Reykjavík Grapevine - 04.04.2008, Blaðsíða 21

Article | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 04 2008 | 21
along a horse trail. According to the new plan I’d
devised in the fruitless wait at the edge of the gla-
cier, I would keep skirting Langjökull along a fair-
ly spectacular route, touching on the glacial lakes
of Hvítárnes and Hagavatn. The food and supplies
left would possibly be sufficient to take me all the
way to Geysir.
I pushed forth, crossed the milky depths of
the river Hvítá on the car bridge, and made for the
hills again. I ended up walking forty kilometres
that day, desperately waiting to run across some
fresh water before being able to set up camp – my
own reserve had been exhausted late in the after-
noon. It had been an extremely dry summer and
I saw entire river systems erased from the local
geography, reduced to no more than green stripes
of moss in the ground, empty names on a map. I
found water in the end – a stale pool amidst the
rocks, dead flies floating on its surface. I had just
started to filter it and fill my bottles, when a down-
pour of rain caught me unprepared. It was around
midnight.
The Lack of Closure
I wake up early on the morning of August 10,
greeted by the same thought that accompanied
me to sleep: the last day of my trip has come. I
take a peek outside the hut, determined to enjoy
this final stretch. I feel good. I had seen Jarlhet-
tur before, but I had never fully appreciated all its
riveting and spectacular beauty. It is just enough
to turn one’s gaze away from Gullfoss and look in
the opposite direction. Yesterday, my eyes were
opened to this when height and a better vantage
point first disclosed that terrific row of conic and
sharp hills that spike up grim and black against
the clear backdrop of the Langjökull Glacier. I
walked several hours in the grey and utter solitude
of Jarlhettur, north to south along gravel and sand,
glacial tongues, secret lakes, narrow passages in
the rock, and elevations of twisted and threaten-
ing shapes. It was a scene out of a science-fiction
novel, seemingly drawn from somewhere out of
this earth where not even a blade of grass found
hospitality. I was filled with excitement and relief:
I may well have missed the thrill of a breathtaking
and hazardous traverse on ice, but at least I was
bestowed the discovery of yet another jewel I had
ignored and overlooked until that moment. The
passage through Jarlhettur definitely constituted
one of the best moments in my long march across
Iceland.
Now, I have come to the final stage. In a matter
of hours I will reach Geysir, where the bittersweet
word “end” will be appended to a whole month of
pilgrimages. I start with a swift visit to the peaceful
waters of Hagavatn, and the faint blue ice that sur-
rounds them. The sky is sullen and before long I
start to feel slightly drowsy. When I finally leave the
place for the final stint, it is around midday. It would
appear to be a glorious moment, but all the positive
sensations I enjoyed on awakening appear to have
faded into discomfort and malaise. The closer I get
to the conclusion of my journey, the less prepared
for that moment I discover myself to be.
I have been in the wild for thirty-three days,
caressed places of forgotten beauty, lived in un-
interrupted proximity to dazzling landscapes, ex-
perienced the awe and sometimes the horror of
Nature, and perhaps proven something to myself.
I wonder what will remain of all this. According to
myth, people have reached unexpected profundi-
ties in similar situations. Learnt to speak with birds,
or more simply “found themselves.” In this sense, I
am rather displeased at the embarrassing lack of
answers I am coming home with. As for the chime-
rical achievement of a sense of cosmic solidarity
or reunion with nature, I cannot really claim to be
doing any better.
I only have a few hours left to work something
out, only a few hours to find answers and leave a
deeper footprint of meaning on these thirty-three
days of walking. I slow down the pace, try to con-
trol the breathing and make it rhythmically regular
– perhaps in peace rather than distress I will find
illumination. Nothing seems to work. I get stressed
and increasingly frustrated: however many kilo-
metres I will have treaded in the end, the quest is
evidently bound to fail.
The Home Stretch
The weather is sulky and uneasy and mirrors
my own mood. Upcoming mundane concerns
– phone calls to make, mail to read, bills to pay
– begin to surface. I had awaited and secretly sa-
voured the moment of completing my feat for over
a month, but the sad truth is that in the end it is go-
ing to suck. A deep sense of dismay kicks in – I just
cannot accept that it will actually end this way. I
make up my mind and decide to approach Geysir
from the hills. It is a slight detour, but perhaps it
will help to build the climax that I need and miss,
perhaps it will give me that little extra time to find
the answers that still elude me.
It is at the very root of the slopes of Sandfell
that the torment of the midges begins. Once start-
ed, their assault leaves no relief, and I am rapidly
led to absolute exasperation. I grunt and swear
repeatedly, cursing my own mindless masoch-
ism that wants me on the top of another pointless
hill. In the face of all thoughts of ecological ecu-
menism and cosmic unity, I feel open hostility all
around me; as a fitting response, I start whirling
my poles at flies, scrubs and stones alike, in a des-
perate and impotent outburst of frustration. I beg
for rain, a good downpour of rain, just to cool this
disgusting heat down and make the flies retreat
for a while. The rain comes – a few drops of it,
feeble and warm like a mocking line of piss from
the sky. The midges couldn’t care less. I am left as
hot and choking as before, only more irritated and
stinkingly humid. By now I really am pissed off. I
spit at the bloody flies and hasten up, determined
at least to terminate this nightmare as quickly as
possible.
I have started the last, conclusive descent to-
wards Geysir when I finally convince myself to lift
my gaze from my boots, where it had been nailed
and vacant over those last two, terrible hours. It
is like this that I get the chance to see the rain-
bow. Difficult to guess when it rose, but it makes
for the most spectacular one I have ever seen: an
immense arch, neat and vivid as if ink-printed on
glossy paper, seeming to gather all the Highlands
in the immensity of its embrace. The sky is clear-
ing up, making room for a newly-found brightness
and translucent air. As precise as a spotlight, a
slender ray of sun is descending and settles onto
Hekla, crowned in snow. I realise that even the
midges are gone. I stand for a while enjoying this
and think that after all, this is not such a bad end-
ing. I know that in my memory it will all end here.
All later troubles and pleasures – an uncomfort-
able stumble across fenced farmland; the drench
of my boots and pants as I carelessly immerge
myself in the last river to wade; the mix of Rod
Stewart and Phil Collins hits delivered by obnox-
ious speakers as I sip my first beer at Hotel Geysir
– all later moments will soon be forgotten. In my
memory, it will all have ended right here and now,
in the very sappy and oleographic image of a se-
rene homecoming under the lucid colours of an
arch in the sky.
By Fabrizio Frascaroli
– Adventures of the Lonesome Traveller, Leg 8
Photos by Fabrizio Frascaroli