Reflection

   At every turn Iceland's landscape surprised me with its primeval beauty. That the Atlantic, snow-capped mountains, waterfalls, and glaciers could all be seen from one spot at times was a marvel that inspired transcendental reflection. The visceral and untouched nature, which the island sustains, has proven to me that the nonpareil beauty of the natural world has no limits. No picture, no postcard, and certainly no words can adequately capture its Elysian grace.

   Many moments on this trip will remain in my memory:

    wandering through Reykjavik's streets cast golden by the setting sun,

    descending into the icy bowels of a glacier,

    hiking up the sheer mountains beyond Grundarfjordur,

    hearing the stillness of a fjord,

    seeing the ephemerality of a glacier,

    and through the eyes of a waterfall,

    feeling the ominous power of a sleeping volcano,

    and all with great company.

   Above all this experience has reaffirmed my belief in the intertwined destinies of humanity and nature, each with a responsibility to protect the other -- as they are one and the same -- to nurture the posterity of both.

 

Vestmannaeyjar

May 29

   The sky is overcast above a valley of green sheep-speckled pastures. Behind our hostel the mighty Skogafoss waterfall crashes with the power of the Eyjafjallajokull and Myrdalsjokull glaciers that feed its headwaters. At 0810 we leave this natural marvel for an equally awe-inspiring one tucked within an adjacent mountain. The Seljalandsfoss waterfall cascades with misty gracility before a hollowed cavern, which allows travelers a view from behind the curtain of water. 

   At 0930 we board the ferry headed for the Westman Islands, a geologically nascent archipelago off of Iceland's southern tip. By 1020 we land on the largest island, Heimaey, which fosters a town of 5,000 and the site of a nearly 40 year old volcanic eruption. Upon arrival we navigate through the industrial harbor to a towering sea cliff called Heimaklettur. On wooden ladders and a treacherous path we ascend to its grassy slopes for lunch amongst sure-footed sheep.

   From the summit of Heimaklettur we see the quiet village in the shadow of the sleeping craters Eldfell and Helgafell, now only palimpsests of a violent fissure eruption. The former is our next destination lying within the island's southeast quadrant. 

   In the early afternoon we traverse the streets of Heimaey to the base of Eldfell and begin climbing its loose reddish slopes. Along its rim bright rocks of melting colors mark where magma-heated air escapes from hidden vents.

   Our day concludes with a trip to the Eldheimar Museum, a commemoration for all that was lost in the 1973 eruption, and dinner at Gott, "Good," which lived up to its name. 

Icebergs

May 26

We leave Vagnstadir at 0900 arriving at the glacial lagoon Jokulsarlon at 0930. The wind is the strongest I've ever experienced and whips grey sand into every unguarded crevice. A grey bridge hangs over the lagoon as massive icebergs pass slowly beneath it to the ocean.

We follow the coastline of diverse and far-ranging rocks for several kilometers. A small cove harbors over a dozen seals playfully bobbing in the icy water. The trek back to the bus is directly into the fierce wind and a brief stop in the gift store offers solace. At 1300 we eat lunch on the bus and decide to check out the nearby beach. A flock of Arctic terns struggles against the wind as we drive back onto the highway and brown skua on defiant wings fly amongst their prey.

The grey beach on the other side of the bridge offers little protection from the wind. We trace the shoreline and watch as icebergs meet the rough sea causing them to flip and spin like ice cubes in a glass. Several chunks of melted ice lie covered in black sand as the iceberg meets its final moments.

At 1500 we head back to the hostel for downtime and spicy vegetable pasta. Fog settles over the ocean then advances into the valley when night falls. We watch the quiet river and whimbrels treading stealthily along its banks as a grey drizzle ensues.

Misty Mountains

May 25

We leave Solheimar at 1010 stopping for lunch in a town called Vik. After a delicious lamb sandwich in a cramped and busy restaurant we shop at the local grocery store in preparation for three days of relative isolation. It drizzles lightly on the green slopes surrounding the town while we catch a view of the ocean before our departure.

As we near Vagnstadir the fertile shoreside pastures yield to a grey and apocalyptic glacial outwash valley. The blinding mist hangs low over streams braided through endless miles of gravelly desert. After many a sleepy mile with only a vast grayness around us the great Vatnajokull suddenly emerges. It appears deceptively tame, like a smooth, snowy hill sloped among towering, rocky horns.

Our hostel rests on a knoll facing south where the Atlantic swells with Arctic rage. Violent   torrents of white crash against unseen rocks and spray high above the horizon. To reach the ocean we follow a rough path through riparian marshland marked by heavy yellow buoys. Upon reaching the shore a surreal mist envelops us and a distant mountain fades in and out of sight. We build modest cairns to prevent disorientation and search the pebbly beach for interesting artifacts.

