Icelandic Adventures: Part 2

Iceland’s one main highway, the Ring Road, circumnavigates the island in a haphazard fashion (avoiding trolls and elves, of course.) Once outside the Reykjavik area, it is usually the only paved road as well.

As a Canadian raised in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t disturbed by the sudden apparent emptiness we encountered as we meandered east. The rocky moonscapes and steaming hillsides gave way to endless flat green plains. If you wanted to play a game, it would have to involve sheep, ponies, or grass. That was the extent of the scenery. But what colours! The grasses seemed a fantastic shade of green against the sky. Several fallow fields, covered in a red weedy grass, provided startling contrast.

The farther we ventured from the capital, the fewer houses we saw. Farms mostly, with the occasional small, compact town. In this land of shifting earth, snow, and volcanoes, buildings more than four stories high are hard to come by.

Another word of caution for the unwary traveler: know where you and your bus are going, and where you are at all times. I guess because Iceland is such a small place, everyone is assumed to know everything, such as the name of the towns you are in, where to switch busses, and when to get off. The drivers make no announcements and won’t tell you unless you ask.

We discovered this in Hvolsvöllur, when the bus stopped and everyone got up to leave, including the driver. Oh yes, he said when we asked. You must transfer to this other bus to reach the nature preserve.

I didn’t see (at the time) why a bus switch was necessary, but I was very glad for it in less than an hour.

Hills had risen in the distance and were rapidly approaching as we veered off the main highway onto a smaller one. We were awed by a spectacular waterfall on our right, plunging into the greenery from the abrupt cliffs that were suddenly before us. The driver didn’t stop for pictures, however, or even tell us the name of the falls, but continued north along a single lane dirt track.

Þórsmörk Nature Preserve is located in a wide river valley full of dark volcanic gravel ground clear and moved downward by the glaciers that flank it. The river, quiet and small at this time of year, threads its way through silt clogged channels with surprising speed. We often had to wade through these small channels, but our large bus was equipped for such a journey.

After an hour or so of weaving our way along this bumpy track, a glacier came into view. The toe was dirt clogged and blackened. It emptied into a blue green lake eerily similar to those around my beloved Revelstoke, but with much less vegetation. In the dying light of evening, the driver stopped to allow us our photos as a spattering of rain began to fall.

Great. I always love starting a camping trip in a downpour, don’t you? Especially when I’m arriving late at night in a foreign country with no idea where I’m going and no map. But I couldn’t do anything about it, so I just shrugged and watched the rain fall as we started on the last leg of the journey.

This last section of road couldn’t properly be called a road, since large sections of it were actually under the flowing water. Yup, the river bed was the road, and we drove along for another half an hour to Husadalur.

When the bus pulled up among the clustered buildings, the rain was still falling. We unloaded our bags, dug out our rain covers, and plotted our next move. There was a campsite here, but there were also a lot of people around. Who wants people around? Not us. So while Brian was discussing hiking options with the locals, I wandered around and found a small hot pool there among the small trees. By the time we were ready to walk, the sun had emerged and it was well after nine in the evening.

The campsite we wanted was supposedly a twenty minute walk away, and very beautiful. I led the way (though I didn’t know where I was going) along the well kept trail through the dwarfed birches, listening to the birds call.

We came to a series of steps leading upward. Icelandic hiking trails, in my limited experience, are very well maintained. Partway up these stairs we met a cliff face with a small cave. Viking smugglers used the location as a hideout, and their handholds, carved into the rock, were vivid in the bright sunlight.

Unlike many places in Canada and the UK, there were no fences keeping you away. If you wanted to climb up the cliff and into the cave, you could. You might break your neck getting back out, but that’s your problem. So we both had a go at climbing up the handholds, though neither of us ventured into the cave.

Our directions were accurate. We arrived at the Langidalur campsite, starting/ending point of the famous hiking trail, after ten in the evening. The site has a large hut with bunks, abundant camping, functioning toilets and showers, and a small shop. As we approached the main hut, we were greeted by two older gentlemen in stereotypical woolen sweaters, chatting and playing a game. “Whiskey?” they asked.

I love Iceland.

It took awhile to find a warden, get a permit, and decide where to camp. Actually, we could have camped anywhere. There were no formal campsites laid out. You could pitch your tent anywhere flat enough. On our way into the site, we had seen a small side valley with a campsite sign in it. The warden didn’t care where we went, so we walked the five minutes back to this little secluded nook.

Normally I wouldn’t mind being in the thick of things, socializing and learning what I could about the country and its people. Unfortunately, the groups at the hut included what appeared to be a hen party and a large youth group with a Bob Marley flag adorning their encampment. I was looking forward to a little peace and quiet in my own little valley.

By this time, the valley was shaded, though there was still plenty of light to cook, read, hike, or do whatever you may like. It was chilly, though, and we were looking forward to a cup of hot chocolate with dinner.

Brian was anxious to try out his new Trangia cooking stove. Back in Reykjavik, we had scored some free fuel off a table where travelers could leave leftovers, thinking ourselves lucky. In the middle of Þórsmörk, eleven at night, cold and hungry, it was a different story when we discovered it wasn’t the right kind of fuel.

So we ate our couscous cold, drank whiskey to warm ourselves, and watch what passes for night descend upon our little valley. Because it never gets dark, the birds never stop singing. There is one particular cackling bird that goes on and on. It must be very small and well camouflaged; otherwise humans would have killed them all out of sheer frustration by now.

We decided to tuck in and call it a night.