Reykjavík Grapevine - 11.01.2008, Síða 44

28 | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 01 2008 | Article
The engine huffed and puffed loudly as the modi-
fied Toyota Hilux bit its way over yet another
stretch of sand, continuing on its run through an
ever-shifting cloud of fuzz and dust. One more
traveller was challenging the old Gæsavatnaleið
trail.
Winding across a plateau of lava, sand and
bare rock at the outskirts of the Dyngjujökull gla-
cier, only a generous amount of optimism and na-
ivety could induce someone to call Gæsavatnaleið
a road. And the Icelandic Road Administration, in
fact, has little or nothing to do there. Similarly, it
would be quite superficial to consider Gæsavatna-
leið a simple drive. Rather, it is a real off-road rally,
fit to exhaust the most enduring car and wear out
even a highly experienced driver, a province of
intrepid travellers and dedicated Rescue Team
volunteers who proudly roam this no-man’s-land
in search of situations where some help may be
welcome – a pioneer’s scenario that seems drawn
from tales of other places and other times. Per-
haps symbolically, the trail takes its name from
the only, tiny oasis of life and vegetation within
an otherwise unbroken wasteland: the minuscule
ponds of Gæsavötn, surrounded by moss. Be-
sides that small interruption and feeble glimpse
of greenness, all else is black and naked along
Gæsavatnaleið, between Askja and Nýidalur.
Travellers are regularly warned against the
route. Regardless of the direction from which one
approaches the track, the antiphony is the same:
the land wardens will question the driver as to
what sort of car is about to stand trial, whether
it is owned or hired, whether it has 35-inch tyres,
at least, between its body and the harsh ground.
They will point out that while the road is only
about 100 km long, one should realistically al-
locate 6-7 hours to complete it, that mechanical
accidents are pretty common, and, also for that
reason, that travelling in a convoy is definitely the
least masochistic option. They will try to make
sure, in the end, that nobody ventures further,
unless relying on a monster vehicle and entirely
conscious of what the undertaking might entail.
Among all the routes and itineraries within the
Icelandic highlands, Gæsavatnaleið is the only
one for which I would gladly make an exception
and give up walking in order to join the motorized
legions of those rally drivers and adventurers.
I waved my hand and gazed at the car glim-
mering white and eventually disappearing in the
distance, until fresh tyre marks on the ground and
a dissolving cloud of dust were all that remained.
I pushed on and walked in complete solitude,
roughly following the course of the trail for the
remainder of the day. I walked until my skewed
shadow was anticipating my steps late in the
night, determined to cover, in two days of march-
ing, the sixty kilometres that separated me from
fresh water in Gæsavötn.
Surprises were conveyed by the unreal and
deceiving gleam of the evening. I reckon it was
around 21:30 when I first stared at that new and
unexpected devilry of the land. It appeared to
be dark grey, hit by the last rays of a descending
sun, a razor-sharp and menacing barrier straight
ahead to the South, an array of acuminate teeth
rising like a wall from the ground, geometric and
angular, as if cut by square and knife. I halted and
remained still for some time, trying hard to deci-
pher the strange spectacle that had just appeared
before my eyes: from afar, they looked like hills of
crude rock, and yet I had never heard of anything
like that being in this part of the country. I hit the
trail again and quickened the pace.
It was under such circumstances, my gaze
still fixed on those mysterious sculptures looming
ahead, that I came across the mud. Concealed
behind a row of mounds of sand and lava, lay a
whole plain. Commonly flooded and submerged
by the wash of glacial waters, it now unfolded
arid and droughty, drained by the unnaturally dry
season and consequent paucity of rain. It might
be hard to believe that so much artistry can be
produced by something as obvious and prosaic as
dried mud – yet that appeared to be precisely the
case. It looked like an abstract painting in the late
night air, stretching for many acres over the soil, a
dazzling sequence of shades of black and grey, of
sinuous lines and cryptic patterns.
Not even the closest examination proved
sufficient to lift the veil of blindness entirely from
my eyes. Not until I broke the ice with my trekking
Across the Country in 40 Days
I wake up and set off
fairly early in the morn-
ing. It is common knowl-
edge that wading in large
glacial streams should be
done in the early hours of
the day, when the ice melt
is least intense.
Both photos are from Dyngjujökull.
Photos by Fabrizio Frascaroli
www.bluelagoon.com
Energy for life through forces of nature