Reykjavík Grapevine - 21.06.2019, Side 48

I was baffled when my son came to me
one day and told me that he wanted
to go out fishing. Until then, Ólafur
Grettir, aged 11 and much like his fa-
ther, had no interest in sports; like
most preteens in the Western world,
he met his friends online to shoot and
scream at each other in some cartoon-
ish video games. I hadn’t gone fishing
in ages, though my late father’s fish-
ing gear had, for some reason, landed
in my storage space rather than with
my brother, who actually likes to fish.
Red wine
and fish
Last time I went fishing was in the
middle of the night with my cousin
Gabríel, and my girlfriend, in Pa-
treksfjörður a few years ago. We took
a rowboat, sailed to the middle of the
fjord and brought a few bottles of red
wine with us. We got piss-drunk and
woke up the day with ten codfish in
the boat that we barely remembered
catching, and had no idea what to
do with.
So, I told my son that I would go
and look in the storage space. And
sure enough, I found two fishing
rods, waders from the ‘90s, and a
fishing vest that made me look like a
full-kit-wanker. I was only missing
the green hat with the spinner stuck
in the brim.
Good hunting
Despite my older son’s protest, I took
his five-year-old brother with us, and
we headed for the hunting store to buy
a fishing card that gives you access
to 34 lakes all around the country, in-
cluding Þingvallavatn and Elliðavatn.
It costs about 7000 ISK, or €50— about
the same amount as a new PS4 game.
My impostor syndrome was triggered
when the clerk wished me—optimis-
tically, and not sarcastically—“good
hunting.”
Something about
life and death
We drove to Elliðavatn lake at the edge
of Reykjavík. Our aim was to catch riv-
er trout—optimistic indeed. I quickly
remembered why I was never a fan
of fishing when I had to prepare the
lines. First we had to tie the hook and
the float. Then the artificial worms,
which I thought were my best invest-
ment in the hunting shop, had to be
thread on each hook. This took 30
minutes.
I tried to turn the occasion into a
teachable moment, explaining to my
sons how relieved I was that we were
not using live worms, as it must be
painful to be dangling on a hook for
some creature to eat you, only to then
be eaten by us.

My sons had no empathy for worms.
They just wanted to catch a fish. Fair
enough. I guess we are here to learn
something about life and death and
the complicated balance of nature.
Hunting fathers
The weather was fine. There were grey
skies, no wind and light rain. Perfect
for killing fish.
My older son tried to cast the line
in the water but hit me instead and
got the hook tangled in my vest. Not
our finest moment. The younger one
was a natural. He just cast the line
into the middle of the water like he
had been doing it for years.
The one that got away
My older son finally got the line into
the water, but it quickly got stuck in
the bottom of the lake. He thought
that he’d caught something and start-
ed wrestling frantically with the pole.
When the hook got loose again, I told
him that the fish probably got away.
Better luck next time.
After a while I thought, well, per-
haps I can try to catch something my-
self. I lifted my pole to cast, but both
of my sons called for me at the same
moment. Their lines had gotten tan-
gled and they needed help.
I quickly found out that there was
no way I could disentangle it, so I had
to cut the lines and start the whole
procedure again. I tried to explain
that they had to watch out for the
lines, it has to be tight all the time.
They didn’t listen.
We repeated this sequence, more or
less, for the next two hours.
The king of the lake
Just as we were giving up, and my
younger son was crying for his moth-
er, it happened. We were looking at
the still surface of the water, and we
saw a beautiful grey salmon leaping
from the water and splashing down
again, just a few metres from shore.
My younger son stopped crying im-
mediately, in awe of this impressive
sight, and my older son—the deter-
mined killer—grabbed his pole, and
cast the line, only to get it stuck once
more in my full-kit-wanker vest. It
was time to go.
On our way home, we felt good,
like we’d connected with nature in
some way. At least we got to see that
salmon, the king of the lake, that leapt
so impressively, almost like he was
taunting us.
We agreed we’d return to the lake
next weekend and catch that arrogant
salmon.
gpv.is/travel
Follow all our travels
Distance
from Reykjavík:
13km
How to get there:
Route One south,
route 413, turn
right at Heiðmörk
to the lake
View this QR code in
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visit our travel site,
gotravel.grapevine.is
wher you can book
our recommended
tours.
Tight Lines, Tangled Lines
Fishing for the king of the lake at Elliðavatn
Words: Valur Grettisson Photos: Art Bicnick
The king of the lake is out there somewhere This shabby store will cast a spell on you
Travel
Fishing: more time consuming than you might think