Reykjavík Grapevine - júl. 2020, Blaðsíða 11

11 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 05— 2020
The
Lauga-
vegur
Diaries
A tale
of snow,
steam and
sunburns
WORDS: VALUR GRETTISSON & POPPY
ASKHAM PHOTOS: ART BICNICK
Stretching 54 km between the geother-
mal hot pools of Landmannalaugar
and the luscious "órsmörk valley, the
Laugavegur trail is something of a rite
of passage for Icelanders. Complete it
and you enter an elite class of hikers—
at least that’s what we told ourselves
before setting off.
Not to be confused with Reykja-
vík’s main shopping thoroughfare,
Laugavegur is Iceland’s most popular
hiking route. It regularly tops global
top-ten lists of trails, attracting thou-
sands of tourists and Icelanders alike
each summer. A typical Laugavegur
adventure takes 2-4 days to complete
(or a mere five hours for an ultra-
marathon runner). Intermediate in
difficulty, the trail is perfectly manage-
able if you’re fit and healthy, but ignore
the Icelander at the bar who’ll inevita-
bly tell you a toddler could walk it in
their sleep. They couldn’t.
We decided it was high time that the
Grapevine conquered this legendary
trail, so we formed a special Grapevine
hiking division to take on the ole’ coun-
try road. Let’s meet them:
VALUR GRETTISSON:
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
! Experience: Laugavegur
second-timer, born-hiker
! Skill level: Adept hiking pole
user, and no, it’s not cheating.
! Strength: Charm
! Weakness: Overpacking
POPPY ASKHAM:
INTERN
! Experience: Novice
! Skill level: Questionable
! Strength: Youth
! Weakness: Vegetarian
ART BICNICK:
PHOTO EDITOR & INTERNA-
TIONAL MAN OF MYSTERY
! Experience: Unknown
! Skill level: Infinite
! Strengths: Flawless poker
face, unlimited reserves of
patience
! Weakness: Sucker for
sunsets
At 7:45 a.m. on an overcast Wednesday
morning, our three intrepid explor-
ers boarded the Reykjavik Excursions
Bus, armed with a cobbled-together
collection of borrowed hiking gear,
half a tonne of camera equipment and
enough har!fiskur to feed the entire
Grapevine readership.
Let the games begin.
- DAY 1 –
BUBBLE BUBBLE,
SURREALISM
& TROUBLE
Landmannalaugar to Hrafntin-
nusker (12 km)
13:00 - We can’t avoid talking about
the weather, after all it massively deter-
mines your hiking experience. Storms
and snow can regularly take hikers by
surprise in the Highlands but, lucky for
us, the sun is high and the tempera-
ture pleasant. We start our journey
amongst beautiful hills, mainly brown,
but marked with occasional splashes
of red and yellow. Although it has to be
said, the lava fields’ frequent billows of
steam kind of remind me of hell. VG
13:05 - Five minutes in and I’m
acutely aware of just how heavy a two-
man tent from the 90s actually is and,
perhaps more pertinently, how weak
I am. Repressed memories of the last
time I hiked at age 15 in a particularly
rain-soaked corner of Britain resurface
and I’m suddenly wondering if I made
the right decision. PA
13:07 - OK, so maybe this isn’t too bad.
The scenery is simply surreal, straight
out of a Dalí painting. It’s as though
the rusty-toned mountains are melt-
ing into one another. In classic Icelan-
dic style, Laugavegur’s terrain is full of
extreme contrast: one second you’re
trudging through snow, the next
you’re narrowly avoiding scalding jets
of sulphurous steam and bubbling
hot pools. I feel as though I’m hiking
through my old geography textbook.
PA
18:31 - The last hour was intense, but
we’re now officially in the highlands.
Every step through the snow feels like
two. My thighs are killing me. For some
reason I didn’t wear sunglasses and the
sunlight reflected in the snow must
have burnt my eyes or something. I
also forgot suncream, as did Art. Poppy
lent us some of hers, but alas I fear it
is too late. Burning eyes, burning legs,
burning face, burning lungs. Hell.
But we’ve made it now. VG
18:35 - Descending the snowy slope
into the Hrafntinnusker valley is like
walking into the opening scene from
Macbeth. We pitch our tents amidst
mounds of obsidian rubble under the
watchful gaze of a raven. A thick white
fog lurks on the horizon, making it
impossible to tell where snow stops
and sky begins. I refuse to believe that
there are no witches here—there’s even
plumes of steam, for Christ’s sake. PA
20:34 - This is what I imagined camp-
ing in another dimension would be
like. When we arrived, we met a group
of parents and kids who were staying
in the cabin. They gave us some Mexi-
can chicken soup and Doritos. May
"ór bless them. Despite their gener-
osity there’s a definite cabin/campsite
divide. Our tents are some hundred
metres below the cosy cabin, which
means a chilly trek to and from the
bathroom. It feels like there’s a meta-
phor for the class struggle hidden
somewhere in this scenario. I feel a
new idea for a play brewing. VG
The dead of night... - Three sets of
socks, trousers and t-shirts, a fleece,
a hat, gloves and a raincoat for good
measure, but I’m still cold. A niggling
pain in my toes and intermittent shiv-
ering episodes keep me from sleeping,
so I just gaze at the tent ceiling, watch-
ing my breath form clouds and praying
for morning. Should I venture up to
the cabin in search of warmth? Is this
my Captain Oates moment? The worst
thing is not knowing the time; the
resolutely bright sun offers no indica-
tion. Drifting in and out of sleep, I have
no idea how many more hours of this
desperate fight for survival remain. PA
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