Day 25 – Landmannalaugar

At five or six in the morning it rained on me, and I shuffled into my tent.  It was clear over Hekla though.  I woke again and again, but made an effort to sleep until eight, which was almost early enough for us to get our tents packed dry.

We turned back for a café but it was closed so breakfast was coffee and skyr at the Olís (ubiquitous gas/fuel station).  On the way to Hekla we stopped at Leirubakki, where there was a Hekla museum we didn’t expect.  It’s an amazingly well designed and very unique building, worth seeing just for its design.  Inside, underground for effect, there’s an interactive museum devoted to the looming volcano.  Hekla is one of Iceland’s most threatening eruptors- it blew in 2000 and is overdue for a big one, I gather.  Hekla’s “big ones” can be apocalyptic.

There wasn’t a great deal of information for our 700 kr. admission, but it was a worthwhile experience.  I was especially fascinated with the giant screen visually depicting seismic information from the multitude of sensors stippled around the mountain, monitoring it.  The vibrating line like an erratic heart rate monitor had little aberrations spiking in it with a constant vitality.  I drew the attendant lady’s attention to it and she said that was normal.  “If there was an earthquake”, she said, trailing off while swooping her arm fast up and down dramatically.  Then she said that despite this information gathering, there were no warning systems for the area.   “But you’ll feel an advance earthquake,” she said calmly.  Some people live literally in the shadow of Hekla.

This museum was attached to a farm, and there were two sheepdogs lying on the bank above where we were parked.  They were statuesque and almost stoically calm, completely ignoring us as we got back into the car and Derek took pictures of them from the passenger seat.  Hoping to get them to turn towards us for a photo, I gave a little honk, and both dogs erupted into a frenzy of barking so fast that I jumped, twin furballs suddenly animated with rage.  The contrast was unnerving, as was the ruckus.  We just had to leave asap after setting off the dog alarm.

225 Landmannalaugar is a very well travelled road, due to the major attraction it serves, but it’s still an F road, rocky and bone-rattling.  As we turned onto it, the views turned into vistas – crazy sweeps of hraun and green, sprinkled liberally with sheep.

It was a clear day, but Hekla had cloaked itself in cloud as is customary for her.  We picked up a pair of French hikers and dropped them at the cutoff to hike Heklutind – the summit.  We weren’t going to do it, by all accounts chances of seeing anything while you’re at the top or on the way up are slim to marginal due to the cloud that clings to the top nearly 100% of the time, and it is a little bit risky.  Of course there are tens of thousands of days where the volcano won’t go off, but if it happens to on the one day you’re up there, then you have nearly no chance of getting to safety fast enough.  Hikers are warned to this effect.  “You’re on your own.  Have fun!” It was less about risk than wanting to pack other things in this day for us anyways.

On the way we had to cross a river to get to Landmannahellir  cave, which mostly just reminded me how cool so many other caves in Iceland had been.  The road on, red from the iron rich pumice, started to climb, and we parked at an outlook point behind a tourist couple in a white car.  They were also stopped for the photo op, a panoramic view over each side of a saddle looking over a small lake on one side and the valley holding Landmannalaugar hut.  The weather was very changeable, going from mild and cloudy to threatening lashings of rain, very quickly.

To reach the Landmannalaugar hut by vehicle, there are two river crossings, or two parts of the same river.  As we pulled up to it and looked, considering, an older couple rolled up their pant legs and strode into the water with hiking poles.  We saw they were in knee deep, and the current wasn’t as pushy as it seemed from the bank.  It was  a daunting crossing, though.  There’s a reason there’s a wide parking area on the shoulder of the road on the dry side of the bank.  Probably more than half of the visitors opt to not take their vehicles across and wade and walk the last half mile in to the hut.

Naturally, we decided to drive it.  I don’t remember how I logicked myself into thinking it was a reasonable idea, but no matter how you get there, once you’ve nosed your vehicle down the bank and enter the water, there is no backing out.  The water was way deeper than it looked from the bank, and it flowed and splashed over the hood and windshield against the wipers on full so that we may as well have just driven straight under water.   It was terrifying (although not in a “we’re going to die” way, more of a “this is going to go wrong and cost thousands of dollars and the rest of my life to pay off” way).  I heard Derek suck in his breath.  My heart stopped and I gripped the steering wheel and drove smoothly out and up the other side before I dared to breathe again.  Wheeew!  Of course, one river down, we were now in the space between the two, so we were completely committed to the whole meal deal – another ford to get to the hut and two more crossings on the way out.

