Kill Me Now

(Hyperborean Hopscotch 2017: Day Ten)

Back and shoulders aching from the weight of my pack, knees sore and weak from the downhills of the two preceding days, I left for the most difficult hike of the entire ordeal. My “partner” the Belgian gym teacher/mountain climber was fine. I told him I’d be slow on the ascents up to the pass, that I’d be stopping a lot, that he should go his own pace and leave me behind. I saw him several times along the way, but to avoid focusing on the subjectively negative psychological aspect of our objectively positive association, I’m going to cut him out of the story here and say he went on ahead while I lagged behind.

There are not really “parts” or “legs” of the Fimmvörðuháls Pass hike, but for me there were five distinct sections:

1. Gradual ascent:

The road to Fimmvörðuháls Pass.

The trail went up immediately, and the views became more and more impressive as I ran out of breath quicker and quicker. There was a section where hikers have to use an anchored nylon rope to assist in walking across a narrow, steep, high piece of land. This tested my acrophobia, but I made it across without falling. Being afraid of heights, this was semi-terrifying. Luckily, it got worse. 

The path ahead.

Morning views.

After more climbing, the trail leveled out a little, but eventually I came to a mountain.

2. "Steep" ascent:

Believing this was the climb up to Fimmvörðuháls proper, I paced myself and stopped a few times as I worked my way to the top. It was tiring - because I’m out of shape and my pack was very heavy. But once I reached the top, I felt accomplished and happy. I took some time to relax and enjoy the view. 

This is not the top.

Continuing on.

3. The real ascent:

Shortly after the previous ascent, the trail ran into a much bigger, much steeper, much scarier mountain. It took me a while to comprehend what was happening: the previous ascent was a hill compared to this monster. How was I going to walk up that thing? 

Neil Peart is my favorite drummer and one of my favorite authors. His books Ghost Rider and The Masked Rider are among the best adventure travelogues I've encountered. In The Masked Rider, a book about riding bicycles through West Africa, he captures the painful truth of in-the-moment adventure:

“Some people travel for pleasure, and sometimes find adventure; others travel for adventure, and sometimes find pleasure. The best part of adventure travel, it seems to me, is thinking about it. A journey to a remote place is exciting to look forward to, certainly rewarding to look back upon, but not always pleasurable to live minute by minute. Reality has a tendency to be so uncomfortably real."

The climb up to Fimmvörðuháls Pass took every iota of energy I had. It was uncomfortably real. Including constant breaks to take off my backpack and sit down, this portion of the hike took a lot longer than it should have. I have never been more aware of my lack of physical fitness – but I made it! Other hikers did not struggle as much as I did, though it wasn’t easy for anyone. All three people I saw during this climb were fighting to the top. I was pathetically gasping for air and on the verge of vomiting by the time I got there.

But I got there. And this time, it really was the top. 

Finally.

4. Ice Land:

This was the actual Pass, Fimmvörðuháls, that crosses between the glaciers Eyjafjallajökull and Mýrdalsjökull (each with large, active volcanoes under their icy caps). It was here that I saw the landscapes I most wanted out of the whole endeavor. Mountains of ice on either side, snow and ice underfoot, whites and blues with stark black rock outcroppings. I was so far from home, but I felt…at home. I took my time wandering the trail, mesmerized by the sheer existence of a place like that. I drank water running directly from the glaciers, rubbed some ice on my face and neck. Despite walking for three days without bathing, I felt clean. 

Eyjafjallajökull.

Snow patches.

Ice.

As Neil Peart put it in Traveling Music:

"Fully appreciating the moment, I chuckled to myself and said, 'Just kill me now.' "

Why I'm here.

Kill me now.

5. Waterfalls:

Reaching the mountain hut, I knew it was time for the slow, long descent to Skógar. The trail here follows the Skógá River, which in my mind is not so much a real river as a series of waterfalls leading to the ocean. 

Falls.

River.

Falls.

More falls.

Yep.

Constant falls.

"We have an unknown distance yet to run, an unknown river to explore."

