Reykjavík Grapevine - 11.01.2008, Blaðsíða 45

Article | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 01 2008 | 29
poles, stroke after stroke, did all disbelief and in-
credulity abandon me. Deceived by the distance
and feeble light, what I had mistaken for rock
and an absurdly shaped range of hills, eventually
revealed itself to be the grim front of the Dyngju-
jökull glacier: it did not glimmer white and immac-
ulate with ice and snow as one would expect, but
stood there threateningly, clad in a layer of silt and
dirt, black and turbid like the very soil underneath
my feet, black down to its very core, to its subtlest
veins of crystal. I observed this imposing and dis-
quieting glacial tongue of black ice for a long time,
trying to embrace and comprehend its nuances.
Most of the time I shivered in discomfort. Later on,
I filtered clean some of the meltdown water, and
made camp by the moraine. The following day I
walked the remaining kilometres to Gæsavötn.
Drizzle and wind broke out late in the afternoon
and did not cease until nightfall.
Gæsavötn
The last mystery of Gæsavatnaleið awaited me
at 1,200 m at the Dyngjuháls pass. Like a host
of silent totems, dozens, scores, perhaps even a
couple of hundred cairns dotted the slopes, vo-
tive tributes of past journeymen asking for safe
passage over this ominous trail. I tried to erect my
own, and as I watched it stand briefly, clumsily,
and then collapse to the ground, I could only feel
relief for having most of Gæsavatnaleið behind
and not before me.
Despite looking pathetically powerless as a
tiny, shiny dot in the boundless black nothingness
all around, Gæsavötn does nonetheless make
for an uplifting sight. It welcomed me like an ea-
gerly awaited breath after a prolonged apnoea. I
camped on the moss, in yellow and orange hues,
rather than green, from a summer so avaricious
for rain.
From the very beginning, I had seen Rjúpna-
brekkukvísl as the first declared challenge on the
route. I had heard many frightening tales about
this river – enough to spoil a few nights of sound
sleep. They spoke of stones whirled around by the
violence of the waters, of desperate falls into the
stream, of days spent drying backpacks drenched
by the splashes of the river. It is July 22nd, and I
wake up and set off fairly early in the morning.
It is common knowledge that wading in large gla-
cial streams should be done in the early hours of
the day, when the ice melt is least intense. The
weather seems willing to assist me at first, but it
soon turns to intermittent burst of drizzles. My
own experience with the wading of Rjúpnabrek-
kukvísl, however, turns out to be less dramatic
than the darkest expectations had suggested –
dry summers can have their advantages. The river
bed is rugged and bumpy, and certainly does not
facilitate the best balance. The dirty and muddy
waters gush impetuous, rough and furious at the
surface. Fortunately, however, they do not reach
much above my knee, and I make for the other
side without any excessive scares. It is only for a
short while in the middle of the crossing that I get
the disturbing impression that the strength of the
flow is too much of a monster to tame, and that I
might be overcome. As I touch the opposite bank
I am cold and trembling. It is a particularly gen-
erous (and painfully untimely) downpour of rain
that denies me the opportunity to fully enjoy hav-
ing accomplished the feat.
Vonarskarð
Thus, I finally enter Vonarskarð – the Pass of Hope
– nestled between the glacier Tungnafellsjökull
and the north-western slopes of Vatnajökull. The
horizon progressively enlarges into the immensity
of a flat plain, the black lava makes room for the
monotonous greyness of glacial debris, perfectly
oval and conic elevations peep out all around in
the guise of the area’s most prominent landmarks.
I leave my waterproof clothing tucked away in my
backpack three times, and instead let the light
drizzle wash over me, waiting for the sun to re-
emerge and dry me again. I inevitably overrate
my good luck and misread the weather: the fourth
time, there will be no more getting dry again – only
getting wetter. I camp at around 1,000 m altitude,
on the slopes of Laugakúla, where the presence
of gushing thermal waters has created an oasis
of moss and lush vegetation. I fall asleep under
pouring rain, and I wake up under pouring rain
the following morning: there is no possible way to
delude myself – this will be a miserable day.
I see little or nothing of the glorious geother-
mal area of Vonarskarð, hidden as it is in a mantle
of thick and impenetrable fog. I catch only sporad-
ic glimpses of the colourful and steaming muds, of
the glaciers in the distance, of the vastness of the
plains beneath, and think with some regret that
this may be a magnificent place under different
conditions. There is not much more to the day: I
cross the mountains and walk my way along the
river in a narrow but sufficiently comfortable ra-
vine. By the time the valley widens, my boots have
given in to the overwhelming wetness, which only
adds to the day’s overall misery. By the time the fa-
miliar and much longed-for shape of the Nýidalur
hut appears within sight, it is late in the evening,
and I am soaked. Since I set off, however, I have
managed to cover almost 300 km, and half of the
journey already lies behind me.
Text by Fabrizio Frascaroli
– Adventures of the Lonesome Traveller, Leg 5
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