This hut is the stepping off point for the three day hike to Þorsmörk (long out of the question for us this trip).  It very nice. Big. We made it to the hut, where the warden was in a big rush and only suggested to us that in this kind of iffy weather, Ljótipollur was a nice hike to do (back on the other side of those fords).  We were cold and indecisive, and I thrashed around in the back of the car, “organizing”.  While I was standing at the back with the hatch open, the same car we had stopped near earlier caught my attention.  They were headed back out from the hut and had paused on this side of the river, even doing a little weaving repositioning, obviously choosing the spot in the wide ford that they would cross.  I waited to watch them cross with mild interest, never expecting to see what I did.

The driver gunned it and the car surged ahead with a roar I could hear, tires throwing rocks, gathering as much speed as possible in the short run-up until WHAM!  The nose slammed into the water and a wall of water went straight up in the air (at least 12 feet, no exaggeration), and came straight back down on the car, which came to a halt in the middle of the river as if they’d hid a brick wall.  The river curled and settled back to flowing around the car.  This was the funniest thing we’d ever seen, and it was completely unexpected – the sudden punching it at the water and then the Red Sea effect of the sheet of water lifting straight up in front of the bumper.  Then we realized their car was stalled, wasn’t starting, and wasn’t ever going to start, now.  It was just a normal car, a four door Ford sedan or something, not meant to be amphibious.  (Ironic branding, if it was a Ford).

By the way, that’s a river crossing tactic that exemplifies what not to do with perfect clarity.  You are supposed to drive into the water at a smooth constant (reasonable) speed and avoid accelerating or stopping while you are in the water.  Then the water doesn’t go in your exhaust or have time to come in your doors.

By the time we drove back across, this hapless couple was up on the median between the two bands of river.  Someone had towed them out of the water.  We stopped to say hi, and the woman was perched on the passenger seat, soaking wet, wearing no pants and huddled up wrapped in a towel with her feet pulled up.  They were laughing, but the whole floor of the car inside was soaked.  They’d had the river literally flowing through their cab.

We went and did the Ljótipollur walk, which was lovely and fun even in the persistent cold rain.  I made the hike very memorable by forgetting my day pack full of food, water, and Brennivin on the rim of the crater lake where I set it down for jumping pictures.  I got distracted by beauty and fascination on the rest of the 10km loop that slaved up a big mountain and then over a small caldera mountain, thinking no more of my pack until we were all the way back to the car.  Frustrated with needless wastes of time, I ran the whole 3-4 km back up the hill to get my pack, nearly bursting my lungs, then back down to the car.  It didn’t take all that long, but I was thoroughly soaked in the wind-driven rain.

Back to the Landmannalaugar hut.  This time we parked with the reasonable people on the safe side of the fords.  The car that had tried and failed to part the sea was still sitting in the middle, parked, wet, and vacant.   I walked across to the hot pools that were nearer than the hut.  I left my wet boots and socks in the WC and took my Brennivin to the water with me.  I stubbed my toe badly on the boardwalk in my hurry to get warm.  Even though a Reykjavík Excursions bus had disgorged while we were snacking in the car, there was no one in the water.

Light rain was stippling the surface of the water, there was a confluence of hot water and a cold creek, and mist was hanging over the dark water.  The pools were lined with shrub and sulphury with notes of duck parasite and sensuous strands of green and brown slime that would wrap around an ankle underwater.  It wasn’t the greatest hot pool atmosphere for Iceland, but it warmed me up.  I took my time and then got out of the algae slimed water looking for a shower.  Rebuffed by the 400 ISK price of a shower, I washed myself off good with a Nalgene full of cold water, hoping not to catch the duck itch.

