It's a long one. Might need to read in more than one act.
Ok, now that I am finished with this post (it took like five hours!) I understand why I have been putting it off. I had to push through once I started and there was a lot to say. As always, a lot has been left out, but it's already long enough. Just browse the pictures unless you've got some time because it's really, really long. But, one night if you're a bit of an insomniac, you can read the whole tale. Happy travels.
Meagan
Hello after a long absence.
This post has been a long time coming. Seeing as how small travel details get lost in the days, week, and months post-trip, I'm not sure, exactly where this post will lead. But while there are still details to be had, I feel the need to record them. Here we go!
First, the whale watching guide and boat driver. They were excellent. And the owner donates part of the cost of every ticket towards reforestation. So because Phil and I went whale watching in Iceland with Moby Dick tours, a tree was planted for each of us.
Anyway, the logical place my mind wants to start is the pub crawl where I left off after one of the earliest Iceland posts. I had heard rumors about Iceland's incredible night life. I even wanted to experience it for myself. That was until Phil woke me from the most delicious of jet-lagged slumbers. It was 1am and I was so deeply happy with the thought of staying in the warm and dry bed forever, all hints of party-desire were lost. But Phil, always the go-getter, wasn't going to leave Iceland without a sampling of this crazy night life. Indeed, it seems to be how the Icelanders deal with summers of endless days and winters of endless nights - they toss out any consideration for circadian rhythm. Their bodies and minds seem immune to the normal effects of day and night cycles.
So I dragged my warm, crabby bum from the cozy bed in the name of saving the relationship. I tried to be as game and jovial as possible. Mostly I was cranky. Being unaware of Iceland's black and white 80s vibe fashion, I had packed going-out clothes a bit too vibrant for the scene. As Phil and I left the comfort of the guesthouse and headed into the (suprise!) rainy, cold streets, we bickered. I was frustrated and exhausted. We made our way to a pub and handed over a credit card in exchange for two locally brewed Viking beers. Upon doing the mental aerobics required for currency exchange, we had forked over $10 a pint for two glasses of Budweiser-like beer. Yum.
We made our way upstairs through the thick crowd of people. It was one of these coffee house/bar places that has been worked into the scheme of an old house. The bar was downstairs, nestled inside of the front door under the staircase, and the rest of the house was a string of rooms, hallways, staircases, and doors leading onto the roof. All choked with people and sloshing beer. As it turns out, September first had marked the first day of an indoor smoking ban in Iceland. My lungs were extremely grateful for this turn of events. One of the small consolations, I suppose, to go to Iceland after August this year. We sat at a small table. I was ran into, twice, and had beer spilt on my clothing. This was my only remaining full set of clean clothes after The Maple-Syrup Incident.
We finished our beers and floated down the stairs on a sea of people starting to get riled up as the hour wore on close to 3am. The woman ahead of me was completely sloshed and I had to help her back to her feet several times as decended the dozen or so steps.
We ducked back out into the rain in hopes of finding one of those famous hot-dog stands. We stood inline for a while at a rather large cart parked on the sidewalk. I buried my head in the guidebook, trying to work through the strings of bizzare vowels and gutteral consenents to prounce the phrase, "One with the works, please." As we watched those ahead of us received their goods, however, it became clear this was not a hot dog stand at all. This was hoagie stand. Foiled!
This is one example of the lengthy, difficult words of the Icelandic language.
Off again. Tromping through the busy, soggy streets. To my suprise I noted it wasn't just older teenagers and young twenty-somethings packing the tight streets. It was three am and there were thirty, fourty, and fifty-somethings striding with huge smiles and bright eyes. At three am. Believe it or not, it's true.
