there but didn’t see a sign of life. I fished my way into the bay north of the cliff; there was one single strike on the lure, but only that once. I continued south toward the spawning grounds, where I waded quite far out into the lake toward the Great Northern Diver islet (Himbrimahólminn). I cast repeatedly as I made my way north and soon caught one small trout. I tied it with a string to the loop on my waders because I didn’t feel like wading all the way back to shore. Soon after, I realized the trout was gone. The knot had come undone.

After fishing for a while longer, I swung my backpack on and walked north along the bank. I wanted to see if the trout had indeed moved into Veiðivík. I stopped along the way to eat dinner, and as I stood up to continue, I spotted the trout I had lost. As it turned out, it had drifted along the exact same path I had been walking. I then fished for a while in Veiðivík, Breiðavík, and on the bank west of Breiðavík, but didn’t get a single hit.

I didn’t give this trip too much time and headed back around nine o’clock. I was quite pleased with my stamina, as I felt fine during the hike. However, once I sat down to rest after the walk, I was hit by an absolutely agonizing leg cramp. From now on, I must make sure to drink enough water on these trips. I definitely don’t want to go through that again.

Now that the carpenters are at work on our new house, things are a bit quieter for us, so we were finally able to take a moment for our annual fishing trip to the moorland lake. We weren’t in any rush to get to the valley; we spent the morning watching thousands of runners in the Reykjavík Marathon stream past our house in the south. This year, 14,300 people participated—a record turnout. We didn’t reach the valley until around two o’clock on Saturday.

Between 6:30 and 7:00 PM, we arrived at our fishing spot by the lake. We walked straight down to the water and began fishing in Breiðuvík. Just before eight o’clock, a three-pound brown trout took a black Nobbler at the western end of the bay. Meanwhile, my wife was trying her luck in the middle of Veiðivík, where she felt some activity. I continued further west to the bank that has so often yielded fish, but this time, nothing bit.

I strolled back, and we had dinner in the middle of Breiðavík. Right after our meal, my wife cast into the center of the bay and immediately hooked a four-pounder, which she landed. It was then twenty minutes to nine. Only seven minutes later, she landed another fish, weighing a pound and a half.

Nearly an hour after that, I walked back to the bank west of Breiðavík. I was certain there were fish there, as is usually the case. The fly didn’t yield anything, but I knew the trout sometimes lie further out than my fly can reach. So, I grabbed the spinning rod and hurled a large Toby lure as far as I could—and then he struck. Another four-pound trout was landed right there.

The temperature that evening was like being inside a refrigerator. It was only three degrees Celsius with a fair bit of wind when we started fishing. One’s hands get quite numb under such conditions. Fortunately, the wind died down a little and shifted slightly to the east, though it continued to blow from the north. We headed to bed just after midnight, very content to have fresh fish for the freezer—and it was a pleasure to be able to give the Lithuanian carpenters some freshly caught, pink-fleshed trout from the moorland lake.

These days, we have very little time for leisure, so there is less fishing than usual. However, my wife and I did bring our gear to Brautarlækur this weekend, as there’s a brief window of calm amidst the construction work. After tinkering for a while at the building site, we drove over to Lake Selvatn on Saturday evening. Selvatn lies just over the ridge above Hreðavatn. That’s where Gummi Daníels, an old acquaintance of Guðrún’s, built himself a woodland cabin.

I could see that Guðrún was hoping Gummi would be there, though she didn’t expect it, as he is now an elderly man. As it turned out, he wasn’t home, so she couldn’t greet the ‘woodsman’ and renew the fishing permit she received as a teenager. She had worked at the Hreðavatn farm for four summers in her youth; that’s where she met Gummi and was granted a lifelong fishing permit for the lakes belonging to the estate.

It’s fair to say that the permit hasn’t been used to its full potential. While we’ve fished Hreðavatn a few times, we’ve only visited Selvatn once before. This time, we wanted to see if the southern side of the lake was more promising, as we discovered last year that fly casting was difficult on the northern side. The weather was beautiful as we walked from the cabin toward the lake. It felt as though we were stepping into a fairy-tale world; the vegetation surrounds everything there, and the Forestry Service has planted extensively. The trees have grown quite tall. We ‘moorland people’ aren’t used to such lush greenery.

The fishing itself was nothing to shout about, but there were fish. After four hours of tinkering about, we had landed five brown trout. Since they were small, that provides just enough for two grilled meals for the two of us.

Honestly, right now I feel like just giving up. The story behind this frustration began when I bought a new fly rod because I broke the tip of my Sage rod last year. After waiting a full year for Sage to send a replacement tip, I gave up and bought a high-quality Orvis rod from Vesturröst. Literally the day after, the dealer for Sage called to offer me a brand-new rod at a discount because they could no longer source the material for my old one. So, suddenly, I owned two great 8-weight rods. On my first outing with the new gear, I discovered my waders were leaking. Since fishing while soaked is miserable, I decided to buy new waders, financing them by selling the Sage rod.

