Iceland 2019

July 1, 2019

To The Far Corners Of The Earth

One far corner is a bleak, windblown, modest sized island situated somewhere out in the North Atlantic in one of the most northerly parts of Europe. Bleak because volcanoes have dominated the landscape and left it bare. Windblown because there's nothing to stop the wind from scouring the place; not enough land to put up a fight and not much in the way of trees either. Iceland. 

Thankfully the flight from Boston on Icelandic Air was only 5 hours. Thankfully because Rob & I were lucky enough to score bulkhead seats, meaning there was a big, blank wall right in front of us restricting our leg room and making us feel claustrophobic. 

There was no seat ahead of us to house the little movie screen. Instead we had a peculiar mechanical arm that we had to release and then manage to get our legs of of its way to swing it up into position. Neither Rob, nor I are much for dexterity, but it was that or no movie. 

In my case it was no movie, dexterous or not. Rob had cleverly brought a set of earphones. I assumed the airline would give me a pair. Silly me. 'That will be $8, sir'. Sir was not going to spend $8 on those earphones. Besides, the movie selection was insipid. And besides that, I could just read. Except our overhead lights didn't work. So I spent half the time trying to doze and the other half watching Rob's screen playing 'Murder on the Orient Express', minus the sound. 

There was no need for dialogue. I could make it up myself. Ditto the plot. Even Rob fell asleep halfway through and I soon followed. Maybe those $8 earphones were a blessing in disguise. I've rarely been able to nap on a plane. My thanks to Agatha Christie and all those who made the film possible. 

Oh, as for food, Icelandic served us... a glass of water. And, jet lagged but famished upon arrival, we gobbled down a sandwich at the small airport cafe, while watching 2 young women assemble their 2 mountain bikes, without much success. I offered my services. 

'Ve only tspeak Russian' one said as I tried to get her to shift her front derailleur in order to free the jammed chain. I finally got it free and my fingers greasy. Next it was the pedals. I'm not sure they understood there is a left and a right pedal and that you can't interchange them. In fact I'm pretty sure they didn't, because even with the proper pedal on the proper side, they struggled to thread the pedal onto the crank arm, a sure sign it had been cross threaded sometime in the past. 

They tried forcing the wrench to turn the pedal threads, damaging them further while I tried to pantomime for them to back off. Finally they relented and, with difficulty, removed the pedal. What to do now? But the one of them suddenly reappeared with another set of older pedals. Carefully we determined right from left and even more carefully threaded it on. Success! I left them with some paper towels for their greasy fingers and a thumbs up for their upcoming trip. They'll need all the thumbs they can get. 

Outside the weather was... brisk. Mid-October brisk. Not many trees to stop the wind. Gone were the shorts and t-shirts which have characterized Cleveland's street attire for the past several weeks. It's sweater weather here. 

Tomorrow we arise at 6am and walk to the bus which will take us into the interior and the start of our 5 day backpacking trip. Glaciers, waterfalls, geysers and some very chilly thigh deep rivers to cross. And no wifi. 

Goodnight. 

Marty

July 9, 2019
A Backpack In Iceland, part 1

The noise and chatter in several foreign languages has subsided. Two groups of hikers and several mountain bikers have come to the hut, consumed some soft drinks and snacks and departed. 

The hut is right behind me. It's a small A- frame building housing the warden and her family and the remaining few hikers who have reserved space in the loft upstairs. I'm camping just outside the hut where the warden suggested. She also suggested using all the nice, heavy rocks nearby to steady my tent in case the wind came up.

The hut lacks the charm of a typical fine wooden A-frame structure. There's no wood with which to build in Iceland, so it's made of functional aluminum, light to carry up miles of trail to its location on a ridge, and resistant to the fierce winds and storms high up on the plateau. 

One interesting fellow is left at the hut, an American seismologist, working for a year in Iceland, who shows me photos of new geological rifts that are slowly pulling Iceland apart. One small trench that looked like a small ravine, was actually poised to split a farmhouse in half, until it unexpectedly veered away. Lucky farmer. It seems that one half of Iceland is on the European plate, the other on the North American plate and, apparently they are not traveling in the same direction. Oops.