Eventually we found another small bank of food carts open for late night business. A man came up to us, giddy and buzzed. We were trying to figure out what, exactly, this particular cart was vending, when the man lead us up to the window and told us to order, "A chocolate one. With cream. you have to get the cream. You MUST get the cream. I'll pay for the cream, if you want." Well, okay, we ordered "a chocolate one with cream" still not entirely sure what we were going to get. For around five dollars we were given a thick, somewhat stale waffle thickly coated in chocolate syrup and canned whipped cream. The man was making small talk and couldn't stop laughing. "Tastes like sh*t, doesn't it?" He finally wheezed, giggling furiously. A few of his amiable friends joined us we all chatted for a while. One of his friends had spent considerable time in Canada and had driven down into Minnesota to see the Biggest Ball of Twine. I had to admit I had not seen that impressive feat despite living in the state for my entire life.
We asked about the hot-dog stands and they, all holding open beers, lead us around a few dark corners to The Stand. The famous stand. Where Bill Clinton ordered a hot dog "with mustard" and that made headlines in the local papers. Where Anthony Bordain ate an Icelandic dog with "the works." We waited in a lengthly line and as the rain started up, I kept my umbrella down. Only tourists walk around with an umbrella. And so we had our first dogs in Iceland. They were yummy. Especially the crisp fried onions in the crease of the bun. Yes, sir, they were good and Phil and I made our way back there several times before departing the small island. They were tasty and one of the cheapest eats around. That and the bakery kept us alive.
The Stand.
After parting ways with our new friends (they still had many hours of bar hopping left in them) we walked back the way of the hotel. I put up my umbrella as the rain continued to fall. We passed under the open window of an Irish bar. I thought I heard Johnny Cash singing "Take me home, country roads" and Phil and I couldn't help but stop. We split another beer while a small band sang covers from Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, and a few Icelandic songs I didn't know at all. Normally I'm not one for novelty T-shirts, but I wanted to get the one the lead singer was wearing: "I'm not getting paid enough to be nice to you." I had a good, long laugh about that one. Anyway. I danced a bit and there was a burley, bald man in the corner who looked somewhat like a bouncer but was a million times more jovial. He kept pointing at a sitting Phil and clapping loudly. Finally he came over and started to dance with me, spinning me all over the place. Then he grabbed Phil and pushed us together. This might come across as harsh, but it was really quite funny. Phil and I danced for a while, and then he sat down. Another man came over and danced with me, literally spinning me until I thought I was going to fall over. Then he started dancing with a very petite woman and literally picked her up off the ground and spun her around. A few beer glasses were dropped and people just stomped all over them as they continued to dance. Earlier in the night, we saw a few jovially drunk adults tossing and spinning each other on the sidewalk. One of them got dropped and ripped the seat of their pants right open. No one, not even the fall, could laugh enough.
The burley man was laughing and clapping, continuing to police the men in the room. If one bothered the women too much, he'd intervene. If a man wasn't dancing enough with his date, the burley man would set things straight. It made the bar dancing scene much more fun than here where sketchy, pushy men roam the dance floor unchecked.
Me next to a "city center" sign in the Irish bar dressed in my "rainbow bright" attire.
After a few beers, Phil and I headed back to the guesthouse, arriving shortly before the sun rose. The next day, when Phil rose early to do a little last minute grocery shopping for our hiking trip, he saw people lined up in dress clothes at 7:30am, ready to head home after a long night on the town.
That day, after sleeping in late and eating a lovely Smorgborg breakfast at our guesthouse, Phil and I walked around town. That was the first day we saw the sun! It took us a while after it appeared to figure out where the giant, burning light was coming from. The glare off all the wet surfaces was, literally, blinding. We walked along the bay, to the botanical gardens. A beautiful and free attraction.
Leif Erikson. The "discoverer" of Iceland.
We saw a lot of graffitti, which mostly look amature and unimpressive:
Until we saw this strange work:
We ran a few errands and packed up all the stuff for our hiking trip the next day. Our packs were so full! With all the camping and all-weather gear, enough food and fuel for six-plus days, navigation equipment, and a solar charger for the iPods (which we never could use because the sun barely showed itself), our packs were around 45 pounds each. We used every piece of clothing we brought, and ate everything but a few handfuls of gorp. At that point we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.