My wife and I are currently neck-deep in building our summer house in Borgarfjörður, so it wasn’t until this past Sunday that I finally made my first trip to Lake Þingvallavatn—equipped with the new rod and wearing the new waders. It doesn’t get better than that. The weather, however, was nothing to cheer about: rain and a stiff southerly breeze. Still, I felt great because I was dry in my new waders, and casting the new rod was a pure joy despite the wind. I started at two spots south of Arnarfell that I know occasionally yield fish. Seeing no sign of life, I decided to walk south along the eastern bank toward Miðfell, planning to fish my way back slowly.

I’ve noticed lately that my balance isn’t what it used to be. Because of that, I’m extra careful at Þingvallavatn; the bottom is treacherous—rocky and prone to sudden drop-offs where you can easily lose your footing. I’ve even started using a wading staff I won in a lottery at the Reykjavik Angling Club’s open house thirty years ago. So, I began fishing, moving from one spot to the next heading north. At one point, I nearly tripped while wading toward the shore. I thought to myself: These are exactly the conditions that make this lake dangerous. Suddenly, it felt as if someone had pushed me. I tumbled backward like a football player, crashing into the water.

Water gushed in through the collar of my jacket and down into my waders. I scrambled up quickly, thinking bitterly that buying new waders hadn’t helped much after all. I arrived home soaking wet, but then came the real shock: the tip of my brand-new rod had snapped in the fall. Hmm, now we’ll see how the service at Vesturröst and Orvis measures up.

I made a quick solo trip up to the valley over the weekend to start on our summer project. The goal is to pour the foundation for the ‘new’ Brautarlækur, which is scheduled to be built in August if everything goes according to plan. We’ll certainly have to keep our noses to the grindstone if we want to avoid a time crunch. Still, one must make time for fishing, and naturally, I brought my new rod along.

This new rod replaces the one I broke at Lake Selvatn last July. That was a Sage rod under warranty. However, as month after month passed and the rod never returned from the repair shop, I finally gave up on waiting and bought an Orvis Helios 3F for an 8-weight line. A fantastic rod. Naturally, the very day after that purchase, the Sage dealer called to tell me I could get a brand-new Sage at a significant discount, as the materials for my old model were no longer available. The offer was too good to pass up. So now, I find myself the owner of two top-tier 8-weight rods.

Late Saturday afternoon, I dashed over to Lake Hreðavatn with the new rod. I tied on a small bead-head Killer, and a fish took it on the very first cast—a good omen indeed! The trout was about a pound. What was also pleasing was how well I could feel the fish, despite its small size. My choice had been between the 3F and the 3D model. The 3F is slightly softer, while the 3D (D for Distance) allows for longer casts, which is usually an advantage in lake fishing. I chose the 3F anyway, and I believe it was the right call because of that extra sensitivity. The trip yielded four one-pounders: three brown trout and one arctic char.

I was certain there was good reason to bring filleting gear along for the Carpentry Club’s annual trip to the ‘unnamed lakes.’ To prepare, I sharpened my filleting knife until it could glide along the spine of a trout like butter, imagining how the fillets would stack up quickly and efficiently in the cooler at the end of each day. Most previous trips to these lakes had certainly justified such optimism.

We arrived at the area around two o’clock on Thursday and went straight to fishing, as our rented cabin wasn’t ready for check-in. As usual, we split into two groups: the ‘senior citizens’ of the club headed to Vallavatn, while we younger ones went to Arnarvatn. Full of hope, I began casting from the point in Arnarvatn, a spot that has yielded great results for me at least three times before. By the end of the day, however, I felt discouraged to have only three rather small trout to show for the first shift. My partner fared no better, landing only one. The seniors, on the other hand, had a productive day at Vallavatn.

On Friday morning, I went to Vallavatn, expecting plenty of bites given the seniors’ success the day before. By two o’clock, my partner had caught three or four trout, while I had none. The situation remained bleak. The seniors moved to Harðarvatn but didn’t do much better there, catching only a single flounder. In the afternoon, my partner and I tried Harðarvatn while the seniors went back to Vallavatn; they landed a few more trout and even an eel, but we caught nothing. Our final shift was on Saturday morning, a repeat of the previous morning’s routine, except this time we all fished Arnarvatn. It seems that sometimes, you’re just always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The weather was decent during those days—temperatures between 11 and 13 degrees with a cool breeze shifting between the northeast and northwest, occasionally dropping to a dead calm. It clearly hasn’t rained much in the area lately, as we have never seen the water levels this low in all our trips there. Perhaps it was the low water that caused the sluggish fishing, or simply the timing; we have usually visited these lakes a bit earlier in the summer.

