Whit Sunday—and I've finished nailing the fascia boards onto the eaves of the new workshop, installed three cabinets inside, rearranged the tools and storage, and applied the first coat of wood preservative to the windows and doors. Now, a man could go out and play with a clear conscience. For the first time this summer, the fishing gear was brought out. I really wanted to go to Gullhamarsvatn on Hólmavatnsheiði, but that will have to wait for a better time since the moorland is still too wet. Consequently, I decided to go to Laxárvatn instead.
I don't know Laxárvatn very well, though I'm not a complete stranger to it. Thirty years ago, I owned a "splendid" BMW. That sounds better than it actually was, as it was an old, four-speed "Harlem edition" of a BMW. In this car, my father-in-law Halli and I drove over Laxárdalsheiði to fish in Laxárvatn. We walked the five hundred meters down to the lake, and there on the bank sat the late Halli Reynis, the musician and later music teacher. Naturally, we struck up a conversation. He told us he fished this lake often and said one could catch quite decent brown trout there. This particular trip didn't stick in my memory for the catch, as we didn't land a single fish. It is far more memorable for the car troubles, as Laxárdalsheiði proved too much for the car's suspension. Both front shock absorbers gave out, and the drive home felt more like sailing against the waves in a gale.
Now, thirty years later, I am much better equipped for the road, and my new mountain vehicle delivered me back and forth without a hitch. Laxárvatn is not a large lake—only half a square kilometer. It holds brown trout ranging from one to three pounds. I had been casting my fly for about an hour when a one-and-a-half-pound trout took an orange Nobbler. This was just west of the middle of the southern bank. For a long while after that, nothing happened, even though I tried changing flies and testing a mid-sink line as well. I then walked over to the eastern bank, switched back to a floating line, and tied on an exceptionally beautiful nymph imitation—the name of which I have no idea. On this lovely nymph, I landed a trout weighing just over two pounds.
A river flows into the lake there, and the second fish was caught just off its mouth. I began fishing in 9°C weather with a southwest wind. By the time I finished around midnight, the wind had died down considerably, and the midnight sun was shining on the mountains.