The next morning (day three, departure day) I frantically packed up the remaining damp clothes and ate another delicious breakfast. As we buckled our heavy packs to our bodies, it occured to me I had forgotten to put on pants in my haste! I had long underwear bottoms on, but the pants had been quickly packed away, deep in my pack. Ah, well, no time. The bus was leaving soon and there was only one bus a day. I headed off without any pants.
The bus looked like an average greyhound type affair, except it had seat-belts and no on-board toilet. Phil and I sat towards the back. He was carrying a six-pack of eggs intended for breakfast our first morning hiking. I was knitting the mate to a pair of socks I had started for his birthday - two weeks previous. It was sunny and beautiful and I eventually feel asleep. Then the bus made a sharp turn and all hell broke loose. I woke to find my knitting needles in mid-air as I myself was getting nearly a foot of air. Phil was scrambling to keep ahold of the eggs as he bounced along in his seat. We were off-roading in a tour bus! Things settled down a bit and I quickly buckled my seatbelt. The driver continued recklessly down the road in a manner that belies either repetitious familiarity or extreme emotional distress. Eventually there was no road at all and we were navigating a beautiful, wide-open valley between mossy green, treeless mountains that we made all the more dramatic for the alternatingly sunny and cloudy skies. We were navigating around and through streams, through herds of sheep, under an endless sky that beats Montana's claim with a big, blue stick.
We stopped a few times for photo ops. I tried taking some pictures through the giant, clean windows, but the bus bounced so furiously that I kept banging the lens (hard) against the glass and quit.
It's true - I have no pants!
Mount Helka. An active volcano once believed to be the gateway to hell.
So we arrived at the head of the trail on a pristine, beautiful, sunny, perfect gorgeous day. There is a hot springs there. There is a spring of bubbling hot water that mixes with a spring of brutally cold water and they happen to hit the perfect bathing temperature. The water is so fantastically clean, and when you dig your toes into the pebbly sand, you can feel the heat coming up through the rocks. It's delightful. Phil and I brought a picnic lunch and sat at the springs and ate, surrounded by sheep, then had a soak. It was hard to leave, the the hike ahead made it hard to relax for very long. Daylight was wasting.
My Favorite Picture of the Trip!
So clean, fed, and in high spirits, we headed out through the lava field. Picturesque, watercolor mountain scapes in the background. Steam bubbling up through vents in the ground. The smell of sulpher hanging in the air.
A sulpher hole. See all the people standing around it? Yeah, it's big.
In the beginning the trail is marked by "blazes" about every twenty feet. The trail is four feet wide, though, and hard to miss. So down we went along the craggy, moss covered lava rocks. Down we went around a beautiful valley. Up the hill to the steam vents and the giant sulpher hole. Stopping to take pictures. Stopping for water. Enjoying the beauty and the giddyness. We had made it - to Iceland! To the Trail! It's not raining!
As we moved up the hill past the steam vents, the trail seemed to crest and drop sharply to the left. The trail continued, but the blazes did not. We looked and looked for blazes, but none appeared. So we followed the trail. Saw other hikers tackling a steep summit to the right. Finally found some blazes, but they were a different color. Was it still the same trail? We didn't have hours of daylight to dally and so sat down with the map, book, and GPS and tried to sort this whole thing out. Eventually we followed the blazes and the other hikers up the steep summit. The very steep summit. Along the narrow ridges. Through the slippery, sandy trails. Along perlious edges. All while carrying our heavy packs, now laden with enough water for two days. The "fire valley" opened up behind us, these beautiful bare mountains, in bright and varying shades of red and pink. The trail went up, straight up, and we kept going. We saw a sign towards the top and pushed on hoping for some kind of validation that this was not in vain. After about 45 minutes of the "straight up" we came to the sign, a small scraggly thing, pinned crooked in the ground. I don't remember what it said, but it couldn't have been less helpful. It contained two directional arrows, both saying the same thing, both pointing in near opposite directions. The word matched nothing in our book, on our map, or in our memories. It was windy and shelterless. The trail split in three directions and we could see no other hikers. I then came to the conclusion we should go back. We had lost a good two or three hours of daylight we didn't have to spare. We couldn't continue. I had not seen a spot suitable for a tent since we left the springs and a night out here, exposed, could be fatal.
