Reykjavík Grapevine - 21.09.2007, Page 8

is Ásbyrgi’s trademark and greatest attraction
– from a strong vantage point at the southern
edge, the gaze can embrace it in its entirety.
Mythology and poetry claim this place to be a
mark in the earth left by the passage of Sleipnir,
Odin’s steed.
Geologists, on the other hand, have interp-
reted it as the outcome of a jökulhlaup (glacial
flood burst) of ridiculously huge scale – possibly
an even more catastrophic and unconceivable
explanation than the former. Personally, at
least, I have some troubles depicting a flood
stemming from a glacier (probably following
some under-ice eruption) so terrific in scale that
it inexorably ploughs hundred of kilometers of
land, excavates a deep and nearly rectilinear
gorge, and finally impacts the soil with such
brute violence that it models a hoof-shaped
canyon out of bare rock – and all of this, in
the mere turn of a few hours. Whatever the
origination myth, it is hard to deny or underrate
the sort of serene and majestic fascination
that the overgrown glen of Ásbyrgi – with
its steep cliffs, thick vegetation, and emerald
green ponds – exercises on the visitor. Even
when all appears blurred and faded under a
leaden, sullen sky, like today.
Winding Down
I left town in a situation of most dramatic
haste: being chronically late also has an ob-
noxious side. The franticness of my last days
in Reykjavík has left a visible scar in my mood
and, no matter what, I still feel loaded with
nervousness and irritation. As the first kilo-
metres roll by, I am mainly focused inwards,
trying to give my thoughts the same placid
green colour of the surroundings. I don’t have
to wait long, however, before the usual little
miracle that I have got used to over the years
occurs: the wilderness slowly takes over, painful
memories give way to immediate enjoyment,
tension melts into inebriation. No, it won’t be
the most spectacular scenery I have ever expe-
rienced in Iceland, but even at the fourth visit
the Jökusárgljúfur National Park can reserve
delighting surprises. The craters of Rauðhólar
– adorned with pointy pinnacles and vividly
red as if stained in blood – certainly are one
of those, and seem to act like a border beyond
which all is mystery and wonder.
The path winds among arcane basaltic
formations now – towers, caves, fortresses,
and skulls of rock. Products of the torment
of the land, to a keen eye they could appear
as cyclopean artefacts of times immemorial,
which the course of ages has covered in trees
and scrubs. I dream of a megalopolis once
inhabited by some cruel and ancient civilizati-
on, such as the ones conceived by the morbid
imagination of H. P. Lovecraft. It is a fuzz of
voices and footsteps that brings me back to the
concreteness of the present: I am only a couple
of kilometres away from the resting point at
Vesturdalur, and visitors are more frequent
in this part of the park. I reach the campsite
after my first day of marching spent under
overcast but dry weather. I barely have time
for crunching my dinner before finally paying
toll for last week’s lack of sleep. Without even
realising it, I collapse like a sack of potatoes
onto my sleeping bag (rather than inside it)
– it is not even nine o’clock.
Fair weather greets me at awakening. The
landscape gradually changes texture and grows
idyllic, while the almost disquieting sculptu-
res of basalt that accompanied my course
yesterday become progressively rarer, until
fading into memory. For a dozen kilometres,
the surroundings are a sequence of colourful
and blossoming vegetation, gashing waters,
and mirror-like ponds. As the path approa-
ches the waterfall of Hafragilsfoss, the walk
becomes more technical and challenging – but
the increasing effort is repaid by some of the
most charming views encountered so far. The
waterfall itself, nested deep inside the gorge
and crowned in floating rainbows, offers a
memorable spectacle.
Dettifoss
When Dettifoss finally irrupts, it seems or-
chestrated a with savant cinematic touch.
As the Hafragil lowlands are left behind, the
landscape changes its face abruptly and en-
tirely. It becomes barren – utterly barren – a
monotonous stretch of black sand and solid,
crude rock. Only minuscule patches of vege-
tation are scattered here and there: small and
untamed flowers pathetically emerging from
the wasteland around just to ask “What are
we doing here?” One could easily think of a
Western movie’s final and epic duel, or even
St. John’s Apocalypse, set in such a place: in
no way would it feel out of context. Yes, the
sensation is that of being at the far end of the
world. Not to mention the roar – that constant,
overwhelming noise of precipitating waters
that draws nearer.
When the main actor eventually reveals
itself, it is still cloaked in a cloud of drizzling
splashes, raised up in every direction by the
impact. The real risk after all of the expecta-
tion-building, however, is disappointment. In
reality, the mighty Dettifoss actually sucks.
There is nothing beautiful, cosy or picturesque
about this waterfall: just a square wall of fluid
mud erected there to scare the children into
tears or delight those statistics-lovers such as
yours truly. (“Hey, after all this is the waterfall
with the greatest flow volume in Europe!”).
And yet, in spite of its lack of aesthetic value,
every summer the banks of Dettifoss enjoy
an unceasing pilgrimage of visitors, devotees
ready to stand in awe before its nude display
of wrath and power. I am not exempted, and
the morning after my arrival I am there, under
a clear blue sky, paying visit to and spending
a generous portion of film on this Moloch of
dirty water and silt.
So it has come that the third day of my
journey has begun, blessed by sunny weather
and the rarity of some 25°c in the air. My high
spirits, however, are fated to shortly face a
sudden demise. I have only walked a couple
of kilometres from the waterfall when I stop
again for a few photos. I kneel, camera in
hand and pointed at the horizon. A sudden
breath of wind blows the fine sand all over me
and my precious equipment. I wait it out and
continue, but my zoom-lens does not respond
anymore: it got stuck by the grains and simply
does not turn any more. I make a first attempt
at remaining calm, sit down and smoke. “Once
the cigarette will be over, I am sure the lens will
work fine again” I tell myself. The facts cont-
radict my delusional optimism. My attempts
at keeping calm crumble. I swear, try to force
the lens, but the screeching noises suggests
to me that I am doing more harm than good.
