Reykjavík Grapevine - 08.02.2008, Side 40

20 | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 02 2008 | Article
Jonah Flicker came to Reykjavík for the 2007 Ice-
land Airwaves festival. After a long weekend of too
much booze and music and too little sleep, he set
out to see the rest of the country.
Waking up to a hangover, a stuffed-up nose, and
a soundtrack of pattering rain, this was one of
those mornings when you open your eyes in a
hotel and you have absolutely no idea where you
are. After orienting myself and remembering that
I was nestled in bed at the Hotel Alden in Seyð-
isfjörður, in the midst of a spectacular whirlwind
trip around Iceland’s Ring Road, I headed over to
the empty dining room for a wonderful, hearty
breakfast served to me by the hotel’s owner, Klas
Poulsen. After chatting for a while about his move
from Denmark to Iceland some years ago, I hit the
road, travelling up the winding switchbacks lead-
ing out of the small town, ready for the second half
of my trip. My journey would now take me through
the northern realms of the country, and as I would
soon discover, incredibly different landscapes
from the glaciers and fjords I was leaving behind.
I passed through the sleepy town of Egilsstaðir
once more on my way out. Not much more to see
here than I’d seen previous day, but at least there
was a gas station at which I could spend another
hundred bucks to fill my tank. From here, I was
faced with two choices: continue along the Ring
Road to Myvatn, an easy journey of a few hours,
or wind around the coast for a more lengthy trip
and explore some off-the-beaten-path villages.
With no real deadlines or time restraints, I decid-
ed upon the latter route, with perhaps a second
thought or two as I left the main road for a dirt
track that seemed to point me directly into the
sea. As I pushed my Explorer to undoubtedly un-
safe speeds on these uneven surfaces, I realised
that if anything were to happen – flat tire, car flip-
ping, careening off a cliff into the cold surf – I was
literally the only person around for kilometres in
any direction. So be it.
I climbed a twisting road over a mountain
pass and down again, and picked up the pace as I
skirted the coastal road to Vopnafjörður. This was
one of the only truly scary moments of the trip.
Gale-force winds threatened to sweep my car off
the road. I actually felt the undercarriage rise up
just a bit as I sailed past the occasional farmhouse
and flock of sheep. It was clearly time to slow
down a bit which, while making me feel a bit saf-
er, did nothing for the wind pounding my vehicle.
Perhaps the boxy construction of an SUV isn’t the
most aerodynamic form for these coastal routes.
I pulled over to the side of the road, gathered my
thoughts, and tuned the radio to the single station
I was able to get out here. To my pleasant surprise,
Wilco’s “What Light” became my current sound-
track, shoring up my confidence as Jeff Tweedy’s
cigarette-stained voice became my guide through
this stretch of north-eastern Iceland.
This is a beautiful, grassy, windswept area,
where snow-capped mountains meet the ocean
and grazing herds seem to outnumber people. I
passed through Vopnafjörður and Bakkafjörður,
finally reaching Þórshöfn, at the bottom of the
Langanes peninsula, where I stopped to buy
some lunch at the local supermarket. From here,
my route seemed clear: leave the coast to take
highway 867 directly across the Melrakkasletta
peninsula. Not knowing a thing about the road,
the weather, or the distance, this seemed like the
obvious choice. As some obscure ‘80s tune based
around the incredibly clichéd notion of “jumping
in my car” trickled over the static-ridden airwaves
(apropos, nonetheless), I followed suit and hit
this rocky dirt road that would surely shorten my
journey, ultimately proving to be one of the most
solitary, thrilling, and ominous parts of my trip.
I passed through a beautiful, eerie waste-
land. Threatening clouds of brown dust floated
in the wind above a volcanic desert as the road
crunched through dry washes and rocky gullies.
This was true desolation. The landscape seemed
like something right out of The Hills Have Eyes,
and I half expected to catch a glimpse of a mutant
family peering out of their cave at me somewhere
in the distance. Out here, there was no radio sig-
nal – the only soundtrack was the grinding of my
teeth as I tensely clutched the steering wheel, nav-
igating around boulders and potholes. I couldn’t
help but feel a sense of triumph as I descended
past a few farms at the end of this leg of the trip,
my return to civilisation, unscathed and victori-
ous.
In the Hoof steps of Sleipnir
Ásbyrgi, at the northern end of Jökulsárgljúfur Na-
tional Park, reminded me of the American South-
west, with scrubby brush and a mini version of the
Grand Canyon dominating the scenery. Asbyrgi
was impressive, and the wind continued to buffet
A Different Kind of Country Music
I climbed a twisting road
over a mountain pass and
down again, and picked
up the pace as I skirted
the coastal road to Vo-
pnafjörður. This was one
of the only truly scary mo-
ments of the trip.
This page: Mývatn. Opposite page: Seyðisfjörður.
Photos by Jonah Flicker
CAR PROVIDED BY:
Keflavík Airport
Tel.: 540 2222, www.sixt.is
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