(Patrick Williams photo)
February 26, 2025
By Nick Roberts
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This article was originally titled “Midnight Sun Rising” in the 2024 edition of Fly Fisherman’s Destinations SIP. Click here to purchase .
When the Vikings set foot on Iceland’s shores in the 9th century, its native brown trout had already been there for thousands of years. Since the end of the last Ice Age, these browns have thrived in the rugged island’s rivers and lakes, which were shaped by melting glaciers and tectonic forces. The Vikings established the world’s first parliament on the northern shore of Iceland’s largest lake, Thingvallavatn, which straddles the North Atlantic Ridge where the American and Eurasian tectonic plates separate. Located only about 25 miles from the capital city of Reykjavík, Lake Thingvallavatn covers 32 square miles and lies partially within Thingvellir National Park.
Today, the giant brown trout that have haunted the lake’s frigid depths for eons draw anglers from around the world. These “Ice Age” browns are the descendants of the anadromous brown trout that once migrated between Lake Thingvallavatn and the open ocean. Roughly 9,000 years ago, receding glaciers and volcanic activity blocked fish passage, effectively trapping the sea-run trout in the lake. Thingvallavatn’s browns can grow in excess of 30 pounds and prey upon Arctic char , three-spined sticklebacks, and insect life in the form of midges and caddis.
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I had seen photos of these jaw-dropping browns over the years, so I needed no convincing when my longtime fishing partner, photographer Patrick Williams, invited me to join him on a weeklong DIY excursion in early June along with our mutual friend, Brent McCuen. Patrick and I used to guide for trout together in the Blue Ridge Mountains , and we share an affinity for targeting large brown trout. The chance to fish for them under Iceland’s midnight sun, which shines around 20 hours per day in June, was all the more reason to go.
On the direct flight from Raleigh, North Carolina, to Keflavík International Airport, we crossed Greenland in the middle of the night and at dawn took in views of the volcanic activity south of the airport. Recently, the flow of lava across roads had threatened the town of Grindavík and forced evacuations. The gas plume rising from the barren landscape was a stark reminder that this was an awe-inspiring but unforgiving place. And the sight quickly brought to mind Iceland’s apt nickname, the Land of Ice and Fire .
After we landed, we traveled east in our two rented SUVs along a narrow road bordered by a pipeline that carries naturally geothermally heated water to Reykjavík directly from its source in the mountains. The weather was cold and breezy, and in the distance, snowcapped peaks were shrouded in low clouds. We climbed over a steep pass and then wound our way down into a sprawling valley, eventually reaching the shore of Thingvallavatn around lunchtime.
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Fishing the Shore While there are a few lodges and hotels in the vicinity of the lake, we opted for an Airbnb rental in a small community of vacation homes along the water’s edge. The modest lake house served as the perfect base camp for our trip, with a simple kitchen, outdoor shower, and bunk beds. Most important, the house was within easy striking distance of Thingvallavatn’s prime beats and also Villingavatn, a smaller lake inhabited by disproportionately large brown trout.
(Patrick Williams photo) Access to Lake Villingavatn and the best sections of Thingvallavatn can be arranged through Fish Partner, an Icelandic outfitter. To get the lay of the land at the start of the trip, we hired two of Fish Partner’s guides, Óli Guðmundsson and Róbert Cabrera.
On the first day, we met up with Óli and Róbert to fish Lake Villingavatn, which is connected to the much larger Lake Thingvallavatn by a narrow stream that allows for some fish passage during periods of high water. Óli explained that even though the fish in the big lake and the little lake are the same strain of browns, their coloration differs because of their environments. The fish in Lake Thingvallavatn possess a silver, bluish sheen that conceals them in the clear water and above the rocky lake bed, while Lake Villingavatn’s browns have a bright yellow hue that allows them to blend in with that lake’s clay bottom, which is lined with dense aquatic vegetation.
The sunny morning was warm and still, a major departure from the previous week’s cold, stormy weather, which had brought snow and high winds to the region. The guides agreed that we were fortunate to have come to Iceland now rather than the week prior. After we wadered up and rigged a selection of 6-, 7-, and 8-weight rods with dry/droppers, nymphs, and streamers, we all hiked down to the lake from a grassy knoll dotted with sheep and lambs grazing among lichen-covered boulders and rock outcroppings. The guides instructed us to approach the lake stealthily and to fish it only from shore, as the big browns often cruised very close to the grassy banks in search of baitfish and insects.
We tied on caddis drys with emerger droppers in response to the occasional rises we saw, and the caddis we noticed fluttering along the shore. It soon became apparent, though, that after the major cold snap of the previous week, the trout had not yet settled back into their normal pattern of cruising through the shallow water along the banks. We surmised that the winter storm just days earlier had driven them into deeper holes, where they might remain until the water warmed again. To test our theory, we began nymphing with midges and small emergers under indicators set 3 to 4 feet deep, targeting the greenish holes and slots that were unobstructed by the lake’s dense weeds.
