Reykjavík Grapevine - 29.06.2007, Side 24

30_REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE 09_007_LONESOME TRAVELLER
“Crevasse!” The deal was that a yell would
warn the party whenever a chasm and poten-
tial danger was spotted in the ice. In practice,
things went quite differently. Our guide simply
vanished in a white cloud right before our eyes.
Yell or not, it was rather evident that we had
actually happened to incur a crevasse, subtly
concealed by snow. We all ducked at once – as
we had been instructed to do in similar cases,
before entering the glacier – to exercise further
traction on the rope and give the leader the
necessary stability for rescuing himself. Then,
it was just a matter of waiting.
The following minutes passed slowly, staring
through the mist at the snow mantle that
stretched ahead, my knees firmly dug in the
snow. There was no real reason to be stressed
about the situation – good experience, a rope,
and an ice tool should make for a certain
rescue, and I knew that we would shortly see
our guide again. But I realised that my head
was getting especially fuzzy, not a good sign.
The bite of the cold had been unforgiving
over the last hour, as we moved slowly across
crevassed areas, cautiously probing the terrain
around us. This sudden halt represented an
even harsher trial.
The temperature had to be a few degrees
below 0 up there, at almost 1,800 metres
above sea level. A strangely comfortable torpor
and sense of dizziness began to envelop me in
a soft but inexorable grip. However ridiculous
that may have been, the idea of just lying
down and taking a nice nap on the snow felt
particularly tempting, even wise – after all, why
not make the best out of that nuisance of a
stop? In my mind I recognised what looked like
the first symptoms of a hypothermic reaction,
and that needed to be fought back. Keeping
awake became a commandment, and I tried
to focus my attention on absolutely pointless
but engaging operations: setting my anorak’s
zippers open and close with the mouth only,
grabbing stuff from the rucksack without tak-
ing it off my shoulders, moving small items
from one pocket to the other.
It seemingly worked, but only for a short
while – the will to resist soon failed me again,
and I indulged in blaming my state not on the
effect of the cold, but rather on the exhausting
hours that lay behind. I knew deep inside that
this was not the case, but the alternative ex-
planation did not sound completely unlikely.
Heading Out
The alarm woke me up at 3:30 in the morn-
ing, the time I usually go to sleep when in
more urban environment. Rendezvous was
set at 5:00. “This is the longest guided tour
in Europe, so we need all the possible hours
of the day,” the guide explained later. If you
spend enough time in this country, you will
get acquainted with all these strange records
that Iceland prides itself on.
Requiring some ten to fifteen hours walk-
ing, the ascent to the 2,119 meter summit
of Hvannadalshnjúkur is no short practice
indeed. It was a clear and chilly morning; it
appeared to have snowed during the night
and frost had lain on my tent’s walls. I soon
found out I was not the only one who needed
to sprint along the avenue of the Skaftafell
campground to warm up in view of the day’s
first occupations. After a generous breakfast
and the necessary ‘good morning’ cigarette,
I packed up the rucksack with all the essen-
tials for the day (an extra layer of clothing,
some pairs of gloves, camera and films, an
abundance of food and water, a thermos for
hot tea, and of course ice axe, harness and
crampons).
As we met up at the Mountain Guides tent
and base camp, I was delighted (as much as
surprised) to discover I was not the last one ar-
riving, as the party was still slowly assembling.
Doddi would be our guide for the day. A lively
fella, with a quick smile, and almost a childlike
expression – at a first glance you would not
credit him as an experienced mountaineer. Not
until he puts on cap and sunglasses, at least.
But then a staggering change occurs – the
outdoor enthusiast reveals himself – and you
can no longer doubt that you are in absolutely
secure hands. This is the second year in a
row he is working for the Icelandic Mountain
Guides. All of the party members were finally
introduced: seven of us, plus the leader. Some
did not talk at all, perhaps burdened with ex-
pectations. Some talked too much. Expensive
gear and winter clothing on display; that was
how a fashion competition for mountaineers
would look like, I guess.
