Reykjavík Grapevine - 08.02.2008, Side 45

Article | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 02 2008 | 25
movies. There are no trains in Iceland but it is
easy to imagine this place as a transit station at
the edge of the railway, as a neural node of explor-
ers’ and adventurers’ trails knotted in the bravest
attempt to colonise the solitude of the Highlands.
Transition, movement, casual meetings and ex-
changes are what seem to characterise Nýidalur
most profoundly.
I recognise some of the faces around from
memories of different places. A group travelling
with Hálendisferðir proves particularly friendly
and keen to save me from the risk of starvation that
my missing box has cast upon me. In the afternoon
of the second day, two young German hikers hit the
hut. They have been going in the opposite direc-
tion of a portion of the same route that lies ahead
for me. I question them about Þjórsárver and we
spend all evening investigating maps, discussing
equipment, exchanging tales and GPS points.
I depart from Nýidalur in the first hours of
a morning buzzing with movement. My box has
finally arrived. It was brought the night before by
Siggi, Soffía’s husband, and he will be in charge of
the hut for the next few days. We exchange some
words while sipping the first coffee of the day and
staring through the window at the frost that the
night has left behind and the array of caravans
ready to leave the campsite. “This is the centre of
the Highlands” he tells me with a gleam in his eye.
I nod in assent. I cover the ground to Þjórsárver
in a few hours of marching under a gentle driz-
zle, traversing a no-man’s-land made of greyness,
stones and pebbles.
I wake up to my alarm clock at 3:30 in the
night: it is time to wade, and the favour of the
morning’s earliest hours is required, however
masochistic that may feel. The weather condi-
tions look optimal for the upcoming challenges:
entirely dry, still, and as cold as it gets in July.
It must be roughly 8am when I start the
Þjórsárkvíslar crossing: the dreaded springs of
Þjórsá, Iceland’s longest river. One after the other,
I leave behind all the threads of an endless web of
streams and rivulets.
I feel a mixture of relief and disappointment
about the smoothness of my progression, but it
is not meant to last much longer; it is promptly
dissolved by the appearance of the river’s last
branch, frightening in all its breadth and might,
surrounded by the notoriety of grim tales and
warnings. The water’s depth varies in a range
generously estimated to be between 50cm and
150cm. The prospect of confronting a violent flow
up to my chest has admittedly been the source
of many headaches over the last few days. In the
end, however, the Þjórsárkvíslar will not treat me
that badly. The water level suddenly rises above
my waist, but with a detour upstream I am able to
find a relatively innocuous course in shallow wa-
ters, all the way to the other bank. I do not know
how long I have been soaking in the river, prob-
ably some ten minutes. What’s certain is that as I
gain the high ground again, the bite of the cold has
made me totally hazy, I am speaking in tongues
and can hardly remember how to spell my own
name.
I climb to the top of Arnarfell, where the met-
aphor of the “heart of Iceland” gains shape and re-
ality. A tight grid of arteries and veins spreads over
the plains of Þjórsárver, vital lymph pumped by
the glacier on the periphery of the island. The tor-
ment of additional wading is temporarily avoided
by cutting across the nearby glacial tongue: the
grim and photogenic Múlajökull. It is a breathtak-
ing 5km walk along razor-sharp edges of ice and
sudden chasms.
Despite all the thrill and wonder, however,
my farewell to “the heart of Iceland” is not an
ideal one. I start my third day in Þjórsárver under
the encouraging omens of high pressure and a
new wind blowing from the South. I naively think
that this blessing of the weather gods will descend
upon me. Misplaced hope: in a couple of hours
I am bathed in a torrent of rain. For several kilo-
metres I find myself walking in sandals and un-
derwear, my bare legs exposed to the lashes of
the wind and water showering from the sky: a last
unpleasantness imposed by the swamps around
Nautalda and the sequence of streams left to be
crossed.
I assume that I have finally crossed the last
river, get my clothes and my boots on only to find
out that I am wrong – for the second time that day.
The westernmost branch of the Blautukvíslar is
still before me – and the evening’s late hour and
ceaseless rain have roused the river into a muddy
fury. I am about to make camp and give up, but
the thought that circumstances may not be any
more favourable the next morning eventually con-
vinces me to persist. It takes no less than three at-
tempts and plunges into the water, and a number
of bruises, before I finally find the right wading
spot.
As I reach the other side and set up my tent
for the night, I still feel the wet and freezing clutch
of the river upon my skin. I am exhausted by what
has probably been the hardest and most miser-
able day in three weeks of walking. Comfort and
warmth in the welcoming resort of Kerlingarfjöll,
however, now lie only one day ahead.
Text by Fabrizio Frascaroli
– Adventures of the Lonesome Traveller, Leg 6
www.bluelagoon.com
Energy for life through forces of nature
Photos by Fabrizio Frascaroli