Reykjavík Grapevine - 07.06.2013, Side 39

Travel
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39
We studied the map together. His first choice—a
steep mountain route—was met with a wither-
ing look. He next suggested a hike through a val-
ley that involved wading across a river. Was he
mad? Finally, we both agreed on a walk around
Hestfjörður, which the tourist literature de-
scribed as easy going. I was so relieved to find
a relatively straightforward walk that I forgot to
check how long it was.
I would regret that.
Ducks, geese and a
kamikaze Arctic tern
It all started off pleasantly enough as we fol-
lowed a clear track along the eastern side of the
peninsula. We were flanked by the magnificent
cliffs on our left and the deep waters of Hest-
fjörður (The Horse fjord) on our right.
A group of ducks waddled down to the wa-
ter and swam in a line into the middle of the
fjord. The air was still; the water lapped gently
against the shore. A pair of geese flew out of
the cliff side and landed with a heavy splash.
High above us, a few tiny, fluffy bundles
stumbled across the rock face as their parents
honked protectively from the water’s edge.
We walked on.
We had enjoyed the promised easy going
for about an hour when my husband asked,
“What’s that funny clicking noise?”
I looked up. A beautiful black and white bird,
with a finely shaped tail like a swallow, was cir-
cling above us.
“What kind of a bir….? F**k!!”
We both ducked as the avian kamikaze
swooped down and launched an attack on the
tops of our heads. We tried to fend it off but our
windmilling arms only made matters worse.
Relentlessly, it dive-bombed us. Click-click,
peck, peck.
“Do something!” I yelled.
“Find me a stick,” said my husband. He’d
heard that the best defence, when being at-
tacked by an Arctic tern, was to wave a stick
above your head. I looked frantically around.
“There are no sticks. It’s Iceland—there are
no trees!”
My husband resorted to brandishing the
case of his camera above his head as I cowered
by his side, flapping my arms and shouting,
“Get off me, you mad bint.”
We scurried on.
Jarred ankles, stubbed toes
and an Arctic fox’s den
Once we had cleared the danger zone, we al-
lowed ourselves a laugh at being ‘bested’ by
such a small bird. And after another hour or
so, we felt we’d deserved a rest. We ate our
sandwiches and I checked our progress. So far,
so good—we’d almost reached half-way. We
should be able to complete the loop of the pen-
insula on schedule.
As we crossed from east to west over a low
outcrop of rocks, I became aware of a low, gut-
tural sound. I looked apprehensively at my hus-
band (I was on alert for any unusual sounds,
following the clicking tern incident). Suddenly
an Arctic fox appeared from a large mound of
rocks. I realised that the noise—a rasping bark,
like an old man clearing a fish bone from his
throat—was coming from it.
We had visited the Arctic Fox Centre in
Súðavík a few days earlier so I knew that an
Arctic fox never bares its teeth in aggression.
Instead, it raises its tail, which was exactly
what this fox was doing to us now. We had
obviously stumbled across its den. The fox
bounded over the rocks, stopped and turned
to eyeball us, then bounded off again. We
watched as it, and its large bushy tail, disap-
peared into the distance.
When we turned into the western side of the
peninsula, any semblance of a path vanished
and the terrain became rougher. We gingerly
pushed our way through thick tufts of knee-
high grass. I jarred one ankle, then the other
as I sank into the deep crevices that lurked be-
neath. I stubbed my toes on hidden rocks. At
one point my husband’s entire leg disappeared
down a hole. The more he writhed and twisted,
the deeper he sank.
“I think I’m stuck,” he said.
I looked on with horror. Who was going to
hack a path through the grass for me now? I
told him to try harder. He did, and eventually
succeeded in freeing himself.
We struggled on.
A beach assault course
of slippery seaweed and
gigantic boulders
By now our progress had slowed to a snail’s
pace. It was getting late and more endless
swathes of grass lay in front of us. Surely
there must be an easier way around than this?
We scanned the cliff side. Maybe there was a
track at a higher level that we’d missed? But
all we could see was sheer rock and ominous
dark scree.
We looked down at the water. The tide had
gone out, exposing a rough shingle beach.
It had to be easier to negotiate than the hell-
ish grass. It was … but only marginally. What
looked like rough shingle, from a distance,
turned out to be large, uneven pebbles and
rocks, freshly coated with slippery seaweed.
We slithered and teetered along the shoreline.
The beach assault course eventually gave way
to soft, black sand and, for the first time in
hours, we found ourselves walking on a level
surface. The lights from the roadway twinkled
tantalisingly. Nearly there now, we punched
the air in triumph. Little did we know that the
worst was yet to come.
We rounded the last bend only to discover
that our path was blocked by gigantic boulders.
It was as if a giant troll had hacked chunks out
of the mountainside and tossed them over his
shoulder. My husband asked me anxiously if I
thought I could climb over them. Tears welled
in my eyes.
“I’ll bloody well have to, won’t I?”
Fear (a sheer cliff loomed above me; the
fathomless waters of the fjord lay behind me;
it was almost dark!) drove me on. I succeeded
by scrabbling across them, like a crab. I’d have
given myself a celebratory pat on the back but
I needed both claws (I mean hands) to cling to
the rock. I stifled my sobs and comforted my-
self with the knowledge that it was a circular
walk. We weren’t lost. We would eventually
complete a loop.
And so we staggered on.
We finished our ‘easy going’ walk just after
midnight. It had taken us nine hours. My legs
were so heavy and stiff that, for the next two
days, I lumbered around with all the grace and
charm of Frankenstein’s bride. But, you know
what? It felt like a real achievement and we
formed an even closer bond with the raw and
spectacular wonder of the Westfjords.
When my husband emerged from the Ísafjörður tourist of-
fice waving a detailed hiking map of the Westfjords, my heart
sank. When it comes to choosing a walk, we have very dif-
ferent views. I believe in knowing your limits and sticking to
them; my husband (the one I vowed NEVER to go walking
with again!) prefers to push the limits.
“It was as if a giant troll had hacked
chunks out of the mountain side and
tossed them over his shoulder.”