Reykjavík Grapevine - 02.11.2007, Síða 45

Article | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 17 2007 | 29
men. I follow my own shadow, skewed by the de-
clining sunbeams, across this cyclopean platform,
and I am driven to reckon that, in its minimal and
essential simplicity, the whole sight is among the
most intense and inspiring ones that my waking
eyes ever seized.
I reach the hut of Botni (erected and man-
aged by Ferðafélag Íslands as a support to the trav-
ellers on the Askja trail) after walking a couple of
kilometres on the track, along pinnacles of lava
and a last oasis of clear water. There is a small
crowd around: an Icelandic guided tour. Some
well-meaning woman asks me why on earth I am
travelling alone – she finds it so boring, you know.
I reply that most often I am bored among people.
Social interactions for the night practically end
there.
Dyngjufell
The next day I walk across ceaseless lava and
black sand to the next hut, at the foot of Dyngju-
fell. Stating that the sort of experience intrinsically
offered by the Highlands is different and unique
compared to anything else is a judgement of inten-
sity, not of value. It is to say that all sensations –
inebriation as much as poignancy, liberty as much
as anguish – appear qualitatively different here,
neater and deeper, as if you were staring at them in
their nudity, without veils in between. My last two
days, for example, have been pervaded by a sense
of melancholy subtended to every movement and
every glance – an aimless longing without focus
and without object, hopelessly amplified and re-
verberated by the unlimited vastness around, by
the terse light that is dyed orange as the sunset ap-
proaches.
The Dyngjufell hut is welcoming, properly
tended, and free of guests. Although the weather is
warm and dry, I am glad to take a place inside: it is
my first time sleeping indoors since I left Reykjavik.
During the night, the sky becomes saturated with
multiple colours. It is a jaw-dropping midnight sun,
almost ridiculous in its chromatic vividness, like
some expressionist painting. The gorge nearby is
reflecting violet shades. I generally try not to over-
romanticize nature and its workings, to take it at
surface level, but for what it is. Tonight, however,
I cannot help to sit there in awe and contempla-
tion, intimately glad to be alone, out in the wild. I
cannot help but look around and find it beautiful.
Poignantly beautiful.
Askja
It is the fourth and final day on my way to Askja. I
inaugurate the morning by falling down the steps
right outside the cabin. I clumsily land on my knees
and am thankful that nobody is around to see and
laugh at the feat. Besides the accident, a couple of
kilometres into the mountains are already enough
to realize that today is going to redeem my previ-
ous impressions of the whole walk. Except for a
few utterly memorable moments, in fact, it has
been quite a dull affair until now. Partly because
that whole sense of challenge and inaccessibility
that I had built up over years of waiting has been
exposed as absolutely ungrounded: I haven’t yet
met a single obstacle or difficulty on the way. Even
water – scarce, but still sufficient – has not present-
ed a problem. And in part because I found the last
days’ landscape to be rather flat and monotonous
for the most. Today, however, offers a different per-
spective.
A narrow path immediately starts climbing
up, across barren plateaus and slopes lashed by
the winds. The inexorable action of erosion has
carved the surroundings into the grim and spectral
shapes of a mosaic desert. At around 1,000 m the
snowfields begin. At 1,300 m Jónskarð is reached
– the pass that, like a breach in an impenetrable
wall, leads the way into Askja. And the sight from
up there, in clear weather, hits with such strength it
blows you away. Because Askja is like a sanctuary,
erected in the womb of the mountains, embedded
in the foundations of the earth. Even the sky seems
to get lost and absorbed in the depths of that lake.
I arrive at the base camp at Drekagil late in
the evening. Herðubreið – the celebrated Queen
of Icelandic mountains – has been towering above
the track for the last kilometres. My dominant
thought, however, is that all the walking on lava
I’ve endured these days should be enough for the
rest of the summer – to say that I am sick of it is an
understatement.
Ferðafélag Íslands has undeniably done a
great job at Drekagil. They expanded the hut, in-
stalled running water, improved all the facilities
– and still with due care for the environment. Basi-
cally, they’ve laid down the ground for making one
of the most remarkable locations in the country
accessible and enjoyable to the wider public. In
fact, the place is swarming with people. Different
groups are sleeping at Drekagil, but the members
of some British speleological club definitely stand
out as the most noteworthy. “We spend several
weeks in Askja every now and then, looking for
and mapping lava caves,” they proudly explain. I
don’t know what to think of their hobby, but must
admit that they are an excellent crowd, coherently
embodying a genuine conception of mountaineer-
ing made of guiltless nicotinism, heavy alcohol
consumption, and coffee cups rinsed with dirty
fingers.
The mounds before the campsite are a per-
fect vantage point for appreciating another im-
maculate twilight – the silhouette of Herðubreið
is imprinted in the distance, crowned with flocks
of gentle clouds. It’d be a unique spectacle under
any circumstances and sharing it with a few occa-
sional companions and a bottle of whiskey does
not make it any worse. In a couple of days I’ll be
walking further, still deeper into the country’s inte-
rior.
Text by Fabrizio Frascaroli
– Adventures of the Lonesome Traveller, Leg 3
Lárus & Lárus
You know what your
biggest problem is?
You are too indecisive
I am not sure
ALWAYS
NICE
No