On Saturday morning, I sat on the deck at the Brautarlækur house, practicing Van Morrison's Moondance on my instrument. The sun was brilliant, and the air was perfectly still. My thoughts turned to the afternoon, which Guðrún and I planned to spend fishing in Fiskivatn. Could it be that we’d finally get to fish the lake in a dead calm? In all our trips there, we have only once experienced it without wind, and even then, it was only for a brief moment while the wind direction was shifting.
With considerable effort, we reached our fishing grounds. Contrary to our hopes, the lake was not calm; a light southerly breeze was blowing, and the air temperature was 18°C. Guðrún began fishing in Veiðvík, the very spot where she used to tend nets with her family in the old days. I walked south along the eastern bank until I reached the point where the river flows out of the lake. There, I waded a long way out into the water, casting a greenish bead-head streamer. I immediately sensed interest in the fly, which prompted me to linger there for a good while before starting to make my way north toward Grunnavík.
I had taken only a few steps north when the first brown trout struck the fly. He was quite spirited, though not large. Shortly after, I saw Guðrún land one in Veiðivík. I continued fishing northward, and along a hundred-meter stretch, I landed three more trout. Two took the same fly as the first, and one grabbed the spinner. By the time I reached Veiðivík, the wind had performed a 180-degree turn and was now blowing from the north. For about an hour, we finally got to fish the lake in a dead calm. During the night, the temperature plummeted, dropping quickly to just 1°C.
Around half-past ten, we walked west to the spot that has historically yielded our most and largest fish. It felt impossible not to take a few casts there before the pitch-black night set in. I walked over to Lómavík (Loon Bay) while Guðrún fished her favorite spot. Lómavík? I wondered why the bay was given that name. As far as I’ve seen or heard, this lake is the kingdom of the Great Northern Diver (himbrimi). It’s possible, of course, that a Red-throated Diver (lómur) once made itself at home here, as they breed all over the country. Then again, perhaps whoever named it simply didn’t know the difference—or perhaps they just thought Lómavík sounded more beautiful than Himbrimavík. There were no birds to be seen in Lómavík itself, but in Grunnavík, a pair of Great Northern Divers swam with a single chick, and far out on the lake, a pair of swans glided by with two cygnets.
To our surprise, we didn’t get a single strike at our favorite spot this time. A new day had already dawned by the time we pulled into the driveway at the cabin—tired, but content with our five trout, even if they were on the smaller side.