- John Wesley Powell, as quoted by Edward Abbey in The Journey Home

Mountain, falls.

Four falls in twenty seconds.

I honestly think there are something like thirty astounding falls in a row, broken up by several less-astounding falls. It’s like there’s more falling water than running river all the way to Skógar, the town where the final, dramatic waterfall – Skógafoss – greets tourists pulling off the Ring Road for a photo op (as I did in 2014). 

Locals.

Gorge.

More falls?

More falls!

Captivating.

And finally, Skógafoss.

Back in civilization, I staggered into a restaurant and ordered a victory meal: Fish and chips with beer. It was 7pm so I took a nap in a nearby hostel lounge chair until my bus came at 9pm, and I slept again on the whole ride back to Reykjavik City Hostel.

The God of Walkers

(Hyperborean Hopscotch 2017: Day Nine)

As I was finishing my last entry, about the first day of my Laugavegur hike, Facebook alerted me of a memory from two years ago. I had posted a quote from Bruce Chatwin's book In Patagonia:

"I haven't got any special religion this morning. My God is the God of Walkers. If you walk hard enough, you probably don't need any other God."

That is just about the most pertinent thought for my time in Iceland. It's also appropriate for today, as I think back through it all. I must have had the God of Walkers on my side. Or luck.

Anyway, back to August 23...

Toward Mýrdalsjökull, the glacier covering Katla volcano.

If we were going to finish the trail on day two, we had roughly 30km to go. While Ani and Sourabh made their breakfast I set off alone around 6am. They planned to catch up with me at the next stop.

Going it alone.

Crossing another small stream, my feet were refreshed in cold, cold water. After a long walk through magical lava fields surrounded by fairy tale mountains, I came to Hvanngil ravine with its smaller hut and campground, where I discarded trash I’d been carrying and refilled my water. Just after Hvanngil was a bridge crossing the Kaldaklofskvísl River, and farther south the unbridged Blafjallaksvísl River. This one came up over my knees and was maybe thirty feet wide. Very cold.

Another lava field.

River crossing.

From the bridge.

Cold, knee deep water.

The trail then led into a vast, time consuming desert plain of black sand. It was an unearthly, intriguing place, and it was easy walking. But it seemed to go on forever. When the way finally opened and turned down a mountain path, the hut Emstrur/Botnar came into view. I was more than ready for a break.

Desert.

In the desert, I remembered Abbey.

In the desert, I always remember Abbey:

"Life has come to a stand still, at least for the hour. In this forgotten place the tree and I wait on the shore of time, temporarily free from the force of motion and process and the surge toward - what? Something called the future? I am free, I am compelled, to contemplate the world which underlies life, struggle, thought, ideas, the human labyrinth of hope and despair."
- Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

There were no trees here. I would see those later.

Desert solitaire.

Eyjafjallajökull in the distance.

Anirudh and Sourabh caught up with me at Botnar as planned, where we ate lunch with a Belgian guy and a Brazilian girl. We all drank tea together, then Ani, Sourabh, and I left, expecting the other two to catch up soon after.

Glacier foot and river.

Anirudh’s knees didn’t seem to suffer as badly as Sourabh’s and mine as we climbed down a steep, steady slope to a bridge crossing Syðri-Emstruá canyon. 

Bridges.

The river below.

On the southern side we walked through the Almenningar valley and up another ridge with breathtaking views all around. 

Almenningar.

Greens, reds, greys.

360 views.

Rounding another ridge, the Belgian guy from lunch (I’ve forgotten his name) caught up with us, saying the Brazilian girl (I’ve forgotten her name) was too slow. She did eventually catch up but always wound up behind again. We all continued together for a couple hours, until tragedy befell the group. Something was wrong with one of Ani’s feet, possibly blisters, but he was in pain walking and announced that he could not continue for a while. He and Sourabh decided to set up their tent and stay the night so Ani could rest. I gave them a slip of paper with my name and email, we shook hands, and that’s where we parted. 

