Iceland review - 2019, Síða 56

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Iceland Review
never celebrate on the mountain peak; you can’t
celebrate until you’re back on the ground, once
you’re safe.”
Climbing since he was 17 years old, Leifur has
had his share of memorable experiences. “They can
affect you strongly, in ways you sometimes don’t
even realise.” When I ask him to name one of his
favorite spots, he struggles to choose. “There are
so many,” he admits. “But one of them is along the
fjords of Greenland. That place is full of white sand
beaches. I’ve been taking groups there for years,
simply to experience the view. I found a grave there
once. It’s such a difficult spot to get to, so I figured
that the only reason one might bury someone there
would be to honour their last wish.”
When it comes to conquering the unknown, what
sets mountaineers apart is not their disregard
for the risks that come along with their bold way
of doing so (the risks are far from disregarded),
but their desire to continue ascending despite its
inevitable consequences. Certainly, the decision
to pursue a life of mountaineering is not without
its sacrifices. “When I look back over the last year,
for example, I realise that I’ve spent two hundred
nights away from home,” Leifur admits. “That’s
a lot. When you return home after being away for
so long, you get the feeling that you are absolutely
unnecessary in daily life. Everything goes on just
fine without you. I’m a father to three daughters.
When I’m home, I make extra effort to participate
in daily life. When my daughters call out, ‘Mom,
mom,’ for example, I always answer them, and yet
they always say to me, ‘No, we were asking for mom.’
Spending time away from young children is always a
sacrifice. That’s time that will never come back.”
Still, Leifur continues to make regular trips
around the world to climb, and he has no plans
on stopping. The relentless drive to experience
life in its utmost intensity is enough to keep him
going; it makes everything worthwhile. Though
for Jón, returning to the mountain proved difficult
after the tragic loss of his friends. “That slowed
me down,” he says. “Afterward, I didn’t want to go
back to Nepal, and I didn’t climb seriously for a long
time.” On the phone, Jón’s voice wavers. His grief is
palpable, testifying to the insufficiency of time to
ever heal life’s deepest wounds. “The most difficult
thing,” he continues, “was constantly wondering
about what could have happened if things had gone
differently. If I hadn’t broken a rib and returned
to base camp, maybe I could have gotten everyone
down safely. Or maybe I wouldn’t be here today, you
never know.”
After the remains of Kristinn and Þorsteinn
were brought home to Iceland and laid to rest, their
families and friends were able to find, if not com-
fort, then a sense of closure, perhaps even a better
understanding that human life is as stunning and
fragile as nature herself. Of the climbers, there
remained only bones and old equipment long fro-
zen over, but Kristinn’s son, lovingly named after
him, was determined to uncover something that
confirmed his father’s life. After cleaning off one of
the rucksacks, he found a faded inscription written
into its tattered inner folds – his father’s name.
Those who are lucky to be born into the ethereal
landscape of Iceland develop innate awareness of
nature’s force; and its reminders are consistent
– winters swollen with snow, winds that shift and
shove, and mountains, a country pregnant with
mountains, beckoning. In respect of the wishes of
Kristinn and Þorsteinn’s families, Ingvar’s doc-
umentary will be put on hold. But this, he says,
doesn’t really matter in the end, “Iceland itself
embodies the free spirit of the hike. You leave
everything behind, and you go, you move on and
find out what’s next – because it’s there.”
THE RELENTLESS DRIVE TO
EXPERIENCE LIFE IN ITS UTMOST
INTENSITY IS ENOUGH TO
KEEP HIM GOING; IT MAKES
EVERYTHING WORTHWHILE.