Here in Brautarlækur, it hasn’t rained for six weeks. The rivers and lakes bear witness to the lack of precipitation, and the Norðurá river meanders past us like a small stream. If my wife and I hadn’t been so busy at our place in the countryside, we surely would have taken advantage of the time for fishing trips. But for now, our construction projects had to take priority.

Finally, now toward the end of our summer vacation, there was a brief pause in the construction work. We are nearly finished insulating the workshop, we’ve put up a small six-square-meter storage shed, and we’ve finished the formwork for the foundation of the ‘new’ Brautarlækur. Don’t we deserve to go fishing now? I certainly think so.

The big project this summer: setting up the formwork for the new house at Brautarlækur. We aim to pour the foundation walls in August.

I decided to make a trip to the moorland lake, but my wife didn’t join me—mostly because of the dog, who can’t seem to settle down during fishing trips. The weather was exceptionally good. Not bracing sunshine, but dry, 15 degrees, and a light breeze when I started fishing around two o’clock. I searched far and wide for fish but didn’t see a sign of life. Just before seven in the evening, the southwesterly breeze turned into a northeasterly wind. I had fished all the main spots on the eastern bank and around Réttartangi. Everything felt stone dead. Even at one of our most productive spots in the lake, it was the same story. No activity.

After dinner, I strolled over to Breiðavík and cast across the bay from the west. I got no reaction and was starting to think about heading home. That’s when a 2.8-pound trout took my lure. Naturally, I kept at it, but no other fish bit. I thought to myself that there must be fish at the spot I had visited earlier. I walked back with my fly rod, and soon a 2-pound trout took a black Nobbler. I cast again, and again there was a strike on the Nobbler. This was a big fish that fought hard. To my frustration, the line snapped—and I realized I had left my fly box back at Breiðavík! I went to fetch more flies and my spinning rod and ended up landing three more trout. Two took a red Nobbler, but then the fly disappeared into the depths when a trout snapped the line. I switched back to the lure and landed one more. All of them were around three pounds. The total catch for the trip was five trout, ranging from two to three pounds.

The water level in the lake is quite low, as the month of July has been exceptionally dry.

The hike back in the dark is always an ‘adventure,’ so to speak. I was tired and my legs were aching after walking all day. I saw little sign of other people having been at the lake, though a group of horses had clearly passed by recently.

Circumstances have been such that I haven’t made an appearance on the banks of Lake Þingvallavatn until now this summer. For a long time, June was cold in the south, so I didn’t feel it was worth trying the lake. Then came July, but I wasn’t in town. However, my wife and I had to make a quick trip to the city, and of course, I took the opportunity to visit the lake.

As you can see from the photos, the weather was absolutely magnificent. At most, a light breeze, and at times it fell into a dead calm. I’ve often heard that these are hopeless conditions for fishing, but that hasn’t necessarily been my experience; for instance, I’ve had quite successful trips to Þingvallavatn in exactly these conditions. This time, however, the arctic char showed zero interest in the flies I offered. I suspect spawning is their main priority right now, and the search for food simply doesn’t stand a chance. I know the char were there, as they were very prominent in the calm water, swimming back and forth in the ‘bowl’—and they were large.

The cranesbill is in full bloom everywhere now, and I took advantage of that to practice with the new camera we recently invested in. I’m quite pleased with the results.

Not far from our cabin in the countryside, there is a lake where my wife holds a lifelong fishing permit, a privilege granted for her time living and working on the land the lake belongs to. It has been nearly forty years since she worked there. The estate is called Hreðavatn and was an active farm at the time. Back then, they would occasionally go out to fetch trout from Lake Hreðavatn; she often went to set nets there, but they never went to Selvatn. I wonder if the reason was simply that the fishing there was too poor to be worth the effort? I certainly hope not, as Selvatn has the honor of being the very first lake we are fishing this summer.

For the past week, the weather in Norðurárdalur has been exceptionally good. We wanted to wet a line in the beautiful weather but didn’t allow ourselves the time; we wanted to finish insulating the storage shed we built there last summer. Finally, when we decided to head out for a bit of fishing, the wind had turned northerly, and it was no longer warm. My wife suggested Selvatn. Despite its proximity and our permit, we have never tried fishing there. Consequently, we have no idea what the possibilities are.

