First, for those of you who aren't familiar with Icelandic geography, I should mention that this most active of volcanoes I went to is also in the middle of the largest glacier in Europe, that covers 8% of Iceland's terrain. So, in addition to cozying up to my first active volcano, it was a twofer with a glacier thrown in. The drive to the edge of the glacier was still within the realm of the known for me, rather like driving on sand as a child on Cape Cod, only with mountains. We made quick time to the hut on the southwestern edge of Vatnajökull, then came the fun stuff.
Where the ice of a glacier meets the earth, all kinds of interesting things happen. There's tremendous shifting of sediment and ash from off the glacier, in addition to melting and shedding of ice chunks. All this makes for a bit of a thrilling time when attempting to climb up. We sloshed through the half-frozen and secretly fast glacial lagoon/river on the edge, pausing to winch H's Rover out of a tight spot partway over, then it was up to the ice. It turned out to be far steeper than predicted, and with little to no soil or snow to give us purchase on the ice, the vehicles were having a slippery time of it. Late autumn is also a challenging time to climb glaciers, since the summer melting cycle results in many cracks that may now be partly hidden by snow. G's vehicle found one of those (after I mentioned it looked a little dodgy) so then H had to winch us out.
The way didn't seem to be getting much better, so H-the-younger (brother of H) strapped on crampons and his lopapeysa, and armed with a walkie-talkie, walked up a few meters to see if it got better. Prognosis not good, so we turned around and headed down to the bottom again to attempt in a different location. However, in order to GET to the other location, we had to negotiate some sizeable mounds of sediment. I'm not scared of heights or being in remote places but the hairy near-vertical climbs and descents had me wondering what exactly I'd agreed to in coming on this trip.
Still, the combined mountaineering and glacier knowledge of the posse, and general level-headed sense made me feel that they weren't making foolish decisions and knew the capabilities and limitations of both the equipment and themselves. Plus, these cars were equipped- three kinds of communication methods, shovels, snow anchors, winches, fire extinguishers, waders, and who knows what else (plus CD player!).
And ok it was. Next attempt had us up on the blue ice quickly and easily, where I was soon able to marvel at the glowing depth and mysterious colors of the surface rushing beneath me. Ice! Lots of it! We progressed quickly then, following a GPS track from a previous trip, watching as the elevation rose rapidly on the dashboard display. Soon, the ice stopped appearing so blue and began to take on a mottled white as we hit snow. Time to stop to deflate tires- for snow driving, the tires were reduced to single-digit PSI, and eventually when we got higher and into deeper snow, down all the way to a squashy 3. In celebration of arriving on the snow, we all also had a piece or few of hákarl, then back into the cars to press on.
It was mostly silent for a while as we headed further, then over the radio there came a call from H. The box of hákarl had somehow shaken loose and had opened enough to allow its perfume to escape, and the French guys (C & F) were having a bit of a hard time with it. Then another call- "all ok, we're just driving with the windows opened"
The weather grew lower and grayer as we got higher, then soon became proper snow, eliminating the mountains in the distance and making it harder to see the contours of the snow ahead. In an expanse this large, the snow drifts and accumulates rather like sand, in dunes, in washboards, and small dips, so the ride was a little shaky as the visibility became thinner.
Another call on the radio "C & F can't handle it anymore. We've gotta switch". They gratefully piled in with G & me, bringing the fermented shark-scent in with them on their clothes ("good for the lungs", says H-the-younger), and then we continued further into the snow. Eventually even the horizon line was gone, and we were driving in a perfectly white landscape ("gives me vertigo", said C). I could only just barely make out the texture rushing by immediately outside the window, but everything else was as if I were under a clean bedsheet. At times we'd hit strangely deep snow and have to rock the car out a little, and had to take the tires down to 3 PSI at one point where it was too deep, but we made steady progress, and eventually on the left side we could make out a sooty ridge. Grímsvötn at last. We turned off the GPS track there and stopped at the base of a steep slope. Finding a shallower side, we climbed to the top of a knife-edge of marshmallowy reddish-black soil. Digging down a finger's depth into the sediment was almost too hot to touch, so vigorous is the geothermal activity there. Below us spread the wonder of geologic processes at their most active- a progression of explosion points that were at various stages of being once more consumed by the moving ice. Some areas steamed, and further below, shadowy crevices in the snow hinted at ice caves.
