Reykjavík Grapevine - 07.03.2008, Qupperneq 21

Article | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 03 2008 | 21
ing in my tent. Ásgarðar is different. It stands solid
and defined like a welcoming multi-storey house, a
nest of warmth and security pulled out of the encir-
cling desert, capable of firmly locking out wilder-
ness’ whispers.
And yet, while lingering in the safety and still-
ness of that hall, it is difficult not to be met by an
elusive feeling, akin to longing and nostalgia. Of
the many voices, singing and laughter that used
to fill those spaces, only a distant echo seems to
remain. Since the snow abandoned the peaks and
was washed away for good, the many hundreds of
visitors that used to reach these slopes for skiing
have changed their destinations, and so the num-
ber of those who venture into the mountains today
has drastically diminished. Hikers come here, and
horseback-riders, as well as some tourists of vari-
ous kinds. But after its demise as a skiing centre, it
is true that this place chiefly remains a vivid mem-
ory for many, a remote rumour for most. After the
glories of its winter, Ásgarðar now seems covertly
dormant, patiently waiting for a new spring that has
not yet matured.
The fortunes of the resort may well be oscil-
lating, and the preferences of the tourist industry
are capricious and inscrutable. The fact remains,
nonetheless, that few other locations in Iceland can
rival Kerlingarfjöll for magnificence of the natural
scenery, variety of landscapes, and opportunities
for hiking. These two days provide further confir-
mation of this basic truth as I take my time to ex-
plore the area more thoroughly and get to know its
most remote niches. Like Askja, Kerlingarfjöll also
hides a treasure in its womb, encircled and guard-
ed by the vigilance of the mountains. But whereas
the Askja Lake lies motionless, solitary and hieratic
like a temple staring at the sky, the geothermal area
of Hveradalir – Kerlingarfjöll’s not so secret core –
rather resembles a sorcerer’s maze: a labyrinth of
sculptured pinnacles, pointy peaks, emerald-green
ponds, deep gorges, and steaming fumaroles, all
pervaded by the acrid stench of sulphur and paint-
ed in a multitude of shades and vivid colours. In
a land where the feeble boundary between what
is horrid and what is gorgeous appears so often to
be blurred, grotesque and distorted shapes emerge
from the soil and the many ravines often disclose
precipices of unspeakable depth. Ice and snow-
fields still blanket the outskirts of Loðmundur, the
only remnants of the glaciers that once adorned
all the slopes. In the sharp air of late twilight, the
alpine-looking mountain range spikes out from a
frame of pale violet light, resembling a postcard
sent from a fairy tale theme park.
Onwards to Kjölur
I leave Kerlingarfjöll under drizzle and a sullen sky,
without turning back to look one last time at Ás-
garðar and its green roofs – it is always a bit difficult
to leave places that somehow feel like home.
I walk further north until reaching Hveravellir
in one day – once the dreaded lair of ghosts and
outlaws, today a crowded tourist hub located mid-
way on the Kjölur Route. On the way, I come across
two cyclists who are crunching through their lunch
by the edge of the road. They glance at me and ask
if I am all right. I smile back.
Although “spectacular” is not exactly the first
adjective to come to mind, there is undeniably a
gentle and pleasant charm to this Hveravellir too,
a caressing and hypnotic rhythm woven by its
coloured muds, overgrown plains, and ancient lava
fields thoroughly covered in moss. Unfortunately,
no contrast could be harsher than the one between
the languid and vaguely mysterious appeal of the
landscape, and the frantic, laborious activity all
around. The entire resort appears literally under
siege by swarms of visitors, people driving by, and
travelling parties. The contemplative pace of the
surroundings is irreparably disrupted by an im-
pression of ceaseless emergency: mass tourism at
its worst seems to have struck Hveravellir, severely
threatening its evocative and arcane identity.
I wait for the night to grow late and the lights
to dim before finally approaching the natural hot
pot – probably still the place’s most appreciated
and celebrated attraction – for a restoring bath at
the end of the day, a can of cold beer in my hand. I
realise just too late, once I am already comfortably
inside, that far from being alone I have just fallen
in between a couple making out under cover of
the water and the darkness. I know that it would
be courteous of me to leave immediately, but some-
thing holds me back. They will leave instead, short-
ly afterwards and with the sulkiest expression on
their faces. I remain alone there, drinking my beer
and feeling like the worst human being who ever
existed.
I leave Hveravellir the next day, along the hik-
ing and horse trail leading southward to Hvítárnes
along the course of the Old Kjölur Route. It is foggy
and drizzly again, the air sharply cold – thermom-
eters recorded a mere 2° last night. Different sorts
of sensations – and not wholly positive – have been
pervading me since both Kerlingarfjöll and Hverav-
ellir were put behind, as if I had stepped across an
invisible threshold. I am probably beginning to feel
that the end is drawing close – by now, in fact, only
a risky traverse over the Langjökull Glacier should
stand in between me and a safe ending in Þingvel-
lir, in the middle of August. As I push on amid the
mists of Kjölur, all my thoughts are leaning on the
hope that the weather will assist me for the next
few days…
By Fabrizio Frascaroli
– Adventures of the Lonesome Traveller, Leg 7
Energy for life through forces of nature
www.bluelagoon.com
Photos by Fabrizio Frascaroli