There’s a duck parasite endemic to this pool, aka “duck itch”.  It was described to me exactly like this: “It feels like mosquito bites, but then when the parasite realizes that you are not a duck, then it dies, and no itch.”  Great summary, and no thanks.  Derek had elected to stay in the car while I went in the pool on a risk/reward assessment, and he hadn’t even known about the ropy slime.  It was an experiment like some others in Iceland – almost sublime, except for…

Dusk was impending now and scoping for a place to sleep, the rock field was not appealing, and neither was Landmannahellir, unless we stayed in the cave, so we drove on on the one road out.  We took an utterly spontaneous redirection at the 26, turning right to go farther inland instead of out to the ring road.  We headed northeast to the 32 looking for Stöng.  We cranked the heat to dry out our sodden selves until the CD player got too hot to play.  Our boots dried but our chocolate melted.  Amazingly, we found Stöng in the dark.  There was a terrible teeth rattling road, a bad sign and a gate.

We shuffled around in the dark on a clear trail, around and around on trails avoiding a looming structure that seemed to be an empty farmhouse in the dark, but that turned out to be the site.  The structure was a roof over the excavation.  It was amazing.  It was so dark it was ridiculous to be in there at night, and it felt very haunted, full of life.  We moved around slowly and reverently in the earthy smell, taking pictures to see what was in front of us on the little glowing camera screens.

Derek was having none of camping in the area, so we drove back out the long dirt road and found a magical camping spot – a closed campsite very far from any lights, or anything really.  It felt like the middle of nowhere, always so nearby in Iceland.  There were geese whonking in the dark, there was a mouse in the bushes, we were exhausted.  I cooked and wrote notes and set up my tent and then slept on the ground next to it, as usual.

This was our second last night in Iceland.  No aurora, only clouds and wind, but it was a beautiful light-less peaceful spot.

A few extra pictures on the Extra Photos page.

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Day 26 – Stöng to Reykjavík

I woke up in the early dawn suspecting that rain would catch me out and scooted inside.  When it didn’t rain I scooted back out to the grass, disliking the nylon barrier between me and the sky.  I wasn’t even sleeping on my mat anymore, just using it as a pillow.

Our clothes we had draped on the shrubs were mostly dry.  We went looking for Hjálparfoss in our vicinity- a very nice foss tumbling over basalt arches.  I tried to do a handstand perched on a tip of rock facing the foss, but the battering wind made it too dangerous.  I had to settle for a backbend.

Leaving there, we came unexpectedly on Stöng II, þjóðveldisbær. This is a modern recreation of the sod farmhouse at Stöng.

We were very lucky that there were some men working there when we showed up.  They let us walk around inside, and we got to see the sod building techniques in action.  Inside, the house was deeply dark, and we were taking flash pictures again to see what we were walking around. 

In the dark, something brushed against my legs.  I thought I’d imagined it, then it happened again, and it felt alive.  I took a picture of the area and it was a coal black dog checking us out.

When one of the men said “Oh, lights,” and turned them on for us, then we could see all the features – the wooden bed boxes that seemed quite short, the central fire pit, the pooping area – and some interpretive signs.  It’s a gorgeous place, ready to move right into.

Outside, the men were repairing a corner of the building, laying a piece of sod and then slicing the edge off of it to match the layers beneath, in a very crisp line.  He was using a drawknife, constantly stropping it to keep it sharp cutting through sod.

Their dog, a bit of a puppy, was sweet and very bright, and we had some fun throwing sticks for it in the lush green backyard.  In spite of the extension cords and tools lying around, this place felt like a pre-machinery farm, relaxing and vibrant.   I remember this area being full of green and rock valleys, where the road would wind around and up and down, sort of hobbitty.

The sun was out and with the good weather we backtracked to Háifoss, Iceland’s second highest waterfall.  It was very impressive, and you walk right up to it and look down into the big gorge that the waterfall drops into.

Around lunchtime we stopped and took a short walk around a tree farm at a place possibly called Selfit.  The wind had been intense all day and it was nice to take a break walking in the woods.  It was unusual to be in proper trees, so I realized that I hadn’t been missing trees at all in Iceland; it fact I’d barely noticed their absence and it was strange to be reminded of trees walking through a forest.

We got back to the car and I made some open face sandwiches.  We had a very simple diet in Iceland, and it revolved around the most readily available fruits and veggies.  Lots of sandwiches with spiced cream cheese, cucumbers and tomatoes.  We’d snack on bell peppers and bananas, (supplementing of course with plenty of sweet and savoury candy/snacks).