(Patrick Williams photo) The change in tactics worked. My indicator dipped in a deep spot off a point, and I came tight with solid 20-inch brown that Róbert netted among the weeds. A short time later, Patrick hooked a much larger trout that leapt out of the water—as Óli had warned us Villingavatn’s browns tend to do—before it snapped the tippet with a belly flop that sounded like a brick had been dropped into the lake. The trout was proof that the stories we’d heard about this small lake were true, and though it had eluded Patrick, that fish was a harbinger of good things to come.
We continued around the lake, working the points, deep banks, and holes as we leapfrogged one another, covering the water section by section. Around 4 P.M. with the sun still high above us, I was slowly stripping a Zebra Midge and a Peacock Emerger when my line suddenly surged downward. When I set the hook, the heavy pull convinced me that this was a much larger fish than my first. After the fish zigzagged past Róbert’s extended net twice, he was able to land the stunning brown of around 26 inches. Holding it in my wet hands, I could sense the power that the native trout possessed in its lean, muscular body, which was patterned with deep black spots on golden flanks accented by a blue iridescence along the gill plates. I released the fish, grateful for the opportunity to start off the adventure in such a memorable way.
The W Word The wind in Iceland is no joke. At the rental car agencies, customers are warned that high winds can bend open car doors off their hinges, launch rocks against windshields, and make traveling through the high mountains and exposed valleys dangerous. The wind is also a defining force when it comes to fishing in Iceland. It dictates rod and line selection, where and when you should fish, and, to some extent, how the fish will behave. As I have come to learn from fishing other windy places, like Patagonian rivers and Nevada’s Pyramid Lake, the better you are at working with the wind, rather than fighting against it, the more successful you will be as an angler. That axiom certainly holds true in Iceland, and on the second morning of our trip, the wind decided to blow hard.
(Patrick Williams photo) Patrick, Brent, and I returned to Lake Villingavatn on our own. The formerly placid lake was now covered in whitecaps whipped up by 20-mph gusts. When we hiked down to the lake, we saw that the wave action against the muddy banks had also made the water dirty. With the wind blowing in our faces, we rigged up nymph rigs and cast into the same deep spots we’d targeted the day before with Óli and Róbert, figuring that the wind would wash insects toward shore and the fish would follow.
Patrick landed a stout 18-incher, and I later battled what would be my largest fish of the trip—a male brown trout that exploded on my nymph rig before taking me into my backing on his way to the middle of the lake. The fish was pushing 30 inches and was incredibly strong, launching itself from my grip and vanishing back into the tea-colored water.
When the wind abated the following day, its importance to fishing success in Iceland became even clearer. While Brent went to explore Thingvellir National Park, Patrick and I went with Róbert to a beat called 3A on Lake Thingvallavatn that encompasses the mouth of the River Villingavatnsà. This is where, when conditions are right, trout of mythic proportions line up like salmon and can be landed on streamers, nymphs, and even dry flies.
We drove down onto a beach of dark sand, rigged up, and then walked a quarter mile to the river mouth. Right away, we saw that, unfortunately, the northerly winds over the past several weeks had formed a sandbar that essentially blocked it. The sandbar caused the river’s main current to flow parallel to the lakeshore rather than straight out into the lake, which Robert explained was optimal for drawing big fish in from the depths.
He also told us that the lake fished best in windy conditions with waves (like Nevada’s Pyramid Lake ), and that the calm conditions we were now experiencing could be very challenging, as the fish tend to stay deeper and farther from shore. He was right. Despite making multiple fly changes and cycling through streamers, nymphs, and drys, Patrick and I could not convince one of the lake’s famous brown trout to commit. We got the sense that they were simply beyond our reach.
The next day, though, our fortunes changed. The wind picked up again, blowing in such a direction that it caused the river’s outflow along the shore to curl toward the center of the lake, thereby drawing the fish closer toward us. Patrick landed a good-size brown on a streamer before I caught a brown over 20 inches on a switch rod and a double nymph rig that consisted of black and olive leeches. I alternated the action between slowly stripping and dead-drifting.
As I prepared to release the fish, I couldn’t help but pause for a moment to take in the unique bluish silver sheen that Óli had described on the first day of our trip. This fish was truly a remnant of a bygone era, an era defined by ice and snow, when the world as we know it was still being shaped by elemental forces. I’ve had the chance to catch brown trout in many far-flung destinations, but the chance to land such a fish in its native waters made the encounter all the more meaningful.
