Today we are “gone fly fishing” with our local guide, Hroomar, on the famed Hola river in Iceland’s Golden Circle. The plan? Lure out the river’s legendary big ones.
The Hola River doesn’t roar or rush—it whispers. A thin, clear ribbon winding its way through Iceland’s soft hills and mossy flats, it looks like the kind of place where fish would leap obligingly into your arms, grateful for the attention.
Kristinn, our guide and inspirational shepherd through Icelandic oddities, drove us to the prearranged meeting spot. The original plan? Drop us off with a wave and enjoy a blissfully tourist-free afternoon. We were fully prepared to be someone else’s responsibility for a few hours.
But for reasons known only to him (and possibly the fish gods), Kristinn decided to join us—clad in olive drab shorts, an orange vest, and a pair of camouflage clogs — that defied both fishing logic and basic ankle support. But who am I to question an Icelander’s clothing choices in this harsh climate.
We wadered up in the parking lot—cinched our belts, clipped our suspenders, and prepared to catch fish. Lots of them. Thankfully, Hroomar had the foresight to bring face nets, because the flies were out in full, relentless force. Arctic char and brown trout didn’t stand a chance—we were ready, and so were our hooks.
Hroomar, our ever-cheerful gear wrangler, took the lead and we followed him onto a trail that—at first glance—seemed perfectly innocent.
It was not.
What followed was less a trail and more a mud-based obstacle course. It squelched, it slurped, it threatened to consume boots whole.
We slip-slided our way behind Hroomar, who appeared to float effortlessly above the muck like a man who’d made this journey a thousand times—and possibly had. We, on the other hand, resembled a procession of overdressed toddlers tromping through pudding.
By the time we reached the riverbank, we were sweaty, muddy, slightly bruised, and already aware that the fish weren’t going to be the biggest challenge of the day.
Finally, it was time to fish.
Beth was the first to cast her line with a sleek Norwegian fly rod. Half a second later—bam!—she reeled in an Arctic char, all four inches of it. A promising start…until she noticed a creeping chill in her right foot. That cold, wet sensation? Yep—freezing river water, courtesy of a hole in her waders.
With one soggy, glacier-chilled foot, an hour later Beth called it quits and announced her retreat to the car. Ever the gallant guide, Kristinn offered to escort her through the squishy battlefield. But nature had plans of its own. In a moment that belonged in slow motion, the mud slurped up Kristinn’s clogs with the gleeful hunger of a lava-born swamp, leaving him bootless and betrayed.
He managed to retrieve them (barely); his dignity, not so much—but ever the optimist, he let his mud soaked better side save the day.
After a bagged standing lunch—fine dining, riverside edition—Judy was the next to peel off, prompting Kristinn once again into active mud duty. Ever the loyal escort, he trudged back through the muck with the grace of a man who knew his clogs might not survive the journey, so he decided to go barefoot.
Meanwhile, Bud, Jack, and Hroomar gave it everything they had. They changed flies, switched spots, waded into frigid currents, and even cast from the banks with theatrical flair. They whispered to the water, bargained with the fish gods, and debated whether Arctic char could sense desperation. But in the end—not a single fish. It was a flawless demonstration of the “release” part of catch and release… minus the catch.
The Zen?
It wasn’t about the fish. It never is.
It was in the rhythm of the cast, the silence between jokes, the gleam of sun on water, and the satisfying squelch of mud in borrowed boots. It was in failing gloriously, surrendering expectations, and laughing anyway.
The Zen was letting go—of fish, of timelines, of dry socks—and being exactly where we were.
But then we heard that Hroomar, after dropping us off like a true gentleman, returned to the river—and promptly caught Arctic char in great abundance. So much for our quiet reflections and noble failures. Screw Zen. Turns out, it was about the fish after all.
As the day wound down, we made our way to our next hotel, called Hotel Grimsborger, only to find that the rooms weren’t quite ready. Thinking fast, Kristinn bought us some time with a detour to a 6,000-year-old geological crater, because when in Iceland, even delays come with lava.
Problem was as it was pouring rain and freezing, and we just couldn’t wait to get out of there.
This is it for the day
YouDontKnowJackTravels 