The easiest way to get down from there was to slide, so we all zipped down to the bottom and got back into the cars for the final ascent to the mountain huts on the highest ridge (about 1700 meters above sea level). These three hunkered-down buildings are atop another razor-thin edge of the caldera where Grímsvötn lurks, so they're equipped with tremendously toasty geothermal heat and even have electricity. Due to their exposed location, they're also entirely covered in thick ice that's required a complex double-door construction on all the openings- windows and doors. Unfortunately, the group there on Friday night had not unlocked the sauna hut, so we couldn't try out what makes this hut so legendary, but it was still a welcome and cozy place after the thrilling day.
31 October 2006
30 October 2006
Hákarl brings people together (part 1)
As those of you who've been inspecting my photo page know, I went on an incredibly memorable trip this past weekend to Europe's most active volcano, Grímsvötn. This was already an unusual enough prospect in itself, but the divergence from previous trips in the highland direction began almost immediately. On the way up to the standard highland starting-point of Hrauneyjar, we took a right turn off the dark road in Þjórsárdalur. After an increasingly skinny progression of roads and a few hairpin turns, we ended up in a silent, slightly protected valley where a rough shed stood, its unlatched door flapping in the breeze. We ducked inside and piled our clothes on the bench inside, then out the opposite side, stepped into a deep, square tub of perfectly warm water. This complex had originally been built for sheep-washing, but now is almost entirely forgotten, save a few savvy bathers. I haven't been to many of these hidden springs, but this was definitely the most developed and the most hidden I've been to. After a frowzy day at work, tempestuous stormy weather in Reykjavík, and the frenzy of getting out of town on a Friday, this was also the perfect way to detach and forget about everything.
We then continued on to the meeting-point of the group I was going with, the end-of-civilization stop at Hrauneyjar. I'd last been there in August on one of the biggest travel weekends of the summer, and the change was noticeable. Last time, the place sprouted with lopapeysa-wearing Icelanders, Italians on motorcycles, Hungarian power trucks, and scads of other foreigners. This time it was only our group (a posse of mountain guides that are G's friends, most of whom I'd never met), the cook of the place, B, a Swedish woman who might or might not have been B's wife, and two French tourists. The French guys had heard Landmannalaugar was The place to visit in Iceland, so they'd arrived and attempted a few kilometers into the highlands before they decided their vehicle was totally unfit for the trip ahead.
Things began ordinarily enough- we ordered food, we coordinated with the other members of the group who were in various locations either further ahead or not quite there, we looked at the maps of the trip plan....
and then came the hákarl. One of the guys in the group (H) had been given an extraspecial chunk of the famous Icelandic putrid shark delicacy, which he'd cut up into proper chunks- none of those "tourist bits", as he called the little morsels you can buy in the airport. I'll confess that I had not yet tasted this stuff, but as the only girl and the only foreigner in this group I was entrusting my life to for the weekend, I knew I had to finally take the plunge. H extended the Toothpick of Challenge across the map spread on the table, and I went for it. It went down surprisingly easily, and then, high on my glee of Finally Eating Shark, I went to offer some to the French guys, and then innkeeper B had to have some too. This resulted in him producing the celebratory bottle of Brennivín, and he poured shots for all, overpouring mine on to the table and floor in his generous enthusiasm.
