I had originally planned to head to the lake yesterday, Wednesday, and bring my friend along. I knew he was available then, but not on Thursday. However, my old clunker of a car, which has certainly reached the age where it needs constant maintenance, got in the way. The repairs couldn't be finished in time due to a lack of spare parts. They finally arrived late Wednesday afternoon, allowing me to complete the job. Consequently, I ended up going to the lake alone on Thursday morning. I dropped my wife off at work and was down by the shore by nine o'clock.
The bank south of Arnarfell was my chosen spot. To my surprise, there was only one other angler in the area, lounging leisurely on the bank beneath the fell. The weather was magnificent—overcast and dead calm (stafalogn). It was fascinating to watch the snail-eating Arctic char (kuðungableikja) in the water; they seemed entirely unfazed by my presence, swimming all around me in search of food.
Even though I could see the char, they weren’t exactly keen on the flies I offered them. After a while, I grew restless and moved further north along the bank to a spot where I had caught several fish last year. The thought had begun to creep in that Lake Þingvallavatn was going to fail me this year, as I had already made three unsuccessful trips to the lake this summer. I decided to change my fly, tying on a brown pupa not unlike the ‘Frisco.’ After a few casts, the first char struck, followed quickly by numbers two and three. At that point, I lost that excellent fly and didn’t have another like it. I switched to a ‘Watson’s Fancy,’ and with it, I landed fish four through seven.
At this point, I felt it was time to head home, though I naturally wanted to try a few spots where I’d previously hooked fish. Twice I hooked quite decent char, but lost them both. I switched to a fly we all know never fails: the good old Peacock delivered a plump char on the very first cast. It was time to call it a day, as I had to pick up my wife from work. So, I headed home to collect her, fillet the fish, and, of course, prepare one for the grill.
Just as I was packing up my gear, another angler appeared on the bank as if on cue. I asked him to take a photo of me with the final char for my fishing blog. He was happy to oblige, and I’m very grateful to him—not only for the photo but also for the story of the Great Northern Diver (himbrimi) that wouldn’t leave him alone after he’d fed it a Murta. After receiving the fish, the bird loomed over the angler in hopes of more, eventually forcing him to stop fishing altogether.