(Patrick Williams photos) Turning the Tide Patrick and I have a saying when we’re fishing, one that naturally developed from our travels to well-known fresh- and saltwater destinations during our days as trout guides: “The wheel will turn.” To us, it’s a reminder to stay the course even when the fishing conditions are difficult, because the wheel of fishing fortune will invariably turn—and this change in fortune can often happen in the blink of an eye.
After Patrick hooked and lost a few major league brown trout early in the trip, he had a lull in the action, but remained committed in his belief that the wheel would turn. And that’s what happened late one evening at Lake Villingavatn on our last night fishing there. All day long, the wind had been gusting 25 mph or more. Patrick had landed a few decent browns on the same side of the lake where I’d landed the big male brown a couple days before.
But now the wind was blowing in the opposite direction, so the side we were fishing was calm compared to the far shore, which was being pounded by waves. We decided that rather than stay on the side where we’d been catching fish all trip, we should venture to the far side and cast as best we could into the strong headwinds, knowing that the wave action must be sweeping the food there.
When we hiked to the far shore, Patrick spotted a seriously large brown trout only a couple of feet from the bank. But the fish saw him as soon as he saw it, then slid into deeper water. Patrick backed away from the bank for a while, hoping that the fish would return, and swapped out his 7-weight with nymphs for a 6-weight with a large dry fly, a cross between a terrestrial and big caddis. By now, it was around 10 P.M. and the sun was low on the horizon.
In the dusk, Patrick army-crawled through the grass to within 10 feet of the bank to make sure the fish—if it was still in the area—could not see him again. He slowly got to his knees and made a cast into the same depression where he’d first spied the trout. Sure enough, just the tip of the trout’s nose emerged slowly through the rippled surface and leisurely sipped Patrick’s dry. He set the hook, and the heft of the fish was quickly revealed by a violent shake and sudden jump. After Patrick had fought the fish for several minutes, I crawled down the bank, waded into the lake, and eased a landing net beneath a truly impressive brown that measured more than 30 inches long. As we celebrated the catch, we agreed that, as it always does, the wheel had finally turned.
(Patrick Williams photo) Lake Gulpers The following afternoon, on our last day of fishing, Patrick, Brent, and I returned to Lake Thingvallavatn after a delicious seafood lunch in the nearby city of Selfoss. The wind had shifted again and lightened substantially, leaving us wondering how good the fishing would be. While Brent headed down the beach to fish a rocky area known for Arctic char, Patrick and I headed back to the river mouth to look for big browns.
We found that the main current was sweeping down the shore again, and it didn’t take long for us to spot a few good fish holding within 5 feet of the beach. They were so close that as I was casting to them, I felt more like I was targeting tailing bonefish than brown trout. Surprisingly, the fish showed no interest in the Balanced Leech pattern that had worked there a couple days ago, so we changed to dry/dropper rigs.
I eventually convinced a trout to take a caddis emerger before the wind subsided and the action slowed. I took a break to eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I’d packed, and then circled back to the shallow current seam I’d been fishing. Thinking outside the box, I tied on a pink-and-tan Chubby Chernobyl dry fly and made another cast. In water that could not have been more than 18 inches deep, a trout rose and sucked the Chubby down before charging toward the middle of the lake. Pat helped me land the 22-incher in the shallows, and I released it, glad to have ended my trip on a high note.
The exhilaration of DIY trips is found in the process of putting the puzzle pieces together to unlock a fishery that is wholly new to you. Our trip to Iceland was no different, and the long hours we put in on the water, coupled with the local knowledge generously shared by Fish Partner’s guides Óli and Róbert, will serve us well on our next trip to this beautiful country, which I wish all my angling friends could experience. On the drive back to our lake house that night, we were treated to the mystical sight of the midnight sun setting over the snowcapped mountains beyond the shimmering Lake Thingvallavatn. The sun would rise again only a few hours later, and we knew that somewhere out there the Ice Age browns would keep rising too.
Recommended Gear The weather can change on a dime, so pack a range of layering options including base and mid layers, an insulated jacket, warm socks, and a waterproof shell. Don’t forget to pack gloves, a neck gaiter, and a warm cap. The weather can also dictate how well you can see the fish. On dark, cloudy days, wear polarized sunglasses with lightly colored lenses. On sunny days, wear amber or copper lenses.
Book your Destination Fly to Keflavík International Airport (KEF), which is an approximately 6-hour flight from New York City on Icelandair. You can rent your own vehicle at the airport through several different companies. To book guides and arrange access to specific private fishing beats, contact Fish Partner.
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Nick Roberts is director of marketing and communications for Bonefish & Tarpon Trust and the editor of Bonefish & Tarpon Journal. He’s also a freelance writer who covers travel, conservation, and the environment. Follow him @nick_onthefly .