Spiking up from the southern edge of
the Vatnajökull glacier, Hvannadalshnjúkur
– which for our comfort we will simply refer
to as ‘the Summit’ – is no less than Iceland’s
highest peak. And as such, it constitutes a
favourite destination of seasonal pilgrimage for
both local climbing devotees and enterprising
visitors. To add further charm to the location
– as if the altitude and being towering above
Europe’s largest glacier were not enough – is
the fact that we are also in a highly volcanic
territory: “the Land of fire and ice,” you must
have heard that. At about 1,800 metres a big
caldera should be visible, just on the route to
the top. “But in case of sudden eruption, we’ll
still have some time to flee and run for cover”
we were reassured. There are different alter-
natives for tackling the ascent to the Summit
– walking in an almost straight trajectory due
North over the Sandfell mountain represents
the most direct and easiest option, the one
commonly proposed in guided tours.
Vatnajökull Glacier
A short 10-minute drive took us to the roots of
the hills, where the actual walk started – at a lei-
surely pace, to spare energies in view of the long
effort and not pay a bitter toll on the initial and
steepest part of the ascent. Even there, at only
80 metres above the sea, the thin layer of snow
deposited during the night conferred an arctic
flavour on the surrounding landscape, vast and
still asleep in the dawn’s sharp air. The horizon
enlarged and disclosed awe-inspiring sights as
we gained altitude. The westernmost slopes of
Vatnajökull loomed clear in the distance, as well
as Mýrdalsjökull, the other great glacier of the
south where Katla is nested, Iceland’s moodiest
and most unpredictable volcano.
Fighting Hypothermia on Iceland’s Highest Peak
Text and photos by Fabrizion Frascaroli
The light of the sun sud-
denly vanished behind a
curtain of thick clouds,
and we found ourselves
walking in mists, with
a visibility of barely a
couple of dozen metres
ahead. And then the par-
ty-leader disappeared
into a hidden crack.
Reaching 1,000 metres above sea level re-
vealed an abrupt and relatively quick affair,
and there, acting like a threshold, a ridge of
snow-clad moraines signalled the entrance
into glacial terrain. Spaces became ampler
and more open, exposing us to the chill of
the blowing north-easterly winds. Harnesses
made their appearance (for safety’s sake, we
would carry on as a rope-party from that mo-
ment), and Doddi got a first opportunity to
show his skills. With quick and secure hands,
he began to handle carabineers and apply
knots on the ascension rope. “You’ll be the
last in the line” he told me while securing
my harness. I replied with a giggle, flattered
by the thought that covering the rearguard
represented a special honour and a token of
trust. Unfortunately for my ego, I later read
in a mountaineering textbook that it is a
common norm to reserve the last position in
a rope-party to the slowest climber.
As the snow mantle grew thicker, I felt
the steps becoming increasingly heavier and
slower. Weariness began to surface – not so
surprisingly, as we had already been climb-
ing for nearly six hours – but it still was well
counterbalanced by the sense of achievement
given by the surroundings: inebriation for the
rising altitude, and wonder before the icefalls
and remote peaks gradually appearing under
the midday sun. Also the Summit had finally
revealed itself, emerging like a dome in the dis-
tance. Weariness apart, I was feeling especially
galvanised by the fair weather that seemed to
be blessing our endeavour – very unexpect-
edly, as compared to the former day’s pouring
rain. Under such a clear and luminous sky,
the scenario stretching before our gaze truly
held a terrific power. At 1,600 metres, after
probing the area for possible hidden cracks,
our guide quickly erected a basic snow wall,
behind which we found repair from the winds
and took a slightly longer and most enjoyable
break. It was not the Summit, but the apex
of our trip – unfortunately, our fortunes were
rather swift to change.
