Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.11.2011, Side 27

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27
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 17 — 2011
Judging by my lack of dexterity in all
things strenuously physical, the oppor-
tunity to explore Iceland’s caves was an
enormous challenge. Thankfully, with
the guidance of Iceland Excursions’
delightful caving tour guide Bjarni and
Grapevine’s photographer Hvalreki, I
knew that I would get by, able to tell the
story to you fine people.
It began at 13:00 on Sunday with
an enjoyable drive through greater
Reykjavík in a somewhat cramped ve-
hicle for someone of my height of 193
cm. Bjarni articulated a clear depic-
tion of the city’s scientific institutions.
How delightful! Through busy byways,
through patches of suburbia and finally
onto the artery connecting Reykjavík
to Keflavík, we, the small tour group of
at least fifteen persons learned a great
many fascinating thing about this lov-
able mid-Atlantic volcanic rock. Did
you know that the Western part is 60
million-years-old and did not cause an
Asian famine in 1784? Me neither.
Soon after, we left the car, and went
outside to witness the Icelandic “coun-
tryside”: a vast, seemingly limitless ex-
panse that was more fitting in the lunar
Sea of Tranquillity than Icelandic barren
lushness. It was now time to suit up
into my rock climbing apparel. While
my colleague gracefully donned his or-
ange jumpsuit and caving equipment,
I clumsily got into mine in a bumbling,
haphazard manner: my helmet head
strap too loose, my headlight mis-
placed, my jumpsuit dirtied. We then
scuttled towards the entrance. As we
approached it, Grapevine photographer
Hvalreki and I wandered past millions
of rocks, a mineralogists’ delight, scat-
tered about on the jagged landscape.
With the knowledge that harming
the ancient moss that had grown on
the volcanic rocks carries with it an
eight-month prison sentence, I was
careful to mind my manners around
it. All the while, around us, the silence
was universal: only interrupted by an
occasional passing car. In front of us
was the entryway into oblivion. It was
a foreboding entrance to the; there was
no way of knowing what was in store
for us down in the depths.
Inside, Bjarni called our location
the “End of the Road.” It marked the
end of escape routes for 16th century
criminals, the final resting place of lost
sheep, and of my comfort. From then
on, I would now be bending my head
either over, tilting and crouching or in
full prone position, crawling. While in-
vestigating and manoeuvring as a very
unsmooth operator, I managed to drop
my light. How easy it would be to die
down here, I thought.
Dark forebodings aside, Bjarni took
us towards some of the nature wonders
of the cave: the massive magma veins
that at one time went through anything,
the wild ceiling formations and the gor-
geous stalagmites. The stalagmites
that remained appeared like miniature
obsidian obelisks, the remnants of a
tremendous blast long ago. While I ob-
served those dark statuettes, the ceil-
ing dripped from a recent rainfall, and
continued to do so for the remainder of
the experience. Onward we crawled.
Hvalreki paused to observe a ba-
salt chandelier, an abscess of molten
rock. Frighteningly beautiful, I thought,
like the cave itself. The knowledge that
I was 35 metres below the surface in
this gorgeous hideaway was more than
enough to worry me. The slightest shift,
the slightest rumble of Mother Earth
around us could have made this the last
trip I would go on.
Approaching the cave's end, Bjarni
instructed us on how to approach the
most difficult part of the journey: a
tight squeeze through a narrow hole
that had been partially sealed by falling
debris. We progressed slowly and cau-
tiously. Afterwards, we learned that a
76 year-old woman did this activity with
considerable ease. As you can imagine,
I was quite embarrassed after that to be
scared of anything.
Then we peeled out of our dirtied
attire, we climbed back in the bus and
headed back into Reykjavík. Perhaps
to make fleeting moments pass faster,
Bjarni informed of ongoing political is-
sues in Iceland, and then took the time
to take us to stocks filled with drying
fish. Soon Bjarni, Hvalreki and the oth-
ers were all gone, and for reason, I
immediately started sniffing around.
Apparently, those fish reeked with the
pungent odour of death, and I was
still drenched in it. Just the same, they
smelled slightly less wretched than the
stench of fear I gained while climbing
down into Iceland’s depths. When the
escapade had ended, it seemed that a
shower for yours truly was in order.
Travel | Holes Words by Christopher Czechowicz, photos by Hvalreki
Chasmic Escapades
A virgin spelunker delves into the depths of Mother Earth
Book with Iceland Excursions. Tours are Saturdays and Sundays
at 12:30 all year round and cost 9500 ISK
www.grayline.is or by calling +354 540 1313