The Iceland Travel Journal, week 2

 

Hveragerði, Sun, Mountains. Sat 04.05

After lunch yesterday, I packed my bicycle out behind the Bónus and went for a walk up the slopes, where I received my first dose of the famed sulphur air. The Misty Valley, which is what Reykjadalur translates to, is covered in uncountably many pores, large and small, which, all day long, excrete thick plumes of water vapour with all kinds of volatiles dissolved in them. As I hiked the area, and, upon realising that it had become rather too late to hit the road again, especially being unsure that I even really wanted to, I checked into the local campsite. A lucky find: running water, a toilet, even a kitchen, even a shower! Of course I let the wonderful soapy water grace my epidermis for the first time in almost a week proper. I am also gearing up to do so again as I write. 

Today’s hike in the sunny weather alone would’ve been enough of a reward for the injustices incurred at my internship; amazingly I have an entire month of more such left! This hike took me from my campsite in Hveragerði; up the ridge, to a point where one can almost see the Þingvallavatn, the larger lake in the south-west, called Reykjadalur; indeed this was the ridge that Duli showed me earlier in the car! At the apex of my path, after a wonderful bathing session in the hot spring runoff, during which I caught a glimpse of some immaculate breasts, I wrote the poem which precedes this journal entry. The whole time I was debating whether to try a tab, but I think I will wait for warmer weather for all that. Hopefully my travels take me to all the important sites. As I sit here with three eggs and cod liver dissolving in me, as well as a titanic volume of milk (I spent over seven hours hiking today), I feel the joy of travelling truly spread its way through my entire organism. 

Moving on to Selfoss. Sun 05.05

A slow morning here. Tent dried. Will pack up my stuff, restock, and make way for Selfoss now. A good weekend.

*later* A phenomenal weekend! As I enter Selfoss, I make my way towards the Bobby Fischer Centre, as by my count it was to close within the hour. As I enter the small, unseeming house with corrugated steel for walls, I am greeted by a small congregation of visitors. It did not take me long to notice camera personnel, and I soon learned that I was in the presence of some real chess legends. 

Firstly, a nice old man with a distinctly Icelandic accent, but high German fluency by name of Guðmundur Þorarinsson, born 1939, an important organiser of the match, and a close friend of Fischer’s. Then, I was able to speak with WGN Dana Reizniece-Ozola, who had been visiting the centre as part of her managerial activities at FIDE, who are producing a documentary to commemorate their 100th anniversary. She was the former finance/economic minister of Latvia, and was attended by her family. She played a game against Gunnar Björnsson, the President of the Icelandic chess Federation; him and Þorarinsson share roughly a quarter of the total history of its presidency.

Aldis, the manager of the centre, kindly offered me the coffee and Icelandic doughnuts which were left over from this reception which I gate crashed, and I got to watch an interesting documentary about the whole thing.

After this, I visited the church at which Fisher is buried, and after beholding both his grave and the interior of the church, I exit and am greeted by a sunny shower and a stunning rainbow! Some days simply evade explanation.

Tripping on acid in a grove. Mon 06.05

Today, I made a good number of mistakes. Firstly, I woke late, and remained lying on my mat for a while longer than I knew would be ideal. Somehow, the app for Instagram had found its way back into my phone, so I did that for a good while rather than face the day. I had just slept off the relative (considering the day I had yesterday on its own) disappointment at having missed the aurora behind the cover of clouds. Having spent some time in the common room of the Selfoss campsite to warm up, I returned to my tent last night, feeling some mild resentment towards this living situation I had placed myself in with all this effort. My tent seems smaller than it did upon the first night, despite my marked improvements at keeping the whole thing in tension, the inner lining separate from that of the water resistant main material, the inner packing plan, everything. I must’ve assembled the bastard close to ten times by now.

I decided that the time was right for a nice, relaxing day with no travel strains associated with it, so I moved to remain here at Selfoss for another night.  Not realising that I would make good to use it, I left my sunscreen at the tent as I departed for a wonderfully looking north-western side of the Ölfus, overlooking the town, to ingest the first of a total six tabs. I was very lucky today at having been rained on only twice, and only minorly damaging my €10 poncho, from which a beautifully symmetric torus of material became removed. It wasn’t until the supermarket afterwards, that I realised just how severely sunburnt I had been. Among the again mentioned staggering beauty of the lands, with their charred mountains and orange streams, a funny sight during the closing stages of the trip was a massive monster truck driven by by two beltless ”milf-hunters” as they declared themselves upon the sticker on their vehicle.

Back at the campsite, collapsing onto the common room table, I realised there isn’t enough tea in the world to right this wrong.

Leaving Selfoss slowly. Tue 07.05

I tested the above hypothesis very heavily last night. Eventually, as I lay in my tent with 3 cups of tea inside me, I realised that it was wrong. With the tab still very much working its magic, and the rain impinging on my tent like the artillery shells of an army of ants, I felt the most comfortable I have in a long time. The guy ropes held, the remain tension, everything fine.

After another larger breakfast this morning, which extended into lunch as the rain prevented me from embarking, I thought to myself at the time was ripe to move along. At the supermarket just now, an employee pushing cards grunted something at me. This place is beginning to reject me, and I it.