Somehow everyone- innkeeper and Swedish lady, French guys, and our group ended up at a table together after B brought out the stereo to add atmosphere (I seem to recall it was Irish tunes with Icelandic lyrics....). We explained the relative merits of going-out places in town for the French guys, we discussed the merits of the excellent shark (by then I'd had two more pieces and was well on my way to foreigner-expert status), B and G discussed how they were from the same tiny town on the south coast, and I was busy listening and translating from all directions, as the only one who had a chance of understanding the three primary languages of the table (there was a sprinkling of German too, at times).
Then, up sprang B to offer the next treat that Hrauneyjar was hiding, the hot tub. He dashed outside to fill it, then returned with his arms overflowing with towels for all of us. Eventually we did end up out there, but it was not quite as warm and cozy as the sheep-tub earlier in the night, since the area lacks the body-scorching naturally heated water. Still, we had to stick around in thanks for his tremendous hospitality, especially when he brought out pints of beer for all. To keep the teeth from chattering, we all sang songs, and then when we couldn't stand it anymore, we headed down the little corridor in the back to sleep while the wind whistled round the building.
The next morning I awoke to a 10-minute cycle of techno cell-phone alarm clock music coming from across the hall where the French guys remained resolutely in bed. When it finally ceased, I dozed off, and then the next thing I heard was B calling to them that they'd been invited to join our group and that he was making us all egg and bacon breakfasts. I rolled out of bed, suited up in cozy clothes for the trek ahead and went to the kitchen where hot coffee and two kinds of juice waited. B then came out with massive plates laden with toast, two eggs (he cooks a mean over-easy egg), a tangle of bacon, and a hillside of fries (fries at breakfast?). With the exception of H-the-younger, we were all defeated by the stack of fries, but B was undaunted and offered us more eggs or extra toast, then hangikjöt sandwiches and a carafe of coffee for lunch. Because we were adding two more to the group, the then plied us with food for dinner as well- potatoes, and since he didn't have any lambchops, a massive reindeer steak and several bottles of wine. I'm not sure if it was the strange emptiness of the place in the off-season, the mutual acquaintances, or the hákarl that did it, but we left much richer than we'd arrived, and with two French guys too.
So we climbed into the two Land Rovers and headed northeast, following the dirt roads into the highlands and to the edge of the glacier.
We then continued on to the meeting-point of the group I was going with, the end-of-civilization stop at Hrauneyjar. I'd last been there in August on one of the biggest travel weekends of the summer, and the change was noticeable. Last time, the place sprouted with lopapeysa-wearing Icelanders, Italians on motorcycles, Hungarian power trucks, and scads of other foreigners. This time it was only our group (a posse of mountain guides that are G's friends, most of whom I'd never met), the cook of the place, B, a Swedish woman who might or might not have been B's wife, and two French tourists. The French guys had heard Landmannalaugar was The place to visit in Iceland, so they'd arrived and attempted a few kilometers into the highlands before they decided their vehicle was totally unfit for the trip ahead.
Things began ordinarily enough- we ordered food, we coordinated with the other members of the group who were in various locations either further ahead or not quite there, we looked at the maps of the trip plan....
and then came the hákarl. One of the guys in the group (H) had been given an extraspecial chunk of the famous Icelandic putrid shark delicacy, which he'd cut up into proper chunks- none of those "tourist bits", as he called the little morsels you can buy in the airport. I'll confess that I had not yet tasted this stuff, but as the only girl and the only foreigner in this group I was entrusting my life to for the weekend, I knew I had to finally take the plunge. H extended the Toothpick of Challenge across the map spread on the table, and I went for it. It went down surprisingly easily, and then, high on my glee of Finally Eating Shark, I went to offer some to the French guys, and then innkeeper B had to have some too. This resulted in him producing the celebratory bottle of Brennivín, and he poured shots for all, overpouring mine on to the table and floor in his generous enthusiasm.
