Reykjavík Grapevine - 02.11.2007, Blaðsíða 44

28 | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 17 2007 | Article
Askja. For a long time, since my first visit in 2001,
that little and harsh name evoked the mightiest
images of dread and desolation in my head, of
unspeakable mysteries and vanished German ex-
plorers. For a long time, I associated Ódáðahraun
- the stretch of lava, sand and nothingness that en-
velops an endless area of 6,000 km2 in its deadly
embrace – with the wasteland par excellence. A
place of twisted rock, chocked earth and over-
whelming devastation, capable of shaking in a few
miles the most light-hearted assumptions about
the cuteness of life, nature, and everything: the
perfect school-trip for those (fortunately, I believe,
not many) considering a career in nihilistic philos-
ophy. Not surprisingly, for a long time, I anticipated
the traverse of that desert with a mixed feeling of
reverential fear and ultimate challenge.
It is July 14; the weather is slowly opening up
and becoming fair. As I put more and more kilome-
tres between the village of Reykjahlíð and myself,
the Mývatn lowlands exhibit their most celebrated
sights. I stroll along the rim of the great Hverfell
crater, where visitors mark their passage in stones
and pebbles. I duck underneath the lava arches
and alcoves of Dimmuborgir. Some German tour-
ist thinks that my backpack is too bulky and that
hikers are all insane. The last drizzles of the day
make the cigarettes wet in my fingers.
I leave Dimmuborgir behind along narrow
and tortuous sheep trails. The lava layer is cracked
and broken, but I believe sheep are just too fearful
to be unwise: to trust their common sense seems
safe. With sheep I get to share not only the paths,
but also the torment of the midges. They launch
their assault as the sun pierces the last clouds and
the air becomes hot and stuffy – they won’t desist
till nightfall. I end up swallowing a few, spitting out
some others, but it is a trial for the nerves. I try to re-
mind myself of the great prophets of non-violence:
St. Francis of Assisi, Mahatma Gandhi, the Dalai
Lama… It does not work, and before long I am
turned upside down by images and impressions of
total warfare. Fighting this fight is pointless, and I
patiently let my reservoir of tolerance be eroded
away.
The last farm on my way lies cheerful under
the sun, by Grænavatn and a jeep track. There is
a pleasant barbecue smell in the air, but nobody
around inviting me to join the feast. When I set up
camp along the river Kraká, it is already past ten
and mist has descended onto the land.
Entering the Highlands
Where do the Highlands begin? What gives them
their character? What distinguishes them so ineffa-
bly but still so neatly from the rest of the emerged
lands? I have passed no border, reached no land-
mark, gained no altitude. And yet, I realize that the
quality of the experience, from a certain point on,
has radically mutated – sweetly, smoothly, and yet
firmly. The awareness of this difference falls on me
like an epiphany. But why and how has the tran-
sition occurred? Is it the shape of the sky? Can it
change in the turn of a handful of kilometres? Is
it the colour of the light? Or the absence of any-
thing but myself and my footsteps, perhaps? I am
baffled. But in spite of all riddles – or, more likely,
because of them – I’m enthralled. While Reyk-
jahlíð, way on the horizon, still beckons me with
promises of comfort and safety, the Highlands, as
ever before, have kicked in.
I walk far from the jeep track, trying to keep
my course as straight as possible due south. Bar-
ren, sandy ground and overgrown areas alternate
in a seemingly regular pattern. I pass a patch of
vegetation painted in the most unlikely crimson
red a flower ever exhibited. It is another day of
heat, bright sky, and limitless visibility. The uni-
form flatness that lies ahead gets broken finally by
the imposing shapes looming in the deep distance,
like Gods or wardens waiting in a watchful sleep. I
can see Trölladyngja shaped like a shield, and the
ice of Dyngjujökull behind it, glittering white. And,
shortly after, the Dyngjufjöll mountains encircling
the craters and chasms of Askja appear too, mus-
cular and compact like a fist on the land, peremp-
tory as a statement.
It is already after eight with a sense of twilight
in the air, when the lava of Ódáðahraun eventually
begins. Great, rounded slabs of volcanic rock are
deposited on the earth, carved and smoothed in
an almost orderly fashion, like a pavement of stone
laid down by hands larger and older than those of
Across the Country in 40 Days
With sheep I get to share
not only the paths, but
also the torment of the
midges. They launch
their assault as the sun
pierces the last clouds
and the air becomes hot
and stuffy – they won’t
desist till nightfall.
This page: Askja Lake; Opposite page: Herðubreið.
Photos by Fabrizio Frascaroli
www.bluelagoon.com
Energy for life through forces of nature