Reykjavík Grapevine - 09.01.2015, Qupperneq 33

33The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 1 — 2015 TRAVEL
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Langjökull
Langjökull is the
second largest ice
cap in Iceland after
Vatnajökull, measuring
at 953 m2, 50km long
and 15-20km wide. Its
last eruption was back
in 925 AD.
Langjökull was the
setting of where the
pieces of the nuclear-
blasted Iron Giant fell
in the 1999 animated
science fiction film of
the same name.
Scientists have
raised concern over
the melting of the
glacier due to global
warming, with some
fearing it may be com-
pletely gone in as little
as 150 years.
Distance from Reykjavík
Langjökull: 97.3km
“Golden Circle! Langjökull gla-
cier!” Our enthusiastic driver
Hjörleifur Kristjánsson, “Hjölli”
to us, calls out the day’s des-
tinations as he presents the
gigantic truck that will chauf-
feur us around. His demean-
our indicated that the “ooohs,”
“aaahs,” and “wows” emitted by
the group in response came as
no surprise, as he pointed to the
extended steps that appeared
from underneath the coach like
a magic carpet. Photographer
Anna Domnick and I took our
seats, wiggling with excitement
for the upcoming trip.
Hjölli, an energetic and infor-
mative man, is a member of the
Icelandic rescue team, the ICE-
SAR, and a true connoisseur of
extreme sports—perfect for the
job. He started bombarding us
with information as soon as we
sped up Lækjargata, heading
out of the city. Anna and I sat
at the back with our gear and
equipment spread out all over
the five-seat row, and listened
attentively to every word. As our
excitement intensified, we be-
came slightly agitated.
A high-level fun fair!
“Those here are marshmallow
fields and this, what do you
think this is? A cloud factory!”
Hjölli announces as we pass
an impressive chimney, furi-
ously spurting out steam from
the earth. After a scenic stop
at Þingvellir, we had arrived at
Gullfoss and Geysir—the lords of
the Golden Circle—where new
arrivals to our group flocked to
the coach: an Icelandic couple
and an English-speaking father
with his two sons. Our journey
continued, our final destination
fast approaching.
“Impassable,” read two signs
on each side of the road shortly
after Gullfoss, and a blanket of
snow loomed ahead. “Buckle up,
you don’t know who I am,” Hjölli
shouted as he hit the accelera-
tor pedal, causing the decked
coach to skate on the snowy
surface. The glacier received us
with open arms, and there was
no going back. Civilisation was
far behind.
Crossing the glacier, we
spotted a few hunters carry-
ing rifles on their backs, quietly
searching for tasty ptarmigan
for their Christmas dinners. Our
snowmobiling instructor would
later tell us that those hunters
were seeking their prey in all the
wrong places: “They’re wasting
their time trying to search for
ptarmigan here,” he noted, add-
ing that glaciers aren’t very hos-
pitable to living beings. He then
informed us that the layers of ice
beneath us spanned hundreds
of metres.
The sun was slowly rising
and its mango colour was strik-
ing against the blue sky, pro-
jecting an intense sunlight onto
the snow that stung in my eyes.
I knew they would recover, but
I could only pray for my stom-
ach to do the same. An intense
sensation of motion sickness
overtook us as we skated and
bounced along the curvy road.
We gasped and uttered sounds
of terror as we raced down the
steep slope and flew through the
air before hitting the next one.
My travel companion became
so ill that she moved to the front
where she sat right next to the
driver. The skating and bouncing
was surely done to entertain and
impress the guests, and every-
one else seemed to enjoy it very
much.
I , however, had to do my best
not to throw up in my seat.
On our own
When I finally took my first step
on the glacier, it felt like what I
imagine being on the moon must
feel like. Certainly, my appear-
ance underscored the notion,
as I was wrapped up in ice gear:
thick overalls and a 66° North
down coat underneath, my head
engulfed in a black globular
helmet that rendered me tem-
porarily deaf. I looked like a
sofa. A cold smack of air hit my
squashed face and the sound of
the cracking snow under my feet
ran up my body like lightning.
Our instructors showed us
to the snowmobiles and quickly
briefed us on the proper safety
precautions. “The ice is re-
ally thin in some places, so you
want stay on the beaten path,”
they stressed. A reminder from
before—a deep crack in the ice
right next to the road—made this
easy to believe. Each passen-
ger got a personal snowmobile,
but those lacking in confidence
could opt to ride with a buddy.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, photog-
rapher Anna and I were the only
ones that went for the latter op-
tion.
Of course, we soon found
ourselves at the back of the
chain, struggling to steer the
machine and trying hard not to
fall off. Everyone, including an
eleven-year-old boy, overtook us
as we stalled the snowmobile a
number of times (this was usual-
ly caused by us driving off track,
or our attempts to make sharp
turns). Quietly awaiting help as
the others showed off in the hills
and the talented instructor did
his tricks eventually saw us los-
ing all confidence. Not only did
we suck at this whole snowmo-
biling thing, we were also stalled
by having to stop and shoot pho-
tographs at regular intervals.
A few rounds on the glacier
was “all” we had time for, but the
effort that it took us was embar-
rassing. Indeed, an hour’s ride
makes for quite the workout, as
you employ basically every sin-
gle one of your muscles. The key
to a successful ride, I learned, is
balancing out the snowmobile
when you make a turn. Keeping
up the speed is important too,
but I can’t remember why.
At the end of the day, our en-
tire group was blissfully high on
adrenaline and glacial beauty,
with several members enquir-
ing about longer tours. Anna
and I glanced knowingly at one
another, secretly relieved that
this ordeal was over. I took a last
look at the breath-taking scen-
ery: the mountain of ice, hidden
lagoons and ice cracks that re-
flected my helplessness.
Finally, safe and sound on the
coach to Reykjavík, I told myself
I must do it again one day. Then,
we all fell asleep like children
being driven home from the
playground.