The Belgian and I continued on, but I was sad that my impetus to try the hike in two days – Anirudh and Sourabh – were no longer walking with me. For my journey, however, they had served a significant purpose: they put me a day ahead of schedule by suggesting the 2-day itinerary. It’s too bad that they ultimately had to wait until the following morning.

Into another lava field.

Somewhere after that, the Belgian stopped for a snack break. A high school physical education instructor and avid mountaineer, he was light-years beyond me in fitness. He was also a sincerely nice guy, but we didn’t have much in common. He was hiking the Laugavegur for sport, as exercise. I was there for something else. I opted to carry on when he stopped, hoping that would be the end of our alliance. 

Eventually I had to take my boots off again and cross the braided Þrönga River over into Þórsmörk Nature Reserve. Þórsmörk is a land of forests. Forests! It was such a strange thing to see forests on an otherwise treeless trek. (Þ is pronounced "Th" as in Þor - Thor.)

Trees!

Forest! Glacier!

Cave!

Field!

By the time I reached Básar Hut on the far side of another braided river (this one had bridges), I was exhausted, excited, and had been curiously rejoined by the Belgian. We would be hiking the Fimmvörðuháls Pass together.

At Básar, a motherly warden checked us into the campground and gave us two tips:
1. The night’s aurora forecast was about as high as it could be and the skies were mostly clear. Northern Lights were likely.
2. It would get well below freezing in the night. Expect to be cold.

I climbed into my sleeping bag with an alarm set to wake up and watch the sky. By the time the alarm sounded, both tips had come to fruition: I was freezing, but the lights were out!* It was really a stunning show, though not as vivid as some I’d seen in Alaska. I suspect at other times in the night it was even better, but I could only stay out of my tent for a few minutes before retreating back to my sleeping bag to warm up. After doing this several times, I gave up and fell asleep. Another big hiking day was ahead of me – the biggest of the trip – and I needed to get up early. I knew the Fimmvörðuháls would be tough for me.

I just didn’t know how tough.


*Again, I am not posting my aurora photos because my iPhone does not do them justice.

A World of Marvels

(Hyperborean Hopscotch 2017: Day Eight)

Awake, packed, and on the 6:40am bus to Landmannalaugar.

The driver was this hilarious local guy that told me about the "four" types of tourists he encounters, bemoaning how overwhelmed Iceland’s small population is with the influx of so many foreigners. His complaints were a mixture of heartfelt concern and playful jabs, though he assured me I was among the group of travelers of which he actually approves. He might say that to everyone he meets.
(I put "four" in quotes because while he repeatedly mentioned that there were four types, he skillfully avoided my direct request for an enumeration of them.)

On the four-hour ride to the starting point of the Laugavegur Trail, we drove through fields of geothermal steam, mountains, heavy fog, green mossy growth on volcanic rock, and noticeably, no trees. I remembered this from my first trip to south Iceland. No trees anywhere.

After stops in the towns Hveragerði, Selfoss, and Hella, eventually the bus turned inland towards the uninhabited interior and onto some seriously rustic roads. These were rocky and turbulent paths Tormund never would have survived. Dust kicked up through the bus’ passenger door, which I was inconveniently seated directly behind. I had to turn my head to avoid inhaling the dust directly as it created a cloud throughout the bus. Everything shook, rattled, rolled, and overhead baggage started falling onto passengers’ heads. One girl’s boots wound up by my feet – she was seated three rows behind me.

On the road to Landmannalaugar.

About thirty minutes from our goal, the driver stopped the bus to give us all a chance to photograph a lake, which appears to have been Frostastaðavatn on my map.

Frostastaðavatn (I think).

Finally at Landmannalaugar, I stopped briefly to buy a map from the park warden and get some quick directions, then began what was to be a great adventure…

It begins.