Somehow everyone- innkeeper and Swedish lady, French guys, and our group ended up at a table together after B brought out the stereo to add atmosphere (I seem to recall it was Irish tunes with Icelandic lyrics....). We explained the relative merits of going-out places in town for the French guys, we discussed the merits of the excellent shark (by then I'd had two more pieces and was well on my way to foreigner-expert status), B and G discussed how they were from the same tiny town on the south coast, and I was busy listening and translating from all directions, as the only one who had a chance of understanding the three primary languages of the table (there was a sprinkling of German too, at times).
Then, up sprang B to offer the next treat that Hrauneyjar was hiding, the hot tub. He dashed outside to fill it, then returned with his arms overflowing with towels for all of us. Eventually we did end up out there, but it was not quite as warm and cozy as the sheep-tub earlier in the night, since the area lacks the body-scorching naturally heated water. Still, we had to stick around in thanks for his tremendous hospitality, especially when he brought out pints of beer for all. To keep the teeth from chattering, we all sang songs, and then when we couldn't stand it anymore, we headed down the little corridor in the back to sleep while the wind whistled round the building.
The next morning I awoke to a 10-minute cycle of techno cell-phone alarm clock music coming from across the hall where the French guys remained resolutely in bed. When it finally ceased, I dozed off, and then the next thing I heard was B calling to them that they'd been invited to join our group and that he was making us all egg and bacon breakfasts. I rolled out of bed, suited up in cozy clothes for the trek ahead and went to the kitchen where hot coffee and two kinds of juice waited. B then came out with massive plates laden with toast, two eggs (he cooks a mean over-easy egg), a tangle of bacon, and a hillside of fries (fries at breakfast?). With the exception of H-the-younger, we were all defeated by the stack of fries, but B was undaunted and offered us more eggs or extra toast, then hangikjöt sandwiches and a carafe of coffee for lunch. Because we were adding two more to the group, the then plied us with food for dinner as well- potatoes, and since he didn't have any lambchops, a massive reindeer steak and several bottles of wine. I'm not sure if it was the strange emptiness of the place in the off-season, the mutual acquaintances, or the hákarl that did it, but we left much richer than we'd arrived, and with two French guys too.
So we climbed into the two Land Rovers and headed northeast, following the dirt roads into the highlands and to the edge of the glacier.
26 October 2006
filling in the gaps
Yesterday I decided to take the long way home, so I went to Hlemmer to walk the length of Laugavegur. Since I was there and it was early enough in the day for shops to be open, I crossed the street to check out the Asian store that opened a few months ago. Joy! A bonanza of Asian goodies awaited within, starting with cheap kitchenware and working its way back to the coconut vinegar and generous stacks of wasabi tubes. The refrigerator section contained all kinds of exciting things too- green peppercorns still in their as-grown clusters, huge chunks of fresh ginger, and a variety of dried mini-fishes that should appeal to the most hard-core harðfiskur-and-hákarl eating Icelander. I loaded up on noodles and seasonings, then threw in a few goodies that took me back to the old Porter Exchange days of college- the Kasugai wasabi peas, and Pocky. Sadly, they didn't have the legendary Men's Pocky, or the favorite snack of my first year in college, tomato salad pretz, but finding these other treats were enough to send me out of the shop skipping with joy.
It seems like every time I resign myself to having to go without some culinary experience that was part of my life in the US, I discover little shop or restaurant to take care of the need. Dejected about Indian? Austurlanda Hraðlestin takes care of you. Lost over the lack of Asian treats? Incoming! And THEN, if it wasn't enough to be able to burn my nostrils with wasabi whenever I want, I discovered a new shop's opened on Laugavegur that has a gaggle of Mexican seasonings. I'm afraid to hope that spicy Italian sausage wagons will join the waffle cart downtown on the weekends. If that happens, I'm applying for citizenship immediately!
It seems like every time I resign myself to having to go without some culinary experience that was part of my life in the US, I discover little shop or restaurant to take care of the need. Dejected about Indian? Austurlanda Hraðlestin takes care of you. Lost over the lack of Asian treats? Incoming! And THEN, if it wasn't enough to be able to burn my nostrils with wasabi whenever I want, I discovered a new shop's opened on Laugavegur that has a gaggle of Mexican seasonings. I'm afraid to hope that spicy Italian sausage wagons will join the waffle cart downtown on the weekends. If that happens, I'm applying for citizenship immediately!