*later* 60 km later, and I find myself in a guest house in the vicinity of the Geysir. The place is higher in price by a considerable factor than any other region so far visited. After a cycle through constant light rain and some nice rolling hills covered in some sort of purple growth alongside the usual bumpy, at this time of year still blonde grass, the prior of which I was unable to take a good look at, I passed the 200 km mark today, in terms of total recorded cycle distance. As I enter Geysir I noticed the rather more fenced off areas of the natural landscape, such as a simple crater, for which entry cost 500 IK. The campsite was closed, so, after this most long stage of the trip, and, especially in anticipation of the next, even worse one, I checked into a guest house called Geysir Hestar, a nice, homely farmhouse in view of the water jet 3 km away. My clothes will be dry by daybreak.

Attempted Kjölur, Night & Gulfoss Thu 09.05

Yesterday marks the first real interruption in my trip, and also exactly 4 weeks remaining. As I departed Geysir Hestar, I made quick way back down to the Geysir which I traversed the previous day upon which the weather was far worse, where I met Dieter again, the man from the Norröna, who had booked a bus ride with Reykjavík excursions to see both it and the Gulfoss; which was also next on my list.

As I approach the latter, having witnessed some more impressive geological activity in the dryer, higher bowl of the central West/Golden Circle, such large fountains of roughly 20 m of 250°C hot water, I reached my first road closure at the upper end of the Gulfoss. Dieter had, after buying me a beer and reaching the Gulfoss just prior, sent me a photo of the ominous looking sign I now stood in front of, which he called the beginning of the end of the world.

Beyond the sign, there were no more smallish rental cars to be seen, only the most massive 4 x 4 vehicles imaginable. Quite similar to the balloon like tires of the milf-mobile encountered at Selfoss, most likely inflatable on the push of a button, these vehicles clearly shit on fuel efficiency in the name of terrain-worthiness. I soon found out why, as roughly 20 km into the close section of the 35, the gravel began, 10 km after that, and after an absurd climb of 2 to 4 km length, the snow closed my path for good. Sitting in disbelief for a while, among the clouds, I ensured there was no way through by asking passers-by. Upon confirming, I aborted the attempt and began my descent to a kinder, warmer altitude, where I spent the night. Now, back up Gulfoss, planning my next move.

Planning and Resolve, Reykholt. Fri 10.05

We entered double-digit May last night. I spent a while longer at the Gulfoss yesterday afternoon, finally consulted the guide, and came to a staggering realisation: I had been scarcely 100 m lower in height than the professed highest point of the Kjölur-piste when I decided to turn around. Upon learning this piece of information, I knew that my original plan had to be upheld. Near the foot of the Bláfell, a long descent to the glacial lake Hvitavatn is to begin, from which point onwards the hut at Hveravellir is only roughly 40 km away. Of course, there was the issue of snow, but I think, as of now, that I will only need the snow line to recede by about 100 m before it can become feasible to cross the comb of the mountain, which, with the changing seasons, is looking like it could happen within the week. Starting Tuesday, the weather will be in good conditions for around three days, which is hopefully all that I will need to get to Blönduós.

With my resolve met, I spent a bit more time at the foot, inspecting the other side of the Gulfoss which I had neglected the day before, whereupon a fellow cyclist working at the facility offered me a free coffee and a dense Oreo-doughnut to boot. Simon, who appeared to be eagerly eyeing my bicycle for sometime, eventually came to greet me through the emergency exit. I had been eating some nuts in front of. A blessing in a time when spirits were low.

I decided to go to the 30 km distant town of Reykholt to resupply and take a weekend. My plan is now to hitchhike back to the Gulfoss with full supplies, to start again on the earliest moment at which the weather turns. Now to the gas station for supplies.

Missing a historic solar flare. Sat 11.05.

The song of what I initially misapprehended as some type of starling is beginning to bore holes into my skull. It always starts the same way: some off-tune, halfway forte descending sequence, almost like the bird announcing its name, which progresses into a totally random sequence of trills, chirps, and hisses, almost like a stock foley recording of a malfunctioning android. It’s plumage, which I inspected the next morning, indicates its species membership to be unknown to me, despite its song being startlingly similar to each starling I have seen. As if prompted by distant fellows, whose calls reverberate across the open, irrigated field that is the Reykholt campsite, the calls are emitted, radiated out from its remarkably tiny lungs, roughly once every 10 seconds, all throughout the day. A Stasi officer would have done well to craft similarly hostile sleeping conditions, coupled with these ever-bright high-latitude summer nights.

Yesterday, the entire day was one milky, rainy mess of boredom and recuperation. It was also, to my dismay, the night of a historically strong solar flare, which I simply missed behind the cover of cloud. The irony of having travelled all this way only to miss this phenomenon is scarcely lost on me. Hopefully my luck in this regard will soon turn.

I prepare to leave the Reykholt campsite behind, not precluding one last supply trip to the gas station. I think I will spend the night at Fluðir, Whether there is meant to be a hot spring, possibly accessible at a large discount for campsite visitors. This will hopefully lift my spirits again, after a hard week with some considerable setbacks. I should do well to get the bike into good shape for the 190 km journey which lies ahead. I must shower, I can firmly feel the accumulation of grease and dead skin on my body.