We approached the lake from the southwest and settled for fishing from the western, eastern, and southern banks. The terrain drops steeply down to the water on the east and west sides, where the shallows are only about a meter wide before the depth takes over completely. Behind you, there’s a very steep slope covered in thick brush, which made fly fishing nearly impossible except from the southern bank. My wife cast a lure and immediately hooked a decent arctic char, but lost it. I cast my fly a few times until my rod snapped. Yes, my Sage rod broke. From experience, I know I won’t get it back from the repair shop until the fishing season is almost over. Luckily, I’m not in total trouble as I can use my 5-weight, and I also have a heavier spare rod for those harsh days when the wind makes the 5-weight impossible to cast.

There was nothing for it but to trudge back to the car and grab another spinning rod. I then tried the southwest corner of the lake, where I hooked a nice char. Just as I had the landing net in hand and was about to land it, the fish suddenly broke free. The spinner shot out of the water and ended up embedded in my chin—and there it hung, while the fish swam away. So, I removed the hook from my own chin instead of the fish’s and kept on fishing. We didn’t see another sign of life after that and soon headed back home.

Autumn has truly arrived, we thought as we encountered a large flock of sheep streaming toward Hellisá on their way to the Þverárrétt sorting fold. We were surprised to see how many sheep still remained on the slopes above Fornihvammur, but as we climbed higher onto Holtavörðuheiði, the reason became clear. If the gatherers had attempted to muster the moor, they could hardly have seen a single sheep through the dense fog. We were headed for Hópið, fairly certain that this would be our final fishing trip of the year.

We weren’t too optimistic as we turned north onto Route 716; the fog was quite thick by Vesturhópsvatn. We had been looking forward to seeing the landscape, as we don’t travel these parts often. The fog lifted slightly, but never enough to offer a real view. There was a northerly breeze, and though it wasn’t particularly cold, the temperature stayed around eight or nine degrees. We started fishing by the cliffs at the tip of Ásbjarnarnes—the same spot where we began back in 2014, the last time we visited Hópið. We didn’t see a sign of fish there.

Soon we moved north of the cliffs. The conditions were better there, but the north wind beat down on us, making our stay by the shore rather unpleasant. We caught one tiny sea trout. We then moved south of the cliffs, where it was calmer and more comfortable. Having seen no further sign of fish, we decided to head home, but not before casting a few lures. My wife hooked a 1.5-pound sea-run arctic char, and with that, our final fishing trip of the year came to an end. We headed home for dinner.

Since we aren’t very familiar with fishing in Hópið, we weren’t overly optimistic about our chances. We know it takes time to learn the ropes of a new body of water, and it doesn’t simplify matters when the lake is this massive. Hópið is the fifth-largest lake in Iceland, covering between 29 and 44 square kilometers depending on the tides. It isn’t deep, reaching only 9 meters at its deepest point. We didn’t have a local guide with us, so there was nothing to do but try various spots until we found a promising one.

We found some descriptions on a few fishing websites about where to start. The northern and eastern sides of Ásbjarnarnes are considered promising; that’s where we began and where we caught the sea-run arctic char, just off the eastern side of the peninsula. It would also have been worth driving further north along the lake to try the spots beneath the slopes on the western side toward the outlet. However, the trail down there is quite rugged.

The descriptions also mention lunch and restroom facilities at Ásbjarnarnes. My wife and I suspected this might refer to an outhouse we saw standing in the middle of a field and the Ásbjarnarnes farmhouse, which turned out to be in total disrepair. Next to the farmhouse was a turf house that looked to be in decent shape, but there was no indication it was the facility in question, as it was locked.

My wife and I had a long weekend ahead of us, which we planned to spend picking berries and fishing. We knew the berry picking would be a challenge, as this season has been unusually poor. Likely, a night frost hit after the heather bloomed this spring, as we saw very few signs of berries on the plants. Regardless, we were determined to persist and fill a few buckets.

When we turned in around midnight on Friday, the outdoor thermometer stood at zero degrees. Night frosts are fast approaching; it’s high time to pick the berries before they freeze. The birch and the heather are already beginning to prepare for winter. When Saturday dawned, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the air was still. I decided to make a trip to the moorland lake and took the time to hike up the ridges above it. I didn’t regret the effort—the view was magnificent, and because the water was mirror-still, I could clearly see the contours of the lakebed

After a two-hour hike, I reached the shore. My first task was to sit down, enjoy a midday snack, and look out over the mirror-still lake. Usually, the brown trout don’t show themselves on the surface, but they did now—clearly chasing the flies landing on the water.

I rigged up my 5-weight rod with an 8-pound leader and a dry fly. I also readied the 8-weight with a 12-pound leader, a Teal and Black fly, and a dropper which was a bead-head Watson’s Fancy nymph. On the third cast, a trout took the dry fly just off the bank on the southern side of Réttartangi. We wrestled for quite a while, but suddenly everything went slack. That one was gone.

