Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.08.2015, Blaðsíða 39

39The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 12 — 2015 TRAVEL
Distance from Reykjavík
185 km.
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ICELAND’S WESTFJORDS
ARE ONLY 40 MINUTES AWAY
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ally), and finally resolved to surround-
ing myself in a towel and very carefully
peeling off my clothing and slipping
into a one-piece. Whew.
Testing out the water, I learned that
Reykjadalur is kind of special because
it is a meeting place for two rivers—
one hot and one cold—which join to
form pools with perfect temperatures
for lounging. I got a kick out of watch-
ing other people go through the same
discovery process, hearing them yell
in different languages upon realizing
the river to the left wasn’t a hot spring
after all. “¡Fría!” “Zima!” I found a geo-
thermal sweet spot, neither too hot nor
cold, rested my head on a rock, and
more or less passed out, while Linda,
long overheated, enjoyed a cig in the
grass.
After more than enough soaking
time, we eventually hiked back, pass-
ing some gurgling holes in the ground.
Some were filled with sickly grey
mud that would moan and spit up like
Earth’s little babies, while a massive hot
spring nearby—a giant mud pit with a
bluish colour rivaling that of the Blue
Lagoon—furiously huffed and puffed,
bubbling over. “Good way to get rid of a
body,” one of the Australians remarked,
peeking in. (Note to self: watch out for
the Australians.) Next to the spring,
a group of perhaps the most spoiled
sheep in Iceland lounged in the steam.

Watch your step
The next stop on our journey was
Sólheimajökull, “Sun World Glacier.”
Emerging from the van, we each got fit-
ted with crampons—spiky jaws for your
feet so you don’t fall to your death while
traversing the icescape. Along with
crampons, Tómas also armed us with
ice axes, which was putting a LOT of
faith in us, if you ask me. He warned us
not to swing them around and to hold
them a certain way, but goddammit,
have you ever held an ice axe? Such
a feeling of power! Such a taste of de-
struction!
It took us maybe an hour of hiking
to get to the glacier. I don’t know what I
was expecting—that we would just park
our car and then immediately be on top
of a glacier? The hike was pleasant,
and we got to stop at a river from the
glacier and refill our water bottles with
some of the world’s cleanest water.
Arriving at the 200 metre tall Sól-
heimajökull was a bit of a shock. From
a distance, it appears icy, brilliantly
white, but as we approached it, it took
shape as a dizzying landscape of dark,
ashen crags. Less North of the Wall
and more Detroit in February—that mix
of hardened slush and oil that forms
one impenetrable monster that lingers
until mid-March. We peered down into
a gaping crevasse of the glacier and
saw a group of people trekking along,
appearing impossibly small and vulner-
able against the harsh terrain.
Perhaps most fascinating and also
most terrifying were these holes in the
ice—moulins, as they’re called—that
went down for uhhh… forever. Some of
them were tiny—little bright blue holes
that you could peer into—but others
were yawning and wide, and ready to
swallow careless hikers.
The majority of the time we were
clomping across the glacier, the sky was
overcast and moody, but at one point
the ever-fickle Icelandic sky changed
its mind and suddenly Sólheimajökull
came alive with sunlight, living up to its
name. I became aware of a slight trick-
ling noise and noticed that the glacier
was alive, its walls twitching as parts of
it melted in the sun. I was reminded of
that feeling you get when you look at a
colony of ants on the ground—the mo-
ment you realize the dark mass is made
up of tiny pieces, all moving in unison.
On the walk back, I felt as if I was
traveling on some distant ruddy planet—
a strange feeling that’s not uncommon
in Iceland once you get out of the city.
It was isolated and beautifully danger-
ous—this massive beast that will likely
vanish in years to come. While finishing
our trek off the glacier, I turned back to
get one last glimpse at it, careful not to
fall to my doom in a crevasse.
“We are alone,” Linda said.
I nodded.
Just like in video games
It was pretty late in the evening when
we left the glacier, but Tómas still man-
aged to stop at a couple waterfalls on
the drive back. We started with Skóga-
foss, a 60-metre fall that, like most
natural attractions in Iceland, made me
feel puny and worthless in the grand
scheme of things.
We didn’t spend too much time
at Skógafoss, but it was enough, and
then we were off to Seljalandsfoss, the
famed waterfall that visitors are able
to actually walk behind. I immediately
thought of that one shortcut in Mario
Kart (Koopa Troopa Beach—everyone
who’s anyone knows you gotta drive
through the waterfall if you want to
win).
I approached the great Seljalands-
foss, but no, it wasn’t enough to get
close to the fall—I had to go behind
it. Which resulted in me getting truly
drenched—to the point where I couldn’t
even see the dang waterfall because
my glasses were so wet and fogged up.
It was invigorating to say the least, but
I think I’ll reserve any future excursions
behind waterfalls for N64.
Back in the van, I processed all we
had done in the last thirteen hours
or so. We had swum in stinky water
warmed by the belching belly of the
earth! We had marched across a deso-
late wasteland of ice and ash! We had
just walked somewhere that, in my
mind, I only thought possible in video
games! And now, safe and warm, we
headed back to Reykjavík to catch the
start of that fashionably late Icelandic
sunset.
I was in Iceland, this “mystical
place” indeed.
I became aware of a
slight trickling noise
and noticed that the
glacier was alive, its
walls twitching as parts
of it melted in the sun.