Phil was reluctant to turn around, but with no validation of where we were or where we were going, I was not about to continue. So we slid down that same mountain, carrying those same heavy packs, rounded those frightening ridges. We finally sat down for a snack before heading back to the springs. At least, we thought, we'd get a soak tonight for all our hard work. It was a bummer, though, to carry a pack for a few hours of hiking only to return to the same place we'd come from.
We actually took a slightly different trail back, following the river and not the lava fields. It seemed to go on forever and I began to entertain rather wild ideas. First, you see, there are no trees in this part of Iceland. None. Not one. For a girl from the midwest, this is a perplexing state of affairs. Second, the only mammal native to Iceland is the fox. There still aren't that many mammals to speak of. So there are no trees, consquently, no birds, no mammals running around besides the occasional bunch of sheep. There are no squirrels bolting around like mad, no chipmunks darting for cover. We were high enough up at this point that we could see no insects. No mosquitoes, no flies, no gnats, no spiders. No webs, no burrows, no nests. In this beautiful, wide-open space, nothing seemed to live there. I was raised around forests and in tree-soaked urban areas teeming with little life. But here, in the mountains, nothing disturbed this space, nothing left tracks, scat, or just the eerie sense you're not alone. Indeed, there I felt very alone, as if nothing made this wide, beautiful space home. There was also no trash. The only signs of human life were the trails and the blazes. Nothing else.
So I began to feel like this was some bizzare form of hell. Like perhaps I had actually taken a tumble off one of those cliffs and now I was doomed to roam this land forever - this beautiful, yet intensely lonely, space. This perfect space devoid of life.
But, alas, after another hour and a half of hiking, we rounded a bend and entered the same campsite we had left earlier that day. The cloud cover was getting thick, the wind was getting fierce, and we quickly dumped our packs and pitched the tent. We made a warm and delicious dinner. I was so cold by that point, I wanted to get in my sleeping bag and forget about the springs. The idea of climbing into a wet suimsuit and walking five minutes in the piercing wind was, at best, grossly unnappealing. Phil, the go-getter, said we was going and I was not to be outdone. So I braved it and was so glad I did. I came out warm and relaxed and ready for sleep.
We woke early the next morning to rain. And a bleating sheep only a few feet from our tent. The sheep was charming, the rain was not. We hauled everything into the bathroom area where we cooked our remaining eggs (some did not make the tumlutous bus ride) and packed up our wet gear. We put on our all-weather gear including balaclavas, wool long underwear, and waterproof outerwear. We stopped by the ranger's cabin to ask for clarification of the trail so we didn't get lost again.
The ranger looked us up and down and asked where we were going. We told her the mountain hut and her eyebrows raised. "Do you have plenty of warm clothing?" We said yes. At last - validation for laden packs! "Ok," she shrugged, "As long as you're prepared. The weather is bad today, worse tomorrow."
We headed up the trail of deja-vu, only this time we were wet, and the scenery much less dramatic for the cloudy light. After a half-hour we met a miserable looking Israeli man. He was coming down from the moutain hut because, he said, the weather was so bad the ranger said no one could continue on to Thorsmark until Wednesday. It was Monday. The Israeli man was afraid he had frostbite. "It's bad up there," he said, "not much fun at all." He also had no wool long underwear, no suitable headgear, no mittens, and no waterproof clothing. Phil and I debated about going or not, but decided to head on because we felt reasonably prepared and the ranger hadn't said it was too bad to go.