The Laugavegur Trail is the most well-known hike in the country and is considered by many to be among the world’s most beautiful due to its surreal landscapes that change repeatedly, offering diverse experiences along the 55km (34 mile) route. There are a handful of huts along the way, where hikers can either book a bed or tent camp outside. The standard length to complete the hike is four days, though many people do it in 3 or 2, and some ultra-athletic marathon runners have managed to do it in one long day. I don’t see the point in going somewhere so scenic and running through it as fast as possible. I was aiming for three days, plus an extra day to hike the Fimmvörðuháls Pass - 25km from the endpoint of the Laugavegur Trail down to the town of Skógar. That would make a total of four days on the trail for me. I knew it was possible that I’d need five and just to be safe I allotted six days for the journey. Owing to uncanny luck with weather and ambitious hiking partners along the way, I managed to stay well under that limit. And I saw a lot.

Rhyolite mountains.

The trail leaves Landmannalaugar through the lava field Laugahraun and climbs – gradually, then steeply – up to a plateau and the slopes leading further toward the peak of Brennisteinsalda mountain. This part of the trail is dominated by rhyolite rocks, greens, reds, tans, a couple hot springs, and finally snow. Conditions can be harsh here: cold, wet, foggy, stormy. I, however, hit none of that and made it to the first checkpoint without a hitch.

Laugahraun behind.

The path.

Snow, mountains.

“The love of wilderness is more than a hunger for what is always beyond reach; it is also an expression of loyalty to the earth, the earth which bore us and sustains us, the only paradise we shall ever know, the only paradise we ever need, if only we had the eyes to see.”

- Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

Geothermal vent.

Snow field.

At Hrafntinnusker, a hut and campground high up in the mountains, I stopped for lunch. I sat in awe of the twin peaks that make up Reykjafjell along with the taller Háskerðingur surrounded by snows and ice. With plenty of daylight and energy left, I made the call to continue to the second checkpoint Álftavatn, ensuring that the hike would take no more than four days.

Near Hrafntinnusker.

Down from Hrafntinnusker, the rhyolite gives way to palagonite and basalt paired with scattered ice patches. There are also a few ice tunnels, which are awesome to explore. It was here that I came upon Anirudh and Sourabh, an Indian trekking duo, the former living in Amsterdam and the latter in Seattle. Their personalities meshed well and this team of rovers made my time along the trail all the better for having met them. We talked of some of our other travels, and coincidentally Sourabh had been to the area of Alaska where I worked back in 2013. He and Anirudh were trying to finish the Laugavegur in two days, and I considered joining them on that mission. From the weather reports, I knew that the Fimmvörðuháls Pass would only have good weather for a couple more days before storms arrived. The earlier I got there the better.

Ice tunnel. 

Ice tunnel.

Light through the roof.

Anirudh (left) and Sourabh (right).

"I am here not only to evade for a while the clamor and filth and confusion of the cultural apparatus but also to confront, immediately and directly if it's possible, the bare bones of existence, the elemental and fundamental, the bedrock which sustains us."

- Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

Contrasting colors.

Sourabh.

Jared (me) with that stick I found in Reykjavik.

Scary thin ice and holes. Choose your path wisely.

"How big is that rock?"

Álftavatn dead ahead.

With the idea of a 2-day trek seeding, we reached our first river crossing at Grashagakvisl. Our boots were flung across to the opposite bank, then we rolled up our pant legs and walked through the ankle-high cold glacial stream. From there we had a mostly flat walk to Álftavatn (“Swan Lake”), where we talked to the park warden, ate dinner, set up tents, and walked around to watch the sunset on the mountains and water.

Crossing the stream.

We’d walked something like 24km that day, through a land of wonders, and arrived in one of the numerous (constant) highlights of the trail. For some reason, I had Edward Abbey in my head. One of my favorite authors, his work was largely about the American southwest. But his words sometimes make sense elsewhere:

"For a little while we are again able to see, as a child sees, a world of marvels. For a few moments we discover that nothing can be taken for granted, for if this ring of stone is marvelous then all which shaped it is marvelous, and our journey here on earth, able to see and touch and hear in the midst of tangible and mysterious things-in-themselves, is the most strange and daring of all adventures."

- Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

At the lake with Anirudh.

The campground was a city of backpackers and tents, all happy to be where they were. 

Arriving at Álftavatn.

I was one of these happy campers. I slept peacefully.

Good day. Good night.