Reykjavík Grapevine - 01.08.2018, Blaðsíða 49

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and river of the valley drift out
of sight, and the mountains
rear up around us. Finally, it
feels like we’re being swallowed
completely by the nature, and,
other than the well-worn wood-
en hiking poles, there’s no sign
of any man-made intrusion at
all.
Drama and revela-
tions
The first boulders of Stórurð
start to appear in the distance.
They look out of place, some-
how, a series of car-sized grey
rocks that lie strewn across
the floor of the gradually nar-
rowing valley. The path winds
ever upwards into a wall of grey
mist. Larger shapes start to ap-
pear in the murk, silhouetted
against the whitening fog—a
chunk of rock the size of a cab-
in, and then, the size of a house.
We veer off the trail and take a
little time climbing the rocks
and looking at the view back
towards the river.
We cross burbling streams
and bands of old snow, tread-
ing carefully to test if there’s
running water beneath. Some-
times, we see old footprints
showing that the way is safe.
The rocks grow bigger and big-
ger until we’re suddenly sur-
rounded by huge chunks of
grey, mossy stone. Ahead, the
mist starts to thin suddenly be-
fore the wind, with an immacu-
late sense of theatre, blows the
curtain of clouds away.
What’s revealed is the tow-
ering, vast, jagged Dy rf jöl l
mountains that lurk behind
Stórurð, complete with a huge
horseshoe-shaped gouge where
a glacier pulled down the rocks
that lie scattered around us. My
breath catches in my throat,
and my heart skips a beat—it’s
an unforgettable moment in an
almost bewilderingly beautiful
landscape.
Centre of the maze
There’s a circular hiking path
leading around the Stórurð
area, but it runs into suspi-
ciously snowed in ruts with
the sound of running water
beneath. We decide to play it
safe and deviate from the path,
climbing through clusters of
h igh rock s, scrambling up
scree slopes, squeezing through
small passages, and tiptoeing
along huge boulders to various
viewpoints over the area.
After a while, we arrive in a
grassy clearing with a crystal
clear river meandering through
it. Surrounded by rocks that
shelter it from the breeze, it
feels almost fantastically per-
fect, like reaching the centre
of a labyrinth. The sun breaks
through the clouds, illuminat-
ing a bright green lagoon at
the far end, and a shallow pool
of bright blue water, slowly
defrosting from the long win-
ter. We take off our shoes and
socks, hang them on a boul-
der to dry, and walk over the
warm grass to an information
sign with a map of the various
routes to Stórurð.
There’s a small plastic box
there containing a weathered
guestbook. I leaf through the
warped pages, noticing com-
ments and signatures from
Iceland, France, Greece, Spain,
China and Japan. The last entry
was made in August 2017, and I
realise that this route is only
open for a short window each
year, much like the Highlands,
so I’m probably the first person
to open the book this year. I add
my name, and put the book back
in its spot, feeling privileged
to be among the lucky few who
made it to the rugged natural
wonderland of Stórurð.