As we ascended, it did get bad. The wind kicked up something fierce. I sorely felt for the lack of trees and vegetation as there was no respite from the extreme wind. I gave Phil the pep talk about hypothermia, symptoms, and how we had to watch each other. If one suspected the other was getting hypothermic, we had to stop immediately and deal with it. We had to be sure to take water and food breaks so we could keep up our energy while battling demanding trail conditions, and harsh weather. But I, myself, doubted my own advice as to stop, for any length of time, meant an immediate drop in body temperature and the chance to let your body become aware of pain. But I knew it was far more dangerous to run out of energy and hydration than to be a little bit cold for a few minutes, so we did stop occasionally to fuel up. We had trekking poles, which were a blessing, but by the end of the day my wrists were horribly sore from trying to keep them straight. The instant I picked them up from the ground, the wind would catch them and throw them far from where I needed them. We didn't even stop for pictures. It was beautiful at times, very beautiful, but the weather was too harsh to pull out a camera and I didn't have the extra energy to deal with it. We had to make sure we made it safe to the next hut.
We had no trouble finding where we had lost the trail the day before. The trail appeared to veer down and to the left, but really it made a hairpin turn to the right and ran a ring around a small canyon. How, exactly, we missed it is a little bit of a mystery, but we were glad to find it.
Sometimes the blazes would lead us to an "outlook" area which looked over a valley and we could see a blaze high on a ridge on the other side. It was up to us to figure out the best way to get to that other blaze. Sometimes we crossed rivers, sometimes snow bridges, sometimes just made a long steep hike straight down to just go straight back up again. The first time we came to one of those "look outs" though, I wanted to turn straight back. The first time I saw one it looked like the trail went right off the edge of the cliff and I wasn't about to go there.
At one point we had to cross a narrow ridge. A very narrow ridge. Little more than a foot or two wide that dropped off on either side down a long roll to a bottomless pit. No trees, keep in mind, to break that fall should you take it. The wind was unbelievable, gusting and stopping, or a steady, strong, bracing roll. The ground was nearly icy from the wind, rain and cold. I couldn't keep my poles straight, and the inconsistancy of the wind kept taking my balence. I was walking in as low of a crouch as I could to keep my center of gravity near the ground. I was watching Phil ahead of me, terrified he would fall and I would have no idea how to get him. I couldn't call to him, the windy roar was too loud. I wanted to turn back, but when I realized I couldn't because turning would change how the wind caught my pack and I would be more likely to fall, I knew I had no choice but to cross. I wanted to sit down and cry. I don't think I have ever been more terrified. Ever. The last great challenge we faced three days later was a difficult river crossing. When I thought we should maybe turn back, it wasn't the prospect of three more days of hiking over the terrain we had just covered that made me cross that river. It was the prospect of having to cross that ridge again that made me plunge my body waist deep in the icy water to get to the other side.
After a while, the wind still blowing and the sky still spitting rain, we came to a broad swath of land across some of the highlands. I started singing loud, really, really loud, out of relief that there was no cliff to fall off of. Phil confronted me, seriously, asking if I might be hypothermic. No, I said. Just relieved.
Later we came to a long section of the hike that was land strewed with large rocks and boulders. They were often piled into large pyramids that held the blaze proudly skyward. In the mist and fog, they looked almost like crosses to me. It seemed like an never-ending grave yard. And, after a while, one of those piles did mark a tragic site - a young (25 years old!) traveller was caught in a blizzard and perished. The marker said, "so close, yet so far away to the safety of the hut nearby." Sad, but heartened to know the hut was near, we pressed on. it turns out the hut is another 45 minutes beyond the marker and I have no trouble seeing how the young traveller wouldn't have been able to make it in a blizzard. We had to climb another snow bridge and at the top of that, the wind was whipping worse than ever. Or perhaps we were just exhausted and less able to keep it together.
A young French couple was hiking with us. They started shortly after we did and we thought they had turned around after The Crossing that so terrified me. But they appeared again as we were crossing The Graveyard and hiked with us to the hut. It was so nice to not be alone.
When we finally came over the ridge that showed the hut, it looked like something out of Oz. This little house just blown in just for us. Except there was a SUV parked in front of it! Apparently the ranger drives out over a series of glaciers. But seeing the vehicle there somehow cheapened the hike for me, for the time being. To know that I could have gotten there by car instead of the peril we had dealt with irritated me just a little bit.
