Reykjavík Grapevine - 13.07.2007, Qupperneq 25
3_REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE 10_007_TRAVEL RVK_GV_10_007_TRAVEL_33
On the second morning of my early-season
trek from Stafafell to Snæfell, voices woke
me up from sleep. I looked around the room,
confused. The voices were growing clearer and
more distinct and there was no mistaking that I
was not alone. And there was also no mistaking
that it was well past 6 a.m. – the time I had
set my alarm on: I must have overslept, and
probably for long.
The previous day I pushed some thirty ki-
lometres in haste. I was forced to take a pain-
ful detour after I realised that I had left my
Windstopper jacket somewhere at the starting
point, after more than an hour’s walk. Now,
I seemed to be paying toll for the effort and
the high mileage: I would even have stayed in
my sleeping bag, if not for the fact that the
door to the hut was flung open. Before I had
time to react, I found myself face to face with
a curious visitor wishing me a good morning.
I tried to respond, but only a strained mumble
seemed to come out of my mouth: My unex-
pected guest sent me a pitying smile and left
me alone again.
Finally on my feet, it was already past eleven
in the lovely mountain hut of Múlaskáli in Lón-
söræfi, the celebrated nature reserve in South-
East Iceland. I was finally back to my faculties,
which enabled me to understand what was
going on. Nothing particularly dramatic – two
Swiss men were being shown around by an Ice-
landic guide, the same who paid me a visit just
a few minutes earlier. I tried again to establish
an interaction, while munching my breakfast.
It is the sort of conversation one would think
doomed from the very beginning. I am an
embarrassing example of poor linguistic integra-
tion, speaking little or no Icelandic even after
years of residence in the country; the guide, on
the other hand, could barely introduce himself
in English. In spite of the premises, however,
things surprisingly moved pretty smoothly, and
before long we were caught in a stimulating
discussion about the (relatively scarce) popular-
ity of the outdoors in Iceland.
How is it possible – my interlocutor won-
dered – that a cabin like Múlaskáli, located
in such a unique spot, remains half empty all
through July? How could things be changed?
Maybe by building new huts, provided with
more facilities and perhaps a basic restaurant,
as you see in the Alps? Not an easy matter to
cope with – and especially not right after wak-
ing up. Personally, I do not disdain sausages
and alcoholic beverages, but if I may advance
an opinion, I am not sure that the problem
lies uniquely in the services made available
in the mountain huts. Better marked trails,
for example, could also contribute to increase
the popularity of some walks, such as the one
between Stafafell and Snæfell – this, at least,
has been remarked upon by several foreign
hikers I interviewed, who drew comparisons
with continental Europe.
Whatever reasons and explanations can
be found, it is a fact that once you have seen
Lónsöræfi it is difficult to resist its charm, and
not to wonder why it does not represent a
primary destination on more travellers’ and
trekkers’ agendas.
Lónsöræfi
Set right on the Eastern border to the Vat-
najökull Glacier, Lónsöræfi is a vast volcanic
area of colourful hills, broad rivers, gashing wa-
terfalls, and lush vegetation, encircled by sharp
and snow-clad peaks, and often threaded by
herds of reindeers. I may have been particularly
lucky to be there in warm and mostly bright
weather, and in the peace and stillness of the
early season, but it is not an overstatement to
say that the Stafafell-Snæfell trek has immedi-
ately become one of my favourites.
Most travellers skip the initial part of the
walk, exploiting the jeep track that leads all
the way to Múlaskáli – a big mistake, at least
if you have enough days at hand. The scenarios
offered on this first leg are terrific enough to
deserve their good share of time. After skirting
some crimson-red rhyolitic formations, the trail
stretches along the deep gorge ploughed by the
river Jökulsá, winding among fragrant thickets,
large patches of moss, and sheer cliffs towering
above the roaring waters underneath. This is
the only chance for cover on the trail, before
the growing altitude in the next stages of the
journey expose you to the blowing winds and
the naked immensity of the surroundings.
The farm at Stafafell, hosting both a youth
hostel and campsite in the summertime, makes
for an ideal starting point, as long as you do not
demand the highest hygienic standards imagin-
able. Ideally located by the main road, the hostel
is run by Bergsveinn, who proudly considers
himself to “still [be] a communist, or rather a
hippie,” and his brother. A short conversation
with them confirms that the uniqueness of
the Icelandic countryside does not dwell only
in its geography, but also in its people. In the
early hours of the night, our chat hit disparate
subjects such as the world emergency for water,
insurance policies, Kurt Vonnegut and his views
of Hungarians, and Reykjavik’s gas stations – as
well as a few packets of cigarettes: It was well
worth the detour for picking up a forgotten
sweater the day after.
Kollumúli
It is late when I am finally ready to leave
Múlaskáli and set out for the second leg of
The Lonesome Traveller – Lónsöræfi
Text by Fabrizio Frascaroli Photo by Halldór Kjartansson
the journey. This is the first long walk of the year, sort
of a preparation for the summer’s harder endeavours. A
smell of hangover and thoughts of the city still follow me
as a permanent hindrance – this is what I put forward,
anyhow, as a comfortable self-justification for today’s
five-hour delay.
Time, however, does not really have to be a major
concern for the day: it is quite a short way to the next hut,
the one at Egilssel, and a mere eight kilometres on marked
trails. After running for a while along the riverbank, the
path starts climbing up to almost 900 metres above the
sea. The verdant and overgrown slopes that conferred a
unique flavour on yesterday’s landscapes become just a
memory. The surroundings suddenly turn utterly barren.
