Flyfishing Iceland’s Holkna River with Eleven Angling
My flyfishing is more art than science, more felt-sense exploration than regimented structure.
That's not to say I operate in total chaos. I prepare: pre-rig rods, label and organize fly boxes, roll out of bed early with at least the outline of a plan. But if you’re like me—and I suspect many of you are—part of the appeal of flyfishing is the surprise of discovering the day as it happens and the satisfaction of adapting to whatever you might luck into.
There’s also usually a moment before each trip when my gear closet looks like a tornado hit a fly shop. Lines tangle. Waders go missing. A favorite reel hides. That’s my baseline.
So, spending a week chasing Atlantic salmon with an outfitter that operates like a Swiss watch came as something of a shock.
This was Iceland.
This was the Holkna.
And this was the most beautifully organized fishing I’ve ever experienced.
A System That Floats
I was there with my friend and colleague Kevin Sloan. We fished a private beat in northeast Iceland hosted by Eleven Angling—an outfit so regimented they make thermonuclear labs look casual. On the Holkna, salmon fishing is surgical: each run gets numbered, logged, rested, observed, and—if the signs are good—fished.
But that word, fished, feels too imprecise to describe what we were doing, especially if you approach flyfishing from an American perspective. Forget exploratory casting or gut-felt fly selection. This was fishing as mathematics, not poetry, a grid of known variables applied to real-time data. The whole process felt foreign at first—but it started to make sense, and eventually, it started to feel good.
Order of Operations:
- Scout the run, from a high bank if possible.
- Select fly #1.
- Fish the run according to guide specs, usually, with a small top water fly.
- Switch if needed.
- Let your buddy repeat the exact same process with a different setup.
- Rotate through several more times.
- Go check the other pools scheduled for the day.
- Repeat the following day. Or not, if results dictated a day of rest.
It felt more like a Japanese tea ceremony than flinging bugs at fish. And strangely? I loved it.
Pools Have Memories
In Iceland, every pool has a name. Every name has a number. Every number has a history—usually told by your guide, who somehow remembers how many fish were hooked there in 2021, how many ate on Tuesday morning, and whether someone lost a 90-centimeter hen at the tailout last September. (They did.)
They remember everything.
I can barely remember where I left my backup spool.
Guides note every eat. Every landed fish gets logged. Some fish get tagged, others reported. You don’t just go out and “try your luck.” You function as part of a system that tracks fish like a lab experiment and treats each beat with a kind of reverence that borders on religion.
It’s not fast and loose. It’s steady and sacred.
Routines, Not Ruts
Mornings started slow. Not leisurely, methodically slow. We practiced ritualized preparation. Coffee. Conversation. Map. Strategy. The Holkna flows clear and strong, and every run holds potential. To maximize that potential, we didn’t rush in, we scouted. We stared. We read the water, studied the behavior of the fish—where they held and how they moved. Before a single coil of line touched water, we made a plan. Then, we executed that plan, or at least tried.
During a week in Iceland, I never felt that fluttering anxiety so common to destination fishing. Instead of charging out on the first day to purge pent up expectations with the catharsis of “spray and pray,” we channeled that energy into planning. And the resulting rewards were not just the salmon (though those came too)—I felt the satisfaction of doing something I love with intention.
I pride myself on being flexible, on going with the flow and accepting life as it comes. I've shown up to the river missing fly boxes, waders, boots, even an entire rod section, and you know what? I’ve still managed to have a great time.
But the line between adaptability and chaos seems to be getting thinner. In a world that feels increasingly unpredictable, Iceland’s order offered me salve. This was the trip I didn’t know I needed.
The Takeaway
Flyfishing often rewards an open-ended approach. The spontaneous road trip. The last-minute hatch. The mad dash to string up as fish rise. That churn has its charm. But Iceland reminded me that there’s also beauty in order. In slow fishing. In structured approaches. In knowing that the pool you’re standing in has been carefully rested, thoughtfully approached, and historically revered.
Big thanks to Eleven Angling for the hospitality, the Holkna for the magic, and the guides Valli and Rock for graciously putting up with my chaos.