25 October 2006
Ansel Adams
Yesterday morning the ride to work was like moving through a monochromatic photograph. The flat black of the mountains was traced in white, and merged frigidly with the low gray velour sky. It's lopapeysa-and-hat weather here already, and the crowds on Laugavegur have disappeared into fur-edged coats and colorful mittens. Winter comes when it likes here, and arrives fiercely, and according to the Icelandic two-season calendar, it's right on schedule. The darkness has also been closing around us like a sleeping bag being zipped up, the crack for air shrinking by almost 7 minutes a day. When it is sunny, the angle of the light reminds me of Decembers in Vermont, and makes me want to listen to pared-down Renaissance music (another peculiar feature of my schooling).
At the pool, a few hardy souls turn out to scuttle like hermit crabs across the frosty pavement and sink gratefully into the toasty water. Yesterday the crowd was particularly slim, since they'd drained the pool for paintwork and were only just refilling it, the water streaming across the empty poolbottom with a merry hotel-lobby fountain sound. I stayed for a good hour, enjoying the sensory experience of lying in the eimbað until I couldn't stand the heat, then sitting outside until frost formed on the edge of my swimsuit, lather, rinse, repeat. I left drowsy and warm, the heat-embers within well rekindled. Cold weather is much more enjoyable when there's a chance to scorch yourself so many different ways, and the hot-pots are MUCH more atmospheric in the velvet dark with the steam spiraling skywards.
Then this morning on the way to work, I got into a discussion with my (very kind and awesome for driving me so much this fall) co-worker about snow here, and apparently Icelandic could teach the world a thing or two about words to describe this weather. There are words for snow that blows during the storm, snow that blows without a storm, and all variations in between. As we pulled into the dark parking lot, he offered one final grand word for the day, hundslappadrífa. It translates literally as dog's-paw-snow, and is used to describe those big fat flakes that look like a dog's foot. I'm going to have fun when the snow starts blowing here!
Ship sighting: Nothing exciting to report in the boat-traffic arena, but the Icelandic Port Association reports that they were at a trade show for cruise ships in Italy, trying to stir up excitement for the ol' RVK harbor and a few others. So more cruise ships to look forward to next year, I guess.
At the pool, a few hardy souls turn out to scuttle like hermit crabs across the frosty pavement and sink gratefully into the toasty water. Yesterday the crowd was particularly slim, since they'd drained the pool for paintwork and were only just refilling it, the water streaming across the empty poolbottom with a merry hotel-lobby fountain sound. I stayed for a good hour, enjoying the sensory experience of lying in the eimbað until I couldn't stand the heat, then sitting outside until frost formed on the edge of my swimsuit, lather, rinse, repeat. I left drowsy and warm, the heat-embers within well rekindled. Cold weather is much more enjoyable when there's a chance to scorch yourself so many different ways, and the hot-pots are MUCH more atmospheric in the velvet dark with the steam spiraling skywards.
Then this morning on the way to work, I got into a discussion with my (very kind and awesome for driving me so much this fall) co-worker about snow here, and apparently Icelandic could teach the world a thing or two about words to describe this weather. There are words for snow that blows during the storm, snow that blows without a storm, and all variations in between. As we pulled into the dark parking lot, he offered one final grand word for the day, hundslappadrífa. It translates literally as dog's-paw-snow, and is used to describe those big fat flakes that look like a dog's foot. I'm going to have fun when the snow starts blowing here!
Ship sighting: Nothing exciting to report in the boat-traffic arena, but the Icelandic Port Association reports that they were at a trade show for cruise ships in Italy, trying to stir up excitement for the ol' RVK harbor and a few others. So more cruise ships to look forward to next year, I guess.
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