I continued casting from the bank for about an hour and landed two trout, 1.5 lbs and 2 lbs, both of which took the dry fly. Afterward, I walked around Réttartangi and cast where I had caught two trout back in July. After a few casts, a 1.5-pound trout took the Watson’s Fancy.

Usually, I am all by myself at the moorland lake, with only the Great Northern Divers and swans for company if my wife isn’t with me. This time, however, I saw signs of people on the hillside to the west; someone was herding sheep. I walked over to the north bank and saw a white ‘monster truck’ appear on the slope above the water. The people set up a tent.

I fished the western bank of Breiðavík, a spot where I’ve never actually caught a fish. The person who had set up the tent came down to the bay and cast into the middle of it, immediately hooking a sizable trout. I kept casting from the western bank, but nothing was happening. Which made sense—as it turned out, there wasn’t even a fly on my leader! I went to grab the rod with the dropper and cast a few times. I got a powerful strike and shortly after landed a 3.5-pound trout that took the Watson’s Fancy nymph.

I eventually struck up a conversation with the camper, and it turned out he had quite a bit of experience with the lake. His father had worked as a farmhand at the neighboring farm back in the sixties, and through those connections, he had secured permission to fish there. It was really nice to finally meet someone who knew the lake, as not many people are willing to put in the effort required to reach it and fish.

By then, I’d had my fill of fishing. I packed up all my gear and started the hike back, feeling very satisfied with the day. The final tally for the trip was four trout: two at 1.5 lbs, one 2 lbs, and one 3.5 lbs.

My fishing blog bears witness to the fact that my usual hunting grounds are primarily lakes and the prey is trout. The reason is the price of salmon fishing permits, as there is certainly no lack of interest. However, my wife and I finally decided to go for it and bought permits for the uppermost beat of the Norðurá river last week. Norðurá is one of the best salmon rivers in the country and flows right past our cabin in the countryside. It’s actually quite remarkable that we haven’t made it a regular event to fish there.

While we certainly know where the notable casting spots are, we have little idea where the fish actually lie. Such knowledge only comes with experience. The fishing area stretched from Símastrengur, just below the farm Háreksstaðir, up to the bridge pool at Fornihvammur. This is the highest section of the river, often referred to as Norðurá – The Mountain (Fjallið). Three rods are sold for this beat, and we had all of them in partnership with my wife’s cousin, Stefán, and brother-in-law, Maggi.

Twice before, I have cast a line in Norðurá. The first time, it so happened that Dóri Nikk—a former river warden and my wife’s cousin—showed up at our cabin door up in the valley and said to my father-in-law: ‘Halli, you’re going to the river now.’ The warden was utterly offended because a couple who held the fishing rights hadn’t even shown their faces with a rod; they were too busy with a ‘bunk-bed bender’ (drinking in their bunks). In those years, I wasn’t much of a fisherman, but I was allowed to try one pool and even had a rise.

The second time, my brother-in-law and I bought a single day on the river, but we were quite unlucky with the weather. It was an exceptionally sunny day, one of many during a long drought, and consequently, we didn’t get so much as a nibble.

Conditions were in our favor this time, so we were quite optimistic that we wouldn’t leave the river empty-handed. The water level was high following a fair amount of rain during the week. It cleared up shortly before we began fishing on Friday afternoon, and then the river gradually receded over the three days we were there. Absolutely ideal conditions.

My spouse and I started at the top of the river at Hvassármót, Brúarhylur by Fornihvammur, and Klapparhylur. We didn’t see a sign of fish. At the fourth spot, located between Kattarhryggur and Kattarhryggsfoss, Guðrún landed a 6-pound, 69 cm salmon in Poka. With Króksfoss in the background, a salmon would have no trouble ascending the falls in these water conditions.

The next morning we started at Króksfoss and Poka. There is almost certainly always fish there; according to the catch log, 26 out of the 52 fish caught so far had been recorded in Poka. It’s best to fish these spots from the south bank, but that requires wading across. With the water levels so high, I actually had to hold onto my wife to make sure she didn’t get swept away. No fish were caught this time, so we tried above Króksbrú bridge next. Later in the trip, we spotted about six salmon below the bridge—not a spot where they usually hold. Perhaps the high water volume was the reason they were lying there.

Next, we headed to Neðri-Ferjuhylur, where we hooked a 3.5-pound salmon. Once again, it took a larger version of the Red Francis tube fly. We kept trying Ferjuhylur after landing the fish because there was still action in the water. Suddenly, I slipped and fell flat on my back into the river. I managed to scramble up after a bit of a struggle, only to slip again and dive face-first into the water. I rose again, soaking wet, glasses crooked, and my landing net gone. I eventually spotted the net on the riverbed and stumbled, drenched, back to shore.

