In our basement, there is an unfinished apartment whose renovations are stealing all our free time this summer. That is why there are few fishing stories from July and August. Meanwhile, the blueberries have ripened near our summer cabin in Borgarfjörður, and the brown trout are beginning to venture closer to the shore of the mountain lake as the nights grow darker. My wife and I felt it was unacceptable to let the autumn pass with the blueberries unpicked in the moorland and no attempt made to catch the trout. Therefore, we took a break from the “basement grind” and headed to the countryside for the weekend of August 19th–21st. The forecast promised a pleasant time outdoors in the sun and warmth.
The forecast held true as we set off up the ridge above the cabin toward the lake on Saturday. The sun shone in a clear sky, the temperature was around 15°C, and a mild breeze blew from the east. The trail was open, so we were able to drive most of the way up the ridge. For the first time, our Kia got to test its mettle on a real mountain road. She performed reasonably well, though we can’t exactly say she matches the old Land Rover. We decided to go no further than Guðrúnarvarða (Guðrún’s Cairn) and left the car there.
Guðrúnarvarða stands at the end of Hádegisborgir (Noon Cliffs), so named because from the farm, the sun sits right above the cliffs at noon. Who might this Guðrún be, so famous as to have a cairn named after her? She is none other than my dear wife who, over forty years ago as an eight-year-old, went on horseback one autumn with her two older siblings to check the nets in Fiskivatn. They had previously built the cairn. When they reached it, the little girl asked what it was called. The answer she received was that it was probably best if it were named Guðrúnarvarða. The cairn still stands by Hádegisborgir, marking the way to the lake.
When we reached the lake, we saw three men standing on the shore below the cliffs named after the lake. They saw us, and it was clear they had no interest in speaking with us. Instead, they became very flighty and quickly vanished from sight as they hurried northwest along the slope down into the valley. Either they thought we were outlaws and very dangerous, or they themselves were at the lake on business that required permits they didn’t have. Then again, perhaps these men simply suffered from social anxiety and were there with full permission. Who knows?
We began fishing in Breiðuvík, then moved to the point between Breiðuvík and Lómavík, fished Lómavík, and the west bank under the slope. By the time we reached the bay beyond Réttartangi, dusk was falling. There, a brown trout took Guðrún’s bait, but it got away after a short struggle. That trout was the only sign of life we encountered, aside from the birds that live by the lake, the alleged poachers, and some goose hunters we met on our way back down the ridge.
Despite the lack of fish, the trip to the cabin was far from in vain, as the mounds around the house were blue with berries. We picked fourteen liters of blueberries, and as of this writing, jam-making is in full swing.