As the glacier gained in incline, the risk for
crevasses also increased – even more insidious
because of the new snow that fell during the
night. Our march slowed down. Even the most
experienced guide and the most willing group
is helpless against the volubility of the weather.
Passing from summer to winter took only a
few minutes. The light of the sun suddenly
vanished behind a curtain of thick clouds, and
we found ourselves walking in mists, with a
visibility of barely a couple of dozen metres
ahead. And then the party-leader disappeared
into a hidden crack.
Crevasse
It is hard to reckon how many minutes passed
before we got to see him again. I can only say
that the sight of Doddi re-emerging from the
crevasse, so thoroughly covered in snow that
he resembled a puppet, was so relieving and
at the same time so comic that it immediately
brought more warmth back to my body than
all the concentration exercises I had tried to
undertake in the meantime. We pushed forth
again, but it was just a matter of minutes be-
fore we came to a halt again, and the guide
exhorted us to gather around him. As the last
member of the rope-party, at least, I had the
honour of being waited for.
“I will not proceed further with so little
visibility and such a high risk for crevasses,”
Doddi explained “I am afraid that the circum-
stances are against us, and we should turn
back.” Upset expressions appeared on most
faces. Finally, Doddi took the initiative again:
“I know, it sucks… But in such conditions, and
with so much fresh snow on the slopes, it may
even happen that we get to walk parallel to a
crevasse all at the same time, and that could
prove disastrous.” Correct. A party of merry
and enthusiastic mountaineers falling simul-
taneously into an evil chasm does not really
sound like an enjoyable plan, and everybody
did actually seem quite inclined to recognize
the argument as very reasonable – no more
words were needed before we inverted our
course and took aim to the valley again, with
lower spirits, bent backs, and under a thin
drizzle.
As for me – who, thanks to the newly quick-
ened pace, had eventually come back to my
full faculties – the thought of giving up when
already so close to the goal felt disappointing.
At the same time, I recognised that the ascent
to the summit of Hvannadalshnjúkur – which I
was attempting for the first time – had already
become a new favourite of mine, having part
of the accomplishment left to be completed
just represented one additional reason for
starting to look forward to the next assault.
Following that effort, I spent two more days
in the Skaftafell National Park, joining what
other activities Icelandic Mountain Guides run
there – a thorough exploration of the nearby
glacial tongue Svinafellsjökull, as well as a first
introduction to the thrilling discipline of ice
climbing. Less strenuous than the ascent to the
Summit – but not less enjoyable – demand-
ing less stamina, and allowing a more casual
approach, both offers appeared excellent as
a first introductory step, suitable for all, to
glacier travel and the basics of mountaineer-
ing (as some part of the time was dedicated
to teaching the essentials of the gear).
I was pretty favourably impressed by the
service Mountain Guides provided, and in a
number of ways. First and foremost, the young
guides proved able to facilitate humour and
enthusiasm with undoubted professionalism,
adding a light touch to the experience. It was
equally positive to notice the great care that
was constantly given to the surroundings; I was
nearly scolded by Haukur, my guide, on the
second day as I inadvertently dumped onto the
snow a tiny piece of the aluminium foil wrap-
ping my chocolate. Finally, and much to my
delight, it was surprising to see how no budget
had been spared on gear. The harnesses, axes,
and crampons supplied to each tour participant
were all in good shape and of top-quality, the
sort of stuff you would be advised to buy by
any expert, or in any respectable store.
A highly positive experience, in definitive,
and one that can safely be recommended to
any wilderness traveller or outdoor enthusiast
in Iceland.
Icelandic Mountain Guides run climbing tours
to Hvannadalshnjúkur, as well as many other
activities, both in the Skaftafell National Park
and elsewhere.
Tel: 587 9999, www.mountainguide.is
REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE 09_007_LONESOME TRAVELLER_31
In my mind I recognised
what looked like the
first symptoms of a hy-
pothermic reaction, and
that needed to be fought
back.