The Icelandic Canadian - 01.08.2006, Síða 32

74
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 60 #2
the orange dinghy evidently deployed to
take us ashore, my unease grows sharper. I
seem to be outside myself, to be watching
someone whose identity puzzles me.
The beach at Hornvik is not made of
golden sand, but of sizeable smooth grey
rocks and we must wade a few steps to
reach it. Then, the six of us ( minus the
German couple who are going on further),
led by our guide, are carefully making our
way up a path of sorts through lush fern-
like growth to what looks like an aban-
doned cottage. Built from concrete and
timber, clad in parts with corrugated iron,
once, she tells us, this was her grandfather’s
farm, lived on year round for generations
until fifty years ago, when isolation and an
unforgiving climate were to defeat even the
hardiest farmers and fishermen. Now, used
solely as a summer cottage, the old farm-
stead will give us a place to deposit our
packs while we go for a hike before lunch.
A black and white photo of a man with a
dead polar bear looks down on us from a
frame in the kitchen. Evidently, these awe-
some predators are still occasional visitors
in the region, drifting in as they do, on
pack-ice from Greenland.
Out in the bay, the Gudny is retreating
with its transport of cargo and the German
campers. In the time it takes to go further
east along the coast, we will be climbing
one of the hazy mountains in the area.
When the wife of the Norwegian pleads
fatigue and chooses to remain for a rest in
the cabin, I confess I am tempted to do
likewise. For although our recent voyage
has also left me feeling somewhat drained,
it’s more than that. The fact is I’m I begin-
ning to regard myself as something of a
fraud, a bookish dreamer masquerading as
an outdoor type. After all, I’ve come to
Iceland for the most sentimental, the most
predictable of reasons: to unearth its past,
and in the process, to discover my roots.
For this reason, I have difficulty recogniz-
ing a blond woman in late middle age
dressed in blue-grey hiking shoes, charcoal
windpants and lime green anorak as myself.
As someone equal to an arctic trek. As
someone ready to go on. Nonetheless, go
on I do.
So now we are six (including our
guide), climbing single-file, looking for old
footpaths which are often far from distinct,
crossing unnamed streams without bridg-
ing, breathing in the sweetness of a multi-
tude of wild flowers. Once we look over to
an inlet crammed with Siberian driftwood
and a seal sleeping on a rock beyond. Our
lone companions are the myriad birds of
both sea and land, although once we
glimpse a small tent on a hillside to our
right, the temporary home of scientists
studying the Arctic fox, Iceland’s sole
indigenous mammal. And always, there in
abundance is the wild green of the tough
Icelandic grass, so luxurious that at times it
seems we aren’t walking but rather wading
through it.
Turning once to see how far we have
come, a speck on the slate grey sea below
surprises us. The Gudny has returned
ahead of schedule, but for the present, we
seem to be operating in a world which has
banished time. Now and then the sharp cry
of the Arctic tern makes its presence
known, yet for the most part I am aware of
yoi/tr f-h
/ n

OW.'iZOV/'As AM y V
Doreen & Ingvar Karvelson
46 CENTER ST., GIMLI • MB (204) 642-5995
N 7 DAYS A WE-
t