Reykjavík Grapevine - 06.01.2017, Blaðsíða 54

Despite its well-earned reputa-
tion, Icelandic winter isn’t all
bad. On a clear day, the short
days—four or five hours, around
the solstice—can be beautiful.
The sun during this perpetual
gloaming glances off the tops of
the mountains and the bottoms
of the clouds, casting long shad-
ows and lighting up the landscape
with a dusky, ambient glow, from
soft purple through all shades of
orange to deep, fleshy pink.
We set out from Egilsstaðir ea-
ger to make the most of the few
hours of light. Our destination is
the far-flung fishing town of Rau-
farhöfn—home to a large-scale
but little-known artwork called
The Arctic Henge. The journey
will take us around a seldom-
used and apparently spectacular
stretch of Iceland’s northeastern
coastline.
Once past the city limits, the
northbound Ring Road is desert-
ed, and a dusting of snow dances
over the asphalt as the road carves
its way through a long valley to
the ocean. We coast gently into
the Jökuldalur valley, where the
Ring Road veers inland towards
Mývatn. But our path lies east,
and we turn right to skirt the deep
Jökla river canyon. Soon, we’re
racing along the flatlands past a
wide expanse of black sand criss-
crossed with shining rivulets,
overlooked by jagged mountains
that jut up through a blanket of
sunlit mist.
Human intruders
At the end of the fjord we find a
promising hiking trail that leads
seaward through the marshy
grass. It soon hits the coast
and ascends over some cliffs to
overlook the long black beach
of Héraðssandur, before ending
abruptly at a vast green-blue rhy-
olite cliff named Móvíkurflug.
We stand in the freezing wind
beneath the shrieking seabirds,
regarding this remote and spec-
tacular spot. When we turn and
head back, the incoming tide has
already wiped away our foot-
prints.
The road north zigzags steeply
upwards. The Hellisheiði Eystri
mountain pass is a precarious and
improbable route, carved into the
mountainside in such a way as to
make us feel like intruders in the
unrelentingly severe landscape.
We weave carefully between the
twin peaks of Heiðarskarð and
Heiðarhnúkar, crawling along
near-vertical scree slopes. When
the descent finally begins, we get
occasional glimpses of the ocean,
and the rapidly bruising horizon.
As we arrive in Vopnafjörður—
the first of three sleepy coastal
settlements on the way to Rau-
farhöfn—a fierce snowstorm is
engulfing the town. The locals
scatter, running home wrapped
in scarves and hoods. We trundle
out to the lighthouse, located on a
short promontory, and the storm
ends as quickly as it began. The
sun glows through the storm-
clouds, illuminating the fjord
with an eerie glow.
The arctic henge
As the daylight fades, we race to-
wards Raufarhöfn, passing the
dilapidated hamlet of Bakkaf-
jörður and the port town of Þór-
shöfn. We get to Raufarhöfn at
nightfall and cruise through the
village determined to glimpse the
Arctic Henge, which sits on a hill
overlooking the harbour.
The henge was built as an am-
bitious hobby by a recently de-
ceased local who hoped it would
bring visitors to the area. In its
current unfinished state it ’s
made up of four huge pointed
arches, constructed by leaning
massive stones against each oth-
er, surrounding a central pyramid
structure. As darkness falls, the
moon rises from the glittering
sea, passing upwards through
the eastern arch and bathing the
henge in white light so strong
it casts shadows on the ground.
It’s a powerful moment that feels
laden with significance at this re-
mote and curious site.
Forgotten coast
The next morning, we cruise past
the henge once more on the way
out of town. The paving soon
ends, and we roar over the snowy
gravel towards a sole spike on the
horizon. Hraunhafnartangi is a
tall, well-kept lighthouse, visible
for miles around, on the north-
ern tip of Iceland’s mainland. We
stride out onto the peninsula over
a frozen surface of ropes, bird
bones and other seaside detritus,
feeling a welcome sense of space
and solitude.
T he onw a rd road pa sses
through an outback of farmland
that appears all but uninhabited
except for occasional tyre tracks
in the snow and scarecrows that
f lap disconsolately under the
wheeling gulls. The road sweeps
past a lake with an island grave-
yard in its centre, and out into the
dramatic wash of Öxarfjörður,
where gnarled lava formations
give way to a wide bay of icy dunes.
Ours is the only car that turns
off to crawl slowly into the vast
horseshoe-shaped canyon of Ásb-
yrgi. A dense forest sits nestled in
its crook, where a well-kept walk-
ing path crosses the frigid camp-
ing ground and traces through
snow-laden trees to a frozen la-
goon at the foot of the canyon
wall. Large snowflakes start to
fall as I climb a creaky wooden
stair and look out at the trees and
towering cliffs receding to the
hazy pink horizon. It feels like the
precise moment of the seasons’
change.
Before a forecasted storm ar-
rives to blot out the roads com-
pletely, there’s time for a final
stop at Dettifoss. We’re the only
people crunching up the slippery
path as the roar increases gradu-
ally, shaking the ground until the
waterfall is revealed: a thunder-
ing wall of water that tumbles
into a deep crevice with force,
sending a fog of spray high into
the air. The power of the water-
fall is mesmerizing, and its scale
somehow mind-expanding. I lin-
ger at the brink of the torrent for a
few moments before finally turn-
ing away, quietly wishing this re-
warding drive into the wilderness
could go on, and on, and on.
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Two days
racing
nightfall and
snowstorms
in a remote
corner of
Iceland
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 01 — 2017
54
North By
Northeast
Words JOHN ROGERS
Photos ART BICNICK
Distance from
Reykjavík
894 km
Car provided by
europcar.is
Flight provided by
airiceland.is
Accommodation
provided by nesthouse.is
How to get there
Fly or drive to Egilsstaðir, take
Route One North, then Route 85