I was taking off my wading jacket when, of course, a prime salmon jumped right behind me. I turned around, waded back out, and what do you know? I slipped a third time and went completely under. Luckily, it was warm out, so I stood up dripping wet and cast at the fish that had jumped. It took a swipe at the fly but didn’t hook, so we headed back to the lodge for a lunch break.

On Saturday’s evening shift, we fished the lowest beats. We started at Símastrengur—or what we thought was Símastrengur—though the spot seemed unlikely to us. Next were Hvammshylur, Beinhóll, and Snagafit, ending finally at Skógarnef, which is probably a spent spot by now. As we left Skógarnef, my wife spotted my brother-in-law, Maggi, at Ferjuhylur, where a salmon jumped. We decided to check on him, and there was no mistaking what was happening: he was in the middle of a struggle, playing a salmon that was clearly a big one.

The salmon turned out to be 12 pounds and 81 cm. The poor thing was quite shocked after the ordeal, and for a moment, I feared we might have to cull it, which would have been a shame. It took about three minutes for it to recover enough to swim away from the bank; it was a beautiful sight to see it swim slowly and majestically back into the current.

After that adventure, Guðrún and I headed down to Símastrengur—this time at the correct spot. There seemed to be no life there, nor in Hvammshylur. Actually, there were fish in Hvammshylur, but they seemed ‘reserved’ for Stefán, who landed two salmon from that pool. The larger one was around 8 pounds and was released in accordance with the rules.

On Sunday morning, our final shift, Guðrún and I returned to the uppermost beat and cast into the pool where we had caught a salmon on the first day. Once again, we hooked a nice fish. Guðrún wrestled with it for a while, but then it shook the fly and said goodbye. This time, it was the ‘Mýsla’ fly that had tempted it.

All in all, it turned out to be a great fishing trip. A total of eight salmon were landed: two from Ferjuhylur, two from Hvammshylur, one from the pool below Kattarhryggsfoss, one from the pool below Olnbogi, one from Poka, and the eighth was caught somewhere on the upper beat. Now the question is: will fishing in Norðurá become a permanent tradition?

I managed to convince Guðrún that it might be fun to trek over to Gullhamarsvatn instead of just settling for Hólmavatn. Lately, long hikes haven’t exactly been her favorite thing. It’s not a particularly long walk, but since we had never fished in Gullhamarsvatn before, we weren’t entirely sure how demanding the terrain would be.

Around 2:30 PM, we packed our lunch, tossed the gear into the car, and drove across two plateaus and up a third to reach the lakes. The trail up to Hólmsheiði from Sólheimar isn’t for just any vehicle, but our new car proved it’s perfect for this kind of off-roading. The trail is 3.5 kilometers long and can only be driven at a walking pace. About 1.5 kilometers in, the track forks; we took the one leading east of Hólmsvatn and hiked from there over to Gullhamarsvatn.

The path took us between Hólmavatn and Reiðgötuvatn, with Hólmavatn to our south and Reiðgötuvatn to the north. After that, it was a pleasant stroll across marshes and moorland until we reached Gullhamarsvatn. While we ate dinner by the lake, we wondered if we were in the right spot. According to the description, the lake is situated beneath a cliff called Gullhamar (Gold Cliff). No matter how hard we looked, we couldn’t see a cliff, though in the distance to the northeast, we spotted a rock formation that might have been the one with the expensive name. Still, it seemed so far away that saying it stood ‘by the lake’ felt a bit inaccurate.

The trout preferred the fly, followed by the bait, but we had no luck with the spinner. My wife and I have fished Hólmavatn three times before, and every single time it has been miserably windy. This time was a completely different story, as it was calm for most of the time we were fishing. Reviews of the Sólheimar lakes say they are best fished in overcast and gloomy conditions, but that didn’t quite match our experience this time—it was cloudy but warm.

The fishing started slowly, though my wife soon landed a one-pound brown trout. We moved slightly to the west and quickly spotted a fish rising. We cast out a dead drift (the ‘lazy’ rig) just to the side of the rise, intending to target the main area with our flies. Almost immediately, a two-pound trout struck the bait. We switched to a dry fly, and soon the trout started taking that as well. When things slowed down, we changed to an orange Nobbler, which got a strike on the very first cast. Finally, we tried a Teal and Black fly pattern, and the trout took that one too.

As it began to get dark, we hiked back to Hólmavatn. Naturally, we made a few casts from the spot where Guðrún landed several fish last year. There, a one-pounder took the bait. In the end, the fly was most effective, followed by the bait, while the spinner yielded nothing.

For the past few days, the weather on the heath where Heiðarvatn is located has been exceptionally calm—dead still or, at most, a light breeze day after day. I decided to see if the lake was fishable under these conditions. Local lore says the lake is best after a strong southwesterly wind, specifically in Veiðivík, as the brown trout seem to move into the bay when the wind blows from the south.