Also residing on the plateau are several mountains, a glacier, snow fields, a vast undulating plain of volcanic gravel and 2 new mountain peaks courtesy of the eruption in 2010 that closed down air traffic over much of Europe for a couple of weeks. 

It looks like a peaceful night, however. No volcanic eruptions forecast for the next 12 hours. 

Marty

July 9, 2019
A Backpack In Iceland, Part 2

I've been backpacking with 3 other friends on the Landmannalaugar Trail for 4 days. Never mind pronouncing it, that's simple compared to hiking it.

Our first day we hiked 15 miles to bypass an especially gloomy and exposed hut and campsite in the rain, in favor a a more protected one. It was a very long day, but we could take our time as Iceland has about 20 hours of daylight in early July. We actually could hike right through the night if we wanted. It never gets completely dark. We use eye masks to ensure a good night's sleep.

Our packs have been much heavier than we are accustomed to. 6 days of food, our best rain gear, warm clothes and the aforementioned heavy tents have brought the weight into the mid or high 30 pounds. No one on the trail has gotten away any lighter. Big rucksacks bulge with gear needed in case a storm hits. The hut wardens are authorized to close the trail should conditions warrant.

Conditions warranted last year when a group of Canadians from North Ontario fought their way through a foot of fresh snow and were turned back by the warden just before they were to head to high area. We met them this year, back to compete their journey. Hikers can be knocked flat by the winds; the trail can be lost in the snow or fog. We passed several cairns dedicated to hikers who got caught out in such conditions and never returned. But we have lucked out, after our day of rain, with moderate cloudy weather and with spectacular sunshine. And light winds. No cairns for us.

Marty

July 9, 2019

A Backpack in Iceland Part 3

Part of our evening campsite ritual is making sure the tent is firmly staked down, with rocks atop the big stakes pounded deep into the gravel. It has to be. It's a Hilleberg tent, described as a bomb-proof shelter, loaned to me by my friend, Heike, in place of my usual tarp tent which is much lighter but hopelessly insufficient to withstand a storm, should one come through. None have come through and now I'm lamenting the extra weight carried for naught.

Most of the hiking has been moderate, but some of it was as steep and strenuous as anything I've encountered. And a few places have been exceedingly precarious, one stretch resembling Angel's Landing in Zion, where an ill placed step would result in an 800 foot plunge. On the way down, if you kept your sang froid, you'd catch a momentary glimpse of a lovely gushing waterfall pouring from a high gorge before joining the river far below with a resounding splash. Or a thud. One stretch of trail had chains embedded in the cliff wall to bolster the spirits of the faint hearted. I'm not sure how well the chain would actually have worked if needed, as the iron rebar posts to which they were attached looked flimsily rooted in the loose gravel and one had actually come out of its anchor point and dangled on its loop of chain. It was a most unreassuring sight as I clung to the chain on a 1-1/2 foot wide gravel path that sloped alarmingly outward and down toward the chasm below.

Marty

July 9, 2019
A Backpack In Iceland, Part 4

Time for a break. Usually I try for a nice spot with a Vista. Here, every spot has a Vista. Off to my left I'm looking down on a bank of clouds, which themselves are looking down on the south coast of Iceland and the North Atlantic Ocean. Out beyond the sea is: the Azores? or perhaps the Antarctic? My views extend for miles in any direction. Lots of miles. It's hard to judge distance as the largest living objects, by which I'd normally determine scale are sparse blades of grass and there are not many of them. Only when a hiker comes down a distant trail is it possible to grasp the enormity of Iceland's barren interior.

Iceland looks like an accidental ink spot on a map of the world. But we were told that Iceland is actually the size of 3 Vermonts. Those 3 Vermonts would require a giant's hand to strip every ounce of vegetation from their surface and sprinkle a topping of volcanic dust here and there ... and then they'd resemble Iceland.

There is no figuring out their language. We can't even read it. Campsites are referred to as 'H', 'L' or 'P'. The Icelandic are tall, fierce looking and very blond. They're nice and helpful, quite a change of character from their origins as Norse raiders and the scourge of Europe. But back then they had to make a living off of other people's toil, as their own, aside from harvesting fish, produced little from their stony volcanic soil. Nowadays it's tourism that brings in a fine catch and kind words and welcoming gestures have replaced the ferocious war cry and the raised battle axe.

