Reykjavík Grapevine - 07.03.2008, Síða 20

20 | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 03 2008 | Article
Last summer, Fabrizio Frascaroli spent 40 days
walking across Iceland from East to West. This
is his story.
It is early in the afternoon, July 30, when I finally
reach Kerlingarfjöll. A wave of relief pervades me
as the familiar sight of Ásgarðar, the celebrated re-
sort at the root of the Kerlingarfjöll Mountains, sur-
faces through the mist– first the gas pump, then the
old Ferðafélag Íslands hut, and the main house sur-
rounded by many smaller cabins, all looking exact-
ly the way I nostalgically remembered it. I am glad
that the day is over. In truth, it has probably been
the dullest and greyest one since I started my long
walk across the country, some three weeks ago.
In my plans and expectations, this was to be
the moment when I replicated the breathtaking
traverse east to west of the Kerlingarfjöll massif,
culminating in a swift descent onto Ásgarðar from
the hills: one of the brightest memories I carry from
last summer and from Iceland in general. In real-
ity, things turned out quite differently, as I ended
up merely walking around the mountains, bypass-
ing rather than crossing them. Since the early
hours of the morning, the black threat of clouds
and fog called for prudence. And so the rest of the
day passed in an uninspiring and nearly mechani-
cal march along the jeep track, the surroundings
reduced to ghostly and blurred silhouettes, the air
ominously humid and stuffy as if the very breath of
the sky were contracting. My steps were heavy as I
proceeded, clad like a diver in waterproof fabrics,
waiting for a biblical downpour that would never
eventuate. Quite an inglorious ending for a stage
which I had long envisioned would be one of the
highlights of my 40-day trek.
What one year ago was surprise and novelty
has now become expectation and almost a sense
of homeliness; the casual encounters of that time
have turned into bonds of friendship. Þóra and
Magda are managing the resort, like last summer,
and I meet them just outside the kitchen, occupied
with yet another electricity crisis. To my delight,
the food of the house has also remained excellent.
I definitely do not withdraw when I am asked that
night for stories of my journey and am given plenty
of conversation time – after all, even in solitary hik-
ing there is unquestionably a fair amount of narcis-
sism. In the end, however, I end up with the role of
listener, with a mixture of bafflement, amusement
and curiosity about what I am told: apparently sum-
mer has brought important news here. A team of
Italian “experts” stayed in Ásgarðar just before I
arrived. They had laptops, surfed the web through
satellite phones, and acted important. They were
in search of the Holy Grail. I promptly ask whether
this is a joke – but no, they are not teasing me. I am
even shown a book in Italian – the very one that
the seekers followed in their quest. From what I can
gather, the legendary Cup of Christ should have ar-
rived in Iceland with the intermediation of Dante
Alighieri and Snorri Sturluson, and has been lying
buried close to the Gýgjarfoss waterfall ever since,
just waiting for some intrepid people to decipher
the riddle and recover it.
I go to bed feeling slightly disturbed. It is
around two.
Required Rest in Kerlingarfjöll
I had already decided before setting off that I would
take the longest break of my entire journey – two
whole days of rest – here in Kerlingarfjöll rather
than anywhere else aon the way. As the hours pass
by, I do not regret the choice. There is an alien
flavour to this place, something that sets it apart
from any others in the Highlands. It can probably
best be grasped by quietly sitting down beside a
gas stove in the main hall, staring through the large
windows at the sheep, the green pastures and the
gushing and muddy waters just beneath. It is no ba-
sic shelter, no fragile wooden cabin that was built
in Ásgarðar to host the first ski-school that Iceland
ever knew. In all other huts that I encountered trav-
elling across the Icelandic interior, the walls were
no more than a light membrane barely able to offer
refuge from the fury of the wind. They enclosed a
space, and yet seemed to provide no neat or impen-
etrable boundary, as if “the outside” could some-
how filter through within: not so dissimilar to the
sensation that I habitually experience when camp-
Across the Country in 40 Days
A team of Italian “ex-
perts” stayed in Ásgarðar
just before I arrived.
They had laptops, surfed
the web through satel-
lite phones, and acted
important. They were in
search of the Holy Grail.
I promptly ask whether
this is a joke – but no,
they are not teasing me.
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