One shouldn’t subject one’s companions to constant complaining, even if the body isn’t quite where one wants it to be. Nevertheless, I’m going to allow myself to start this narrative with a little bit of a moan. I promise never to mention it again after this. Chronic complainers are tedious, and one doesn’t want to be tedious unless absolutely necessary. About three months ago, some trouble flared up in my back. It’s happened before, of course, but this time the pain didn’t seem to want to subside. It only intensified, radiating from the lower back into the hips and down the legs, seemingly spreading everywhere. By the time the fishing season was starting, the pain was beginning to affect my mood as well—which, of course, is the worst part. I started doing all sorts of back exercises and stretches on the living room floor at home, hoping I could reverse this unfortunate trend. To no avail; I was becoming worried that the powers that be were going to ruin the joy of fishing and the great outdoors for me this summer.
On the 17th of June, I decided to see if I could fish anyway. I went to Lake Þingvallavatn, and as it turned out, the lake did not treat my back kindly. I waded through it moaning and groaning, dreading every single step. Those who have fished in the lake know what the bottom is like in most places. Now, nine days later, the situation is completely different. This week, I actually started feeling a change in my back. Certainly, it’s still bothering me, but it’s a huge relief to feel that I can enjoy fishing again. I even managed to fall flat on my face twice without feeling a sharp sting. The second time was actually into the water, so it was a soft landing. This proves, then, that the painful fishing trip on June 17th was the very best kind of physical therapy.
Now that I have unburdened my mind, I can begin the account of this fishing trip. I believe I have tried fishing at almost every possible spot within the National Park. One place, however, always remained: Ólafsdráttur itself. Fishing is not allowed at that spot after July 1st, so if I intended to complete the circuit this summer, it was now or never. I parked the car by the middle of Arnarfell and walked north along it until I could turn west down to the water. There, a very decent fishing area appeared, and it wasn’t so cramped that one couldn’t cast a fly. I waded west along Arnarfell until I could go no further. I cast a “Peacock” fly a few times, and soon there was a bite. It turned out to be a handsome snail-eating Arctic char, weighing three pounds. Naturally, I thought the “cows” (large fish) would now strike my flies one after another. That wasn’t exactly the case, so I tied on a “Watson’s Fancy.” Then, there wasn’t exactly a strike, but something hooked itself. It turned out to be the first murta (small lake char) of the summer.
After that, I didn’t get another bite, though I did see a magnificent brown trout breach out of the water. He was out of reach, but it’s always a pleasure to encounter those “bruisers.” Around twelve-thirty, I called it a day and headed home.