Marty

July 9, 2019
A Backpack In Iceland, Part 5

This being the longest and most popular trail in Iceland, it attracts a large number of international hikers. The hikers divide into two groups: the young and fit and the old and fit. No one is not fit. Few are middle aged. From what I can make of the languages spoken, a good number of European countries are represented, including large numbers of Germans, Brits and Canadians, the odd French, Spanish, Slovene, Czech and Italian. And, of course, Americans. And then there are those speaking an utterly incomprehensible tongue. They are the native Icelandic.

To our surprise, we saw one fellow on a conventional loaded touring bike, with wide tires, Ortlieb panniers and all, bouncing his way over the rocks and gravel, following a dirt road that crossed our track. Even more impressive were the mountain bikers, who, having climbed some 3500 feet from the sea to crest the hut area, then took turns slaloming down a snowfield like seasoned skiers, skidding their rear tires in perfectly carved turns. One group caught us while we were climbing a very steep uphill, they coming the opposite way down the 50 - 60 degree slope bouncing and twisting hundreds of feet down the rocks and rubble, the squeals from their disc brakes audible a quarter mile away.

I almost forgot to mention the stream crossings. There were three unbridged streams running through wide gravel bars which we were obliged to cross. All the hikers could be seen sitting on one bank or the other either busily stripping off trail runners, hiking boots and socks to don their lightest, most perforated sandals and water shoes, or donning them on the far shore. The only difference was the look of consternation on the faces of those about to cross compared to the relief on the faces of those who already made it and who feet were slowly gaining feeling once again. And then it was our turn. The water was only knee deep with a modest current, but fiercely cold from the glacial runoff; hiking poles were very helpful, as were shouts of encouragement from the far bank, or, more importantly, fierce gesticulating as to where the best crossing point was.

Hikers weren't the only ones crossing streams. As we got near the coast, gravel roads allowed access for Land Rovers, Jeeps and assorted pickup trucks and SUVs, all outfitted with big, aggressive tires and high clearances, to lurch and wobble their way over the gravel bars, off ledges and splashing sometimes door deep across the streams. Try that in your Honda Accord. Some vehicles were outfitted with 'snorkels', plastic tubes protruding high above the hood to funnel air to engines that would otherwise be flooded.

Marty

July 9, 2019
A Backpack In Iceland, Part 6

Water
Our fourth day. The crux. We had to go up 3000 feet up from the river and down 3000 to the end. 15 miles. And then we heard about a mysterious hut and camping spot mid way that would allow us to break the hike into 2 days. But we also heard there was no water at that hut .

What to do? Should we fill our spare water containers with an extra few liters at the bottom and carry that all the way up? Or should we chance it that the hut really would have water? And if not, we'd have to do the 15 miles, with all the up and all the down in one day, the down being tougher on the knees than the up.

I filled my container. But only later discovered the 3 others did not. On the way up, when I could catch my breath, I asked passing hikers about water at the mid way hut. Some said there was water; some said no. Hours later after one of the steepest and most difficult climbs, we crested the last ridge and the last snowfield. And discovered 2 huts, not 1, in opposite directions. A woman with a perfectly clipped BBC British accent, who had been here the year before, assured me the hut to the right had water. Soon after, however, another hiker who had just gone to that hut said they had none to spare.

By this time my 3 friends had made up their minds to go the remaining 7 miles to the end. It was 2 in the afternoon, but there's light all day. I was determined to stay at the other hut directly ahead. It was my last chance to camp up high and commune with the ice fields, the mountains and the glaciers. Besides, the weather was clear and calm and that faint blue to the south was the ocean far below.

I needed more than the one extra liter of water I was carrying for both dinner and breakfast. So I descended a few hundred feet with one of my friend's water containers, down an ice field to the mouth of a small glacier and onto the gravel bar to filled up my container from the glacial melt water. The fine, black volcanic powder that drifted in with the flow would settle to the bottom of the bottle in time.

At the path by the hut, my 3 companions turned off while I went straight. The hut warden appeared, and when taking my money, gestured to the huge jerry cans on the porch. 'Water is free for anyone staying here. And you're welcome to come inside to cook'.

Marty