If you're still reading this, I'm impressed. Hell, I am impressed I'm still writing it.
The ranger met us outside and was very suprised to see us there. He hadn't been expecting us. He drilled us about a different hiker he was expecting, whom we had not seen. We just wanted to go inside, but he stood outside talking to us for five minutes! Finally he let us in. It was too fercious to camp, so we stayed in the hut instead. We were able to dry out quite a few of our clothes and cook a warm, delicious meal sheltered from the elements. We were fully expecting to have to stay in the hut Tuesday, as well, but when we woke Tuesday morning, the ranger said it was clear enough to go. Hoorah! I had been secretly looking foward to the day off, but there were miles to be covered and we were already a day behind.
Phil trying to charge his iPod during our short stay in the moutain hut:
Ok, Tuesday we set out and the weather was reasonable as we got started. We crossed a few small snow bridges as we traversed up and down a land full of cracks. Up the steep side, across the top, down the steep side, through the stream, and up again... Then we climbed higher still and most of this day is a blur to me. We were hiking now with five French people who were, for the most part, pretty nice. In better weather, that hike is probably beyond amazing. It was pretty amazing for us, but since we didn't take pictures because it was too nasty out, there isn't much to say. Except before we started decending, we came over the top of this moutain and out splayed a vast expanse of green. At the top, a clear, turbulant glacial river came roaring through a golden canyon as it spilled mightly down the rocky mountain face before spidering through the green acrerage below. Yeah, pretty damn cool.
The only photo of us together in Iceland. Taken shortly before we began the descent.
The hike down was brutal on the knees. Especially because my boots were soaked through from all the rain the day before and this day combined. My clothes were soaked and my hipbelt was chaffing the skin off my hips. I was miserable and snappy. Even though the weather was finally cleaning up a bit and the scenery was beautiful.
We came tumbling down the moutain and had to cross our first major stream. Phil and I were aching to get to the next campsite - only a half hour away so we plowed right through the stream. The French were more keen to do it dry and picked their way up and down the river, looking for the perfect spot. When none emerged, they all painstakingly removed their boots and socks and waded through the shin-deep water. Sat down on the other side, took towels from their packs, dried their feet, put everything back together, took a potty break, had a snack, and chatted while Phil and I stood waiting, soaked through and jonsing to get going. They had waited for us at numerous points and it felt rude to just leave them there. But the whole point of plowing through the river was to just get on with it and get to the site. Eventually we all got going and arrived at the site shortly thereafter. No one else was camping there and the French were going to hike the extra few kilometers onto the next site that had "better facilities and a better ranger." We liked the ranger at this site, a tall, beefy fella with thick beard whom Phil refered to as "Beardy." The facilities seemed excellent - beds, warm cabin, kitchen. So we stayed. As it turns out we had the cabin to ourselves and were able to spread out everything that was wet and our boots got the prime spot right in front of the heater. Come morning, we were dry, well fed, and ready to roll. One of the french women stayed and camped. It was a little weird as she slept in the entry way to the cabin because it was so windy.
Anyway, the next day was one of the longest hikes, but the weather was amiable and so we took our time and a lot more pictures. I'll let the photos do the talkin:
The hut in Altavatan:
Cleaning up in Altvatan:
Leaving Altvastan (day four)
Strange Icelandic foilage
Phil enjoying a break at a waterfall:
Phil stopping to make us a hot lunch (beans!) a first now that the weather was cooperating:
A cold crossing!
After crossing the river, we had a few hour hike through a cold "black sand desert." A bit tedious and tough on the body (who wants to walk with a heavy pack in sand for hours?)
Strange Icelandic rock formations: (there are many tales of gnomes, trolls, and "little people" in Icelandic lore. It is thought that the bizzare lava formations and just bizzare scenery lent its hand to the creation of these otherworldly tales).
Going the right way:
The path goes right through a large rock!
