Reykjavík Grapevine - 25.08.2017, Qupperneq 52

Words: Paul Fontaine
Photos: Alice Demurtas
I used to hitchhike around Ice-
land fairly frequently. I’ve circled
the Ring Road by thumb three
times, and have traveled to vari-
ous destinations this way. None
of the trips I have taken can, or
likely will ever, compare to what
I experienced hitch-
ing from Egilsstaðir
to Akureyri one late
summer day.
I had f inished
crossing the bridge
from Egilsstaðir to
Fellabær, and I was
being eating alive by
biting midges, when
a beat-up Subaru
hatchback pu l led
over. A young Ice-
landic guy behind
t he whe el a sked
where I was going,
and when it turned
out he was going to
Dalvík, I thought my prayers had
been answered, as I was going to
nearby Akureyri. I hopped in, and
off we went.
We rode in silence into the
northeast for what might have
been less than an hour before he
asked me, “Do you smoke?”
The phantom geese
“No, thanks,” I said. He shrugged,
reached into his shirt pocket, and
pulled out a joint the size of his in-
dex finger. I said nothing as he lit
it and drew deeply from his joint,
puffing away, casually exhaling
with one hand on the steering
wheel. That is, until he suddenly
pulled over, pointed towards the
passenger side window and said,
“Look! Do you see them?”
I looked. All I saw was grass,
stretching to the horizon. I said I
did not see “them.” He hesitated.
“Wait here,” he said,
and got out of the
car. He opened the
hatch and took out
a shotgun. “I’ll be
right back,” he said
with grim determi-
nation, and walked
off into the grass,
leaving me in the
car.
Sure, I consid-
ered running. But
where was I going
to run to, exactly,
away from a man
w ith a car and a
shotgun? So I stayed
put. About a minute later, I heard
a loud “POP!” and saw a flock of
geese in the distance take flight.
The man came stalking back,
cursing. He tossed the shotgun
into the hatch and got behind
the wheel again. “Missed ‘em,” he
said. “Don’t worry though, there’ll
be more.”
I’m not sure if he was trying
to reassure me or himself, but
he nonetheless stopped three
more times, stalking after geese I
couldn’t see but he could. He nev-
er got one.
Destiny calls
Toward evening, we arrived at Mý-
vatn, and stopped for a burger. He
was clearly in a bad mood, looking
like a little kid who was just told no,
we will not stop for ice cream on
the way home. I tried cheering him
up with my own stories of failed
hunting attempts, but this did little
to lighten the mood. He pushed
away his half-eaten hamburger and
said it was time to go. Back on the
road we went.
The roads around Mývatn can be
winding, but he kept his speed up
around 90 km/h. He looked posi-
tively broken. But then we turned
one curve, and there, destiny await-
ed him.
Two ptarmigans stood in the
road. One was on the median, but
the other was standing right smack
dab in the middle of our lane. “Nei,
rjúpur!” he exclaimed, and floored
the gas pedal. The bird had enough
time to turn to see the bumper ap-
proaching. I heard a soft thump.
The man spun a hard U-turn, and
drove back to the spot. There, the
ptarmigan lay where he once stood.
“Isn’t there a ban on hunting
these birds?” I asked.
“Well yes,” he said. “But there’s
nothing in the law about hitting
one with your car.” I couldn’t refute
that.
Amazingly, he gave the ptarmi-
gan to me as a gift, which was very
generous considering his repeated
failure to hunt any birds that day.
He dropped me off in Akureyri with
my small bird in hand, and drove
away. I never met him again.
52 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 15 — 2017
Hitchhiking In The
Northeast Is Crazy
Weed, maverick goose hunting, and suicidal ptarmigans
Foolhardy ptarmigans live here
The author hitchhiked three times around the country
“Wait here,’
he said, and
got out of
the car. He
opened the
hatch and
took out a
shotgun.”
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