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driving. Along the way we paused to hike the 16 miles up and over the flanks of Eyjafjallajökull ("Island Mountain Glacier"), the volcano that erupted in 2010 and grounded most air travel in Europe for the first time since World War II. In some ways Iceland is too inviting, and if it had not been for our happenstance meeting with a mountain guide, we might have wandered lost in the impenetrable snow-fog on top of that volcano until rescue crews were dispatched. The situation there reminded me of an existentialist stage play, like Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Being lost in the fog, with its sensory and sound-deadening effects, and with only small groups of fellow travelers (also lost) for company, was akin to having wandered into the off-stage of life, waiting for the action to once again catch up with us so we could say our lines and move generations—possibly forever—the fish above that waterfall were unmolested. Unsurprisingly, they were large and more than willing to eat flies. My route over the precarious, rail-less, one-lane bridge leading into Bót's thick, green home field was lengthy, both geographically and metaphorically. Newly married, my wife, Tracy, and I decided to take a honeymoon somewhere she had never been (and with my spouse this is quite a challenge). I expected something southerly, so when her first suggestion was "What about Iceland?" I found myself looking up airfare prices before I had even finished agreeing to the idea. Once in-country, we circumnavigated the famous Ring Road, the only land-based path around Iceland. Bót's location on the opposite side of the island from Reykjavík, the capital city, necessitated several days of T he story of trout fishing at Bót mirrors, to some extent, Iceland's peculiar relationship with the brown trout itself. Like most Icelanders, Snævarr's ancestors were Atlantic salmon anglers by preference, fishing for native browns only as a secondary pastime. As a teen, Snævarr's grandfather showed him how to fish below a certain large waterfall near the easternmost, most downriver section of Bót's private water. From this point upriver, his grandfather explained, the trout do not reach. Like many anglers worldwide, Snævarr's forefathers had underestimated the brown trout's ability to get around large waterfalls. With a typical teenager's disregard of received wisdom, Snævarr one day decided to challenge the story he had been told, and, sure enough, he began to catch brown trout above the supposedly impassable falls. Thanks to his forefathers' mistake, for S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 131 Situated on a narrow fiord, Seyðisfjörður is where The secret Life of Walter mitty was filmed. Wood is scarce, so most of the buildings are made of corrugated iron with colorful roofing materials imported from Norway. In the countryside, herds of sheep graze across pastures framed by snow- capped peaks. Opposite: This inn at Seyðisfjörður rents kayaks for guests who enjoy paddling in the fjord.