River Bruara (Iceland)
From Seltfoss we have been driving north-west for about 35 km on the road 35. After crossing the bridge on the Bruara we turned left on a dirt road that leads to a wooden hut and a small parking place. We get off the car and cannot wait to mount the rod and wear the outfit. We are in fishing mood and the river looks just perfect.
The Bruara is a right tributary of the Ölfusa, the largest Icelandic river. The Bruara has a stock of artic char and brown trout. Sparse salmon are told to be present too.
We start with nymph and dry flies, excited by the flat current and a moderate presence of small stone flies in the air, but there is no sign of activity. After the 30 minutes I change to streamer.
The mid of the stream is deep and inviting. Stripping after stripping, I am awaiting a bite at any time, full of hope. After about a kilometer I reach a deep canyon, where I comb all the places at reach of my cast. Yet nothing in sight.
A few hundred meter and the scene is breathtaking, a group of cataracts dominates the landscape.
Despite a few hours are passed with neither a contact nor a shadow of a fin, we concur: here there must be fish. We fish every riffle and possible hideout. The river is large and at times we regret not to have a two hands.
After having combed the proximity of the bank we try to fish the main flow. It is not easy to reach the mid of the stream, the current is overwhealming and with the extrimely slippery bottom we risk to fall prey of the river several times.
It is late afternoon. We did not see a fish, a rise. Nothing of nothing. We sit, puzzled, in the gorgeous landscape, gazing the blue in search of a sign.
We decide to walk back towards the car, where we know there are some flatter area. We hope that in the evening something might hatch.
Close to a small island I get attacked by arctic terns. At first I underestimate their flying around my head, thinking that just walking my way would do. But after a few steps (luckily I pulled my hood over my head) I get beaked hard and I have to defend myself by swirling the rod to keep them at distance.
An then it happens. After casting upstream, I let the streamer sink. Right before a meander I start stripping and after a few meters a nice brown trout takes the pink flashy streamer and fiercely engages a battle for life.
We are in the third week of June and the sun will not set at this latitude. After fishing for more than twelve hours we feel like giving up. After packing our things we indulge in a last gaze to this fascinating river. Maybe next time we will have more luck.
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