Today, it was cucumber  with cream cheese on rye.  As soon as I made mine I opened my door, and just as Derek was saying “are you sure you want to do th–“ the wind lifted all the cucumber slices off my bread as one and whisked them away, throwing some in the gravel, some rolling away like wheels.  I ran out chasing them while Derek shook with laughter inside the car.  Sigh.

Just up the road there was a big knot sign but there was no interpretive sign.  We climbed up this big promontory that seemed like the attraction – unusually bulky and separate, standing by the side of the road.  Perhaps the sign might be up there, but there was nothing.  It was a mystery.

This was our last whole day in Iceland, and we were on the hunt for another chance to ride horses.  We were in the area for horse farms, the agricultural southwest, and there were plenty of horses grazing in the fields.  Eventually we made some phone calls out of the book.  someone said No, too windy, then someone said Yes, come in an hour.

With an hour to “kill”, we put some gas in the car and some ice cream in us.  We drove out to Skaholt, then back to the farm for our date with the Icelandic horse (I think this farm was Sýðra Langholt, but that is not entirely sure.  I can’t recommend them highly enough, if I knew who to recommend).

Our last riding experience had left something to be desired, and I really wanted to try again.  This time is what all it could be.

The whole event was different from the beginning.  We were hovering around the barn when three beautiful young women rode up to us and jumped off their horses.  They asked us a bunch of questions, introduced themselves and their friend who had come along because we were going for a ride,  and pointed out the helmets for us to choose from, all while they quickly saddled up two more horses for us as theirs stood.  We all set out together, continuing to chat, while they discussed where we might go, deciding on the loop we would take back to the barn.  There was no speech, no safety briefing, no trail, and no formality. No performance.

The moment I got on my horse it was listening and responding to me, ears swiveling around at me alertly.  It was wonderful!  I was riding the horse, not sitting on the horse while it walked behind another horse.  We rode on the road for a bit, then left the road and went through fields, along a hill, all riding in a group, changing our order, picking up and dropping speed. The horses wanted to stay together but we were also clearly in charge of our own horse, and they were sensitive and obedient. The girls were friendly and asked us some questions and also boisterously chatted and laughed in Icelandic with each other.  It was exactly like we had stopped in on some friends and were just out for a ride.

We totally tolted!  It was fast, so I was a little bit nervous when all the horses opened up together, but then it got very smooth, and I felt very comfortable again.  Possibly we paced too.  It’s hard to tell from on the horse, but the trot is very rough, even more so than a western horse because their stride is so much shorter with the short legs, and then it just becomes comfortable and sustainable, while you’re still flying.

Two hours!  We stopped for the horses to eat some grass and drink, rode some more, let the horses run and then we brought them in, took their saddles off and watched them all drop to roll the saddle itch off.  It was such a blissful experience, and not like a business exchange at all.  She passed me the wireless card reader in the barn like an afterthought, we said goodbyes, and left content.

Feeling like we had now definitely had the experience of riding an Icelandic horse, we headed back to the big city.  We saw a stone réttir on the way – the sorting pen for sheep.  It was a work of art.

At Selfoss we found that washing your car is always free, which is fantastic, to not rush against the time a few quarters buys you.  Maybe not so fun to wash outside when it gets cold and windy.

In Reykjavík we went straight to Perlan for the waffle I was craving since our first breakfast, then to the campsite to empty out the car.  Nearly packed back into my suitcase, I had a giddy moment of thinking “I can bring so much more stuff back” with the empty space I seemed to have.

Then we drove the waterfront for the first time to Kryddlegin Hjörtu for a most satisfying supper.  This is probably my favourite restaurant in Iceland – relaxed, great value, always tasty, predictable, high quality vegetarian soup and salad bar.  Ahhhh.  Already a bit emotional to be at the end of our trip, I drove us back to Perlan for some nighttime pictures of Reykjavík from the deck.

After vacuuming out the car at a gas station I tried to find my way back to the owner’ place just by following my nose.  I’d been there once to pick up the car, but that had been weeks ago.  I didn’t do too bad but got lost right near his place.  Dropped off back at the campsite (Reykjavík’s city campsite), I couldn’t find Derek anywhere!  Turned out he was asleep.  I left my luggage in my tent on slept on the ground outside it, as per usual.  The night was cloudy, but it didn’t rain until morning.

There are several more pictures from this sunny day on the Extra Photos page.

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