Apparently, I must accept the evidence: for the
moment, I cannot rely on a camera any more
– clearly, an unbearable perspective. I sit down
and smoke again, thoughtful. I try to repeat
to myself that the unforeseen is part, even
the very juice, of adventure. Maybe. For now,
however, I only see the adventure prematurely
slipping away: I feel miserable and perplexed
about the course to take – just a lonely and
bent figure in the landscape at the end of the
world, three days into my 40-day journey.
Thanks to Trex (www.bustravel.is ) for Reykja-
vík-Ásbyrgi transportation
14_REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE 15_007_TRAVEL/KJÖLUR
“Why on earth am I doing this?”
The question surfaced a bit earlier in the
morning and lingered there for a handful of
seconds, as a last desperate warning or un-
conscious solicitation to withdraw. I was at the
Akureyri campsite, while a light but persistent
drizzle hit the ground and my bare hands
intent at packing up the tent, and an array of
images buzzed within my head – projections
and anticipations of all the misery to carry out
that same operation under blowing winds,
heavy rain, and dozens of miles away from
a friendly voice or the nearest cup of warm
coffee. A rather depressing scenario.
It is not uncommon to falter on the verge
of a long-awaited moment. As I found out
a long time ago, however, being chronically
late is a basic and nearly impeccable antidote
for such sudden weaknesses of the mind.
So the questions ceased while the scramble
continued with only one apprehension left: to
make it in time for the bus, possibly without
any disastrous tumble in the process.
Waiting – the activity in life I dislike the
most. In this case the wait is fortunately short,
and allows for a very welcome cup of cof-
fee. This morning’s stress rush was beneficial:
besides getting rid of all lingering fears and
doubts, I could reach the bus station some
fifteen minutes early, enough to settle the
last organisational details. I dropped a couple
of boxes at the office, and made sure that
they will safely reach Mývatn and Askja – my
next destinations – within a few days. I am
planning to stay in the wilderness for more
than one month: a Trex bus will take me to
Ásbyrgi, in the North-East, and from there I
will be walking for hundreds of kilometres, all
the way to Þingvellir, at the opposite corner
of the Country. There is no way I can carry all
equipment with me from the beginning, so I
must rely on timely deliveries of supplies along
the way.
It seems that the ride to Ásbyrgi will be
an intimate affair, concerning only me and a
couple of other hikers, obviously Germans.
The bus driver – a friendly chap of few words
and many smiles, who smirked at my compli-
mentary ticket – has been busy (and evidently
self-satisfied) for several minutes, stuffing the
wagon with all sort of packages and endless
cartons of milk. Finally, he slams the container’s
door closed and turns his eyes towards me. It
is time.
Ásbyrgi
It is around noon. I must have slept the entire
way. The woods and shrubs of Ásbyrgi look
silent and lazy today, as absorbed in some sort
of uneasy wait. There is little traffic, which is
strange, considering how this place is a fa-
vourite among foreign and Icelandic tourists
alike. The atmosphere does not feel particularly
electrical. Even the weather seems undecided
whether it will offer a fair and sunny sky or
the “Weather of Great Occasions” (that is
cloudy, foggy and drizzly). I linger on: the
freshly renovated visitor’s centre makes for an
interesting stop and passionate introduction to
the area and another cup of coffee for makes
for an excellent excuse to postpone the start a
bit still. A few last retouches to my backpack,
and at last I am convinced that it truly is time
to start: only matter of moving the first steps,
and all the rest will come easier. It is July 9,
and I have begun my journey.
There is a marked and well-tended path
leading southwards from Ásbyrgi to the water-
fall of Dettifoss. It unfolds along the western
bank of the mighty river Jökulsá á Fjöllum,
within one of the most important protected
areas in the country: the Jökusárgljúfur (Glacial
River Canyon) National Park. It is a reserve of
unique geological formations, fragrant birch
woods, rich fauna, and easy walking. The low
elevation, the grassy and soft soil, the presence
of an organised trail network – all of this ma-
kes for a comfortable, family-friendly hiking
experience. Likely it won’t be your ultimate
Icelandic adventure, or the most spectacular
scenery you will ever encounter in the inlands,
but the region remains well worth the explora-
tion, and predictably one of the most trodden
trekking resorts in the country.
For me, it represents an ideal preparation
for the upcoming effort. I have chosen one
of the hardest routes through the Highlands,
across deserts, marshes, glaciers, and roaring
rivers: I can expect plenty of challenges and
dramatic landscapes ahead. For the moment,
enjoying a mellow and leisurely start, just long
enough to fully get into gear, appears to be
the most reasonable and pleasant option.
The trail’s initial portion runs along the
eastern side of the highly scenic canyon that
Across the Country in 40 Days:
Adventures of The Lonesome Traveller, Leg 1
Text and photos by by Fabrizio Frascaroli
Mythology and poetry
claim this place to be a
mark in the earth left by
the passage of Sleipnir,
Odin’s steed.
REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE 15_007_TRAVEL/KJÖLUR_15
Cappuccino + bagle + yoghurt = 650 kr.
Open house 17:00-21:00
at Reykjavík Art Museum,
Tryggvagötu 17.
Friday 28. September
Researchers’ Night
- for the whole family