I decided to fish all the way around the lake since I had the whole day ahead of me and felt in good enough shape for the hike. I reached the water by 10:30 AM and started on the western bank by the rock pile where I’ve caught fish once before. I didn’t get a bite and immediately jumped to the conclusion that the lake was unfishable in this weather. I cast here and there on my way toward the bay. It was off the northern side of Réttartangi that I first encountered fish in this lake many years ago. In the calm water, I could clearly see a channel forming between the shallows near the bank and the shallows out in the middle of the lake. It struck me as a likely spot for trout to hold. I swung off my backpack and waded out to where I could easily cast into the deeper water. After a few casts, a 1.6-pound brown trout took a black Nobbler. Naturally, I gave the area more time, and a few casts later, another one grabbed the Nobbler—this one weighed 2.2 pounds. A third trout took the fly as well, but it was small and I released it.

I continued fishing along Réttartangi, around its northern point, and then the entire bay to the north. By the time I reached the head of the bay, I was starting to feel the fatigue from the long walk. For some reason, likely based on past experience, I didn’t think the bottom of that bay looked like a promising spot. Still, I decided to throw a spinner into the bay a couple of times with my spinning rod—I didn’t even bother taking off my backpack. On the second cast, the most impressive fish of the day took a black Toby. It weighed in at 2.8 pounds. I switched back to the fly and had two strikes; I probably would have landed another one if I had given it more time.

I fished my way around the rest of the bay, casting here and there. At one point, a trout followed the fly, which was a thrill to watch in the mirror-still water. Finally, I walked to the spot on the western bank where I’ve often seen fish before, but this time, nothing was happening. By then, I had pretty much run out of energy, so I decided to call it a day.

Last winter, I made it my goal to find time this summer to hike to Lake Djúpavatn and fish the three lakes: Djúpavatn, Tangavatn, and Krókavatn. These lakes are located on the border of Borgarbyggð and Húnaþing vestra. While Krókavatn and Tangavatn belong to Borgarbyggð, Djúpavatn is part of Húnaþing vestra. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I have the names of the lakes right. My father-in-law called the first lake you encounter when walking east from the old quarries on Holtavörðuheiði ‘Krókavatn,’ and I think I’ll stick with that name from now on. The next lake is marked as ‘Tangavatn’ on maps, but I’ve heard two other names for it: Hólmavatn and Reipavatn. It would be interesting to hear from locals to get the nomenclature straight. Unfortunately, I no longer have access to my father-in-law’s knowledge, as he surely could have enlightened me further.

Tangavatn lies east of Krókavatn, and Djúpavatn is northeast of Tangavatn. The distance between them is short, and it’s a relatively easy hike—not much of a climb, just low hills and ridges. I walked northeast from where I left the car, as I figured that would lead me straight to Djúpavatn. That turned out to be correct; after about a thirty-minute walk, I reached the lake. The weather was calm and pleasant, but just as I was about to start fishing in Djúpavatn, it began to rain in the still air—and I mean a total downpour. My wading jacket was no match for the deluge, so I was soaked right at the start of the trip. It didn’t matter much, though, as it was warm. The lake looked very promising for fishing. I had the company of a Great Northern Diver (Himbrimi); that bird is always a sign that there’s fish in the water. There was also a pair of whooper swans. I didn’t have much luck with the fishing in Djúpavatn, though, except for one finger-long trout that grabbed my fly.

“It must have been nearing six o’clock when I decided to call it a day at Djúpavatn and headed back toward Tangavatn. I didn’t give that lake much time, as I intended to scout it quickly and finish my fishing at Krókavatn. I first reached the northern shore of Tangavatn, where I noticed a lot of foam along the water’s edge. I’ve heard that such foam can be a sign of fish, though that’s not always the case; it’s usually just organic matter whipped up by the wind and waves. I cast a few times there, as it looked promising, then walked along the western shore, casting here and there. About halfway along, I noticed how short the distance was to Krókavatn, with my car clearly visible on the ridge where I’d left it. It was reassuring to see how close the lakes were, making navigation easy even if visibility were to fade. Tangavatn is shallow, and I wondered if it freezes to the bottom in winter. I’m not sure, but perhaps there are deeper pockets where the fish can retreat. I decided to walk south of the lake, hoping for better spots. I didn’t get a bite, but on the largest point, the vegetation caught my eye—plenty of roseroot and unusually thick carpets of reindeer moss. I slightly regret not taking photos of the moss, but I didn’t feel like taking off my backpack to grab my camera gear.