Westfjords

May 19

Tucked within the Arnafjordur the small seaport village of Bildudalur stirs in the early sun as men load trawlers in the harbor. At 0800 we watch as they prepare for a day of collecting seaweed from the ocean floor to be processed and used in animal feed and fertilizers. This industry dominates the town of approximately 200 with nothing else to boast save the Icelandic Sea Monster Museum, one restaurant, and our comfortable hostel. After morning the harbor before us lay in desuetude and the village remains as still and cold as the waters in the fjord. Only the ululating seabirds flying within the vast glacial valley contrast with the depauperate village as they sail nearly 400 meters overhead along the snowy ridge line.

We depart around 0900 after a light breakfast of yogurt, rye bread, and toast. Heading westward toward Latrabjarg our path takes us around the coastlines of two other fjords and past the town of Patreksfjordur. At 1100 we arrive at the sacred rock (Iceland's westernmost point) to behold the cliffs lifted by the constant  undercutting of winter waves. Razorbill auks and puffins take shelter on the steep walls while gulls soar in all directions. We watch puffins perform a "billing" ceremony that produces a soft clicking sound as they rub their colorful beaks together. Several harbor seals bask on distant seaweed-covered rocks and occasionally lift a flipper in lazy satisfaction.

At 1630 we return to Patreksfjordur for dinner at a small restaurant called Heimsendi, which means
 "apocalypse" in Icelandic. We wait for an employee to go shopping at the town grocery store to accommodate all twenty one of us. In a town of 750 the restaurants rarely encounter such large parties. Despite their capacity they provide us with the best meal of our journey thus far and afterwards we hop along the rocky coastline back to the bus.

Hiking

May 17

Awake by 0900 we eat breakfast in the hostel before leaving Grundarfjodur around 1000. Traveling along highway 54 on the coast of the western fjords we cross bridges stretching  over hidden crescents of sea. It is bright; and the sparse clouds mirror the patches of snow on the sharp edges of the mountains. We arrive at Bjarnarhofn at 1120. The small collection of buildings lie amongst a valley of sheep-filled pastures bordered by fjordic mountains and a sea-ravaged cliffside to the north.

The primary attraction here is the Shark Museum where we're enlightened on the production of Greenland shark meat through firsthand taste testing and cheesy tour guide jokes. A brief exploration of the premises followed the tour and included feeding farmbirds by hand and observing an open air shed for drying the shark meat. An elderly Icelander passed on knowledge of the Hidden People -- local folklore that embodies Iceland's cloudy mysticism. Superstitious Islanders believe that this invisible culture of elves is the source of unexplainable phenomena and that they occasionally reward mortals for their cooperation. In one story a pregnant Hidden woman requires assistance from a human one. The woman complies in a somnambulatory state and awakens the next morning with blood on her hands, snow on her boots, and a candlestick at her bedside as compensation.

Back in Grundarfjordur we eat lunch at RuBen at 1400 and stroll back to the hostel afterwards for some downtime. Just before 1700 we embark on a hike with an undetermined  final destination into the mountains behind the town. The sun is low in the sky and its angular descent is slow as if time itself is chilled by Iceland's saturnine breath. Cresting the hill above town reveals a vast marshy valley, its golden blanket of grass split by a snowmelt river. Behind us massive mountains, like ancient stone monoliths, rest at the sea edge and dozing  Grundarfjordur is lit by their silhouetted alpenglow.

The river leads us to its headwaters at the foot of snowcapped peaks where several waterfalls gush from rocky crevices. We ascend the mountain for more group pictures.

To Grundarfjodur

May 15
I awaken to another cold and cloudy morning in Reykjavik. A hot shower and breakfast of toast with jam, dried fruit, a hardboiled egg, and pastries succeeds in restoring my energy. The blanket of weariness brought on by travel is cast aside as we leave the Reykjavik Laugardalur Hostel in our conspicuous retro chariot at 0900 promptly. The city retains an endless sleepiness beneath the ubiquitous looming clouds as it passes out of sight and we journey farther along Iceland's west coast.
At 1100 we stop at the Borgarnes water tower and ascend its stairs against a biting wind. The sight reveals the expansive glacial valley with roche moutonnee geology through which we drove. A quaint village lies along the frozen shore with vast fluvial plains behind it and steep mountains surrounding it.

Leaving Borgarnes we soon arrive at the trailhead to Eldborg crater, a 60 meter tall spatter cone structure inactive for 5-6 thousand years. A forest of short purplish trees covers the area of the most recent lava flow and beyond that lie acres of green pastures. The Eldborg towers above all in the center of the valley and offers views of adjacent craters with their forests surrounding them. The distinct volcanic rift defined by the line of craters rests jaggedly on the cusp of a dark shoreline.

We stop briefly at a mineral spring water spout that produced rusty tasting seltzer water. Here we also encounter a friendly black dog with a white cross-shaped patch on its chest. At 1730 we arrive at a small town on the edge of a rocky sea-torn shelf harboring nesting seabirds high above the crashing
waves.

Our next stop is an isolated pebbly beach with clear tide pools and shadowy sea stacks.

We finally arrive at our hostel in Grundarfjodur at 2200 with the setting sun following closely behind.