Stunning scenery:
The final day we continued to mostly hike down. We caught some glimpses of glaciers which were AWESOME. I have to go back someday if for no other reason to spend some time on a glacier. Again, there is more than enough text in this, so I'll let the photos do the talking. This is our last day of backpacking. We're heading to Thorsmork. We got a little bit of a late start, so daylight was really breathing down our backs by the time we pulled into the campsite. No hotsprings (well, it wasn't worth soaking in) but we did get a nice sauna.
A small bird was trapped in the hut and it let me just pick it up and take it outside for a quick photo op before it flew off:
The great wide open:
These "rock piles" have been found nearly everywhere I've travelled. Adding a rock is often considered "lucky" or a chance to make a wish. In Iceland it served as a nice reminder that we weren't alone.
Phil about ready to cross a high bridge over a rushing river. The hiking book warns those with verdigo. Fortunatly, Phil and I made it just fine:
See the hint of a glacier in the background?
The Final River. This picture makes it look awful tame, but it was a mildly harrowing experience. Nothing like The Ridge, though.
The water got so deep (waist high) that I took off my pants for the crossing. It was cold!
Our final day in Thorsmork we did a little bit of packless hiking, and that was so nice after all the weighted miles.
First we hiked a little mountain in the area just to get a nice outlook over where we had camped:
Then we took a bus a little ways (more off-roading) to a canyon. We had to do a few small river crossings, but at the end we got a little peek at another glacier. There was a nesting bird right on the trail and I slowly got close enough to get a few nice pictures. It was a lovely end to a challenging and spectacular hiking trip.
Yes, you're seeing it clearly:
The nesting bird:
Our ride back to Reykjavik was uneventful. Our guesthouse was literally across the street, so that was awfully handy. The guidebook refers, by name, to the owner: Einar. He never stops talking. Once we found out we were from the US, he had all kinds of things to say. He asked us where the biggest cup of tea is in the world: (Boston Harbor). He railed on and on about American football and what a waste of time it was. Real football (soccer) is where it's at. Then out of nowhere he went on a tirade about polar fleece. "I'll never wear it! Never, ever! You'll never see me in that stuff. Do you know what it is? Plastic! Who wants to wear plastic! At least someone is doing something with all those coca-cola bottles! And why would anyone come to Iceland in the winter! There is no sunlight! This guesthouse is busy all year long. Why does anyone come in winter? With global warming we don't even get any snow any more! Our Olympic team trains in Norway! Norway! Can you believe it?" It was all jovial and in good spirits. There was never an akward moment since he filled them all.
My first post-hiking snack. Ice cream! What else?
The next day we rose early to meet Samuel. Our snorkelling guide for the Silfra crack. It's place where the North American and European tectonic plates are slowly pulling apart. The water is barely above freezing and the visibility is good all the time. This sounded great. Only it's so cold there's really nothing to see. Rocks and underwater slime and a very few brave minnows. And cold, holy moses, it was cold. We were wearing drysuits. They have booties and these thick rubber gaskets at your wrists and neck. I felt like I was being hung. But no water gets in and that's kind of cool. There are separate gloves and hoods, but those are only semi-dry and thus my fingers turned into little icicles and my lips were blue.
During the witch hunt in Iceland, the people wouldn't burn suspected witches because firewood was too scarce and valuable, so instead they tied them up in sacks with rocks and tossed them into these deep cracks. Nice, huh?
Our last day mostly included a bakery run, a grocery store stop, and a trip to the Blue Lagoon for a final geothermic soak before boarding the plane home (or not, since our flight was cancelled). We went twice - once on the way into Iceland and again on the way out. Coming in, it was cloudy, rainy, and cold. Leaving it was sunny and warm. Phil and I both agree that the Blue Lagoon is one of the few things in Iceland that's better done when the weather is miserable.
The Blue Lagoon (Ahhhh).
The bakery made cinnamon rolls that were nearly as big as my head!
The bakery also decorated gumballs like little animals. We were especially taken with the little seal:
And the rest, my friends, is history. Phil and Meagan Iceland 2007 in a very large nutshell. Thank you and goodnight!
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