By this point in the hike, it was nearing 8:30 PM. Suddenly, a thick northern mist rolled in, and all landmarks vanished. I decided to stroll the short distance to Krókavatn, assuming it would be easy to find the car from there. I set off, choosing to follow a trail for safety, knowing one led east from Krókavatn toward Tangavatn. After walking for quite a while, I began to have second thoughts. I came across small ponds I thought were Krókavatn, but they weren’t. I kept going until the realization dawned on me: I was in trouble. I tried using Google Maps, but it was useless; the app just warned me that my location was difficult to pin down and the compass might be inaccurate. Now it started pouring again. I decided to backtrack along the trail. In a worst-case scenario, I’d have to wait there until the fog lifted, but I refused to leave the path. After some walking, I found a side trail I thought led to Krókavatn, but it led nowhere, so I doubled back. Finally, I found the right track to Krókavatn just as the fog cleared for a moment. I was immensely relieved. I tried fishing there without success and then headed up to the car. As I walked that final short stretch, the fog rolled back in. I think I’ll take this as a lesson learned and get myself an old-fashioned compass. That way, I won’t have to rely on battery-powered gadgets and satellite signals.

The fishing division of the Grandi Woodworking Club went on its twentieth trip from July 7th to 9th, 2022. According to the Met Office, the weather was supposed to be quite erratic, and it didn’t start well, as a weather warning was issued for gale-force winds on Thursday. The wind was then expected to gradually die down on Friday, followed by decent weather.

We rented a cabin near the lakes, and by the time we arrived around one o’clock, the weather had turned absolutely mental. That didn’t stop us; once we’d unloaded the cars, we headed out to fish. For a nearsighted four-eyes like me, it was a nightmare—twice I had to sprint after my glasses. It’s a miracle they survived intact. I had to settle for fishing without them since they wouldn’t stay on my nose. I started at a familiar spot on the point in Lake Arnarvatn, while my partner fished the bay where the late Örn had such a great catch during the 2020 trip. Out on the point, the weather was so violent that you could hardly stand upright. Sure enough, a sudden gust caught me off guard and knocked me off my feet. I plunged forward, landing belly-first in the water. Luckily, it was shallow where I took the tumble.

Soon enough, the fish started biting like crazy. I was scrambling back and forth between my two rods, and after about three hours of fishing, I had landed twelve decent brown trout. When I eventually headed back to the bay where my partner was still fishing, he had a similar tale of woe to tell. Exactly the same thing had happened to him—a gust of wind hit him head-on and knocked him over, sending him tumbling onto his back into the water. While we were struggling under these impossible conditions, the main highway was actually closed because it was deemed too dangerous to be on the road in such weather.

That evening, we raised a glass to a fallen fishing buddy and friend, as our companion Örn passed away early this spring after a battle with a serious illness. We reminisced about the club's previous fishing trips, which have become quite numerous. According to the group's statistical expert, we have now completed twenty trips with a total of 908 trout landed.

The Met Office hit the nail on the head, as the forecast seemed to be playing out exactly as predicted. The wind was somewhat lighter on Friday, and it continued to die down as the morning went on, though it was still quite strong. That morning, I managed to land seven trout in Lake Harðarvatn. They were caught off the point in the middle of the lake, where our companions had been fishing in the gale the day before. Two of my fish were Arctic char, and one of them mysteriously vanished. Suspicion fell on local scavengers—most likely a Great Black-backed Gull or a mink helped themselves to it.

After noon on Friday, the wind died down to a dead calm. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the wind that dropped—the fishing did as well. The trout stopped biting altogether. When all was said and done, I had landed nineteen trout, and the group had caught sixty in total.

I dropped my wife off at work and then sped east to Lake Þingvallavatn. I decided to better familiarize myself with the conditions at Vatnskot, Öfugsnáði, and Nes and Nautatangi. I have mostly fished the National Park side on the eastern bank and feel like I’m starting to know that area quite well. According to the forecast, the weather was supposed to be calm, so I expected to get a clear view of the lake's bottom topography in these areas.

When I parked the car at Vatnskot, the place was buzzing with life as campers were getting ready for the day’s adventures. When I reached the water, one angler was already there. I saw he had landed one Arctic char, and it was a good size. I believe I’ve only tried fishing there once before, catching one char slightly further east. This time, however, I didn’t get a single bite during my stay, and it didn’t look like the other fisherman was having much luck either.

Next, I headed to Öfugsnáði. There was also an angler there, but he soon packed up and left. He appeared to be fishless. I think I’ve tried fishing off Öfugsnáði twice before, and neither time yielded any fish.

My third stop was Nes and Nautatangi. I believe I’ve fished there twice before. On the first occasion, Guðrún caught one char on a spinner. I find this area exciting and intend to explore it further. I understand that the char start appearing there late in the summer, so perhaps I’ll make another trip to Nes and Nautatangi in August.