The glacier’s easternmost tongues are drawing nearer,
a threatening presence under today’s sullen sky. When I
reach the volcanic plateau of Kollumúli, a chilling wind
is blowing from the south. Patches of snow since last
winter make their appearance. From here, it is possible
to distinguish the small but equally welcoming shape
of the Egilsel hut, finally looming in the distance: only a
few kilometres separate me from today’s destination.
I had been warned that so early in the season (it is
still mid June, whereas the Stafafell-Snæfell trek is usually
thread only from the second half of July) it might prove
difficult to go further than Egilssel. Snowmelt could
turn the terrain into a nearly impassable mud. My feet
sometimes sink deep into the wet soil, that is true, but
the mud is far from impassable. On the contrary, there
is still an abundance of snowfields left up here: some
are progressively breached by flowing waters; others
treacherously conceal gorges and streams underneath
their coat.
In these conditions, route-finding skills are required in
order to avoid potentially dangerous passages, and even
more so now, since no trace of a trail heading to Snæfell
can be seen. The weather is warm but slightly windy: the
sun covered behind a veil of haze but the visibility good
enough to guarantee an easy orientation. The route I find
myself on is a very spectacular one, between stretches of
nude rocks, frozen lakes, and ever-deeper gorges carved
by glacial rivers. Set in a magnificent spot, sufficiently
elevated to dominate a vast horizon and just besides
quick waters jumping downstream towards Eyjabakkar,
the solitary cabin of Geldingafell offers another neat and
cosy shelter for the night.
Eyjabakkar
It is not that I expect to be seen by anyone – nevertheless,
coming half naked out of the hut in the chill early next
morning, wearing only sandals and boxers, does feel
quite awkward. An important river has to be waded as
a first obstacle of the day, and that explains the bizarre
outfit. It is the last stage of the trek, some long 33 ki-
lometres leading all the way to the root of Snæfell, the
highest non-glacial summit in the country, by definition
the “King” of Icelandic mountains. Like the day before,
the weather appears warm, although it is hazy and grey
– by noon, however, the veil of clouds is eventually torn
away, and the burning sun comes out to irradiate a vivid
light on the surrounding landscape.
This is one of the most interesting portions of the
whole journey, traversing the immense spaces created
by the retreat of the glaciers. The vastness of the plain
is encircled by walls of imposing moraines, with spo-
radic oases of moss and flowing waters to break the
monotonous greyness of the gravel that is all around.
And there, where the stony ground gives way to the
green, is the Icelandic reindeer country par excellence.
I see none, however, only a few tracks and a number
of wild geese.
Eyjabakkar is a broad stripe of wetlands ploughed
by impassable, deep waters. Two options are available
for the crossing: either a bridge, lying a bit farther in
the North, or the nearby glacial tongue Eyjabakkarjökull.
Despite advices received to the contrary, I opt for the
latter. It is a walk of only three kilometres on ice, not
excessively difficult. The real problem turns out to be in
the phase of approach. The ice is disappearing at a very
swift rate, feeding fast streams and especially creating
dangerous quicksand among the moraines, just before
the glacier.
I proceed with extra care, cautiously selecting the
route and frequently probing the ground. Nonetheless,
a couple of times my legs happened to sink deep into
the muddy silt. I am forced to take long detours before
being able at last to step onto solid icy ground. In such
warm weather, the glacier appears extremely wet, criss-
crossed by endless rivulets. The first two kilometres
easily pass by, in an almost straight trajectory. It is the
increasing number of crevasses – a few of them still
hidden in snow – that makes the last part of the cross-
ing more problematic, requiring several deviations and
a few leaps.
Snæfell
Quite ironically, I get to feel the most painful effects of
the traverse of Eyjabakkarjökull once the glacier itself is
already a few kilometres behind me. The reflection of the
strong sunlight on the white mantle must have hit my
skin quite badly, and for the rest of the day – it is still a
good 15 kilometres walk before reaching my destination
– I feel miserable, broiling under the sun like a roasted
chicken. Despite the terrific and inspiring surroundings,
the remnant of the walk gets reduced to a mere exercise
in tolerance and endurance, counting the steps one after
the other. Until, finally, the hut of Snæfell draws within
range of sight.
There is nobody there to welcome me: the hut is still
deserted and closed to visitors, even if things should be
different by now. In fair weather, however, the option of
tenting also has its own appeal – including, for example,
the opportunity to enjoy an essential dinner while the
glorious midnight sunset unfolds before my eyes. Before I
go to sleep, a mirror hanging besides the outdoor toilets
gives me the opportunity to check out what colour has
been painted on my face. It looks fluorescent like a purple
neon light, precisely what I feared.
Tomorrow I will walk some additional 15 kilometres on
the jeep track – on top of the 80 I have already covered
during the last four days – to reach a more trafficked
road, and hopefully get a quick lift to the nearby town
of Egilsstaðir. Perhaps some form of regular public trans-
portation could also bring some benefits to the popularity
of the remarkable Stafafell-Snæfell trek.
Transport provided by Þingvallaleið ehf.
Tel.: 511 2600, bustravel@bustravel.is
It is not that I expect to be seen
by anyone – nevertheless, com-
ing half naked out of the hut
in the chill early next morning,
wearing only sandals and box-
ers, does feel quite awkward.
Energy for life through forces of nature
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