þriðjudagur, 24 júlí

( Photo courtesy of Simon K. Leung)

A beautiful day - sky a deep blue, cool temperatures. The big yellow bus took us to the edge of a snowfield on Mt. Snækollur, 1400 m high. We walked over some scree hills and saw some amazingly huge chunks of obsidian. As some who picked up a few choice black and brown pieces soon discovered, it's also quite sharp. The snowfield that we would have to cross without crampons or ropes, unfortunately, was a little too icy so our group split into two groups - I joined the Mutineers (nice call, Simon!), and we set out to hike the adjacent Mt. Fannborg, 1453 m high.

Mt. Snækollur


The first section was uneventful, over some of the same dirt/scree hills that we'd initially started on, but then we hit a snowfield where we had to dig in the footholds a little better. I was at the end and stopping in the middle of a slope, even though one of very, very slim avalanche potential, was just a little unnerving for me. It's pretty interesting what intuitions you carry with you to other geographical regions where those internal red flags may be meaningless...









But we made it across and then somehow missed the path (everyone but Sue, that is), and the scree slope from hell started slipping on yours truly again. Now, the 1,000' of scree above me was of a troublesome potential, so I got as flat to the hill as possible and made it over that loose area. Oh, was I ever sweating it out until I got to firmer ground!

Soon, though, we rounded the hill and were on the final zigzap path to the edge of the plateau where the summit was located. Since trouble occurs in threes, the wind kicked up and again I leaned a little close to this large-ish mound of rock, snow, and ice! The view all the way up and from the top was spectacular! Both Hofsjokull and Langajokull were right there in front of us, and we could even see the northwestern edge of Vatnajokull south of us. I really can't describe how incredibly clear the air was that day - I applied sunscreen every hour, I think - but all the details of snow on adjacent hills, rivers, lakes, steam vents - if they were in our line of vision, we could see them.

On top of Fannborg, Hofsjökull in background

Ian had brought his nifty little tripod and we all took turns taking pictures. Some, of course, were more detail-oriented than others, and I believe I heard a certain 22 year old in our Mutineers group mutter, "I'm adopted..." when his father took a little more time than everyone else to set up his picture, hehhehheh! We ate lunch, took in the views, and started down.

The Mutineers

I was not looking forward to a return visit to the evil scree and snowfield. Just wasn't. And others must have read my mind because alternative routes back to the parking lot (which we could see) were now being discussed. It was decided to walk down a snowless gully to the eventual stream (which we couldn't see but that we knew was there by an earlier discussion with Sólla), follow that stream, and end up at Hveradalur, the Boiling Valley, where we could also meet up with the rest of the group. Let me tell you, scree skiing is awfully fun, and it was an efficient and safe way off the mountain! We hiked over and around a colorful hill or two, started smelling the sulphur, and soon were at a stream that we had to cross a couple of times. The sulphur smell never left us on this leg of the hike, and we could see greens, blues, oranges, and yellows of various substances along the streambed as well as in the mini-hotsprings that dotted the landscape, sometimes just a few feet from the edge of the water. Just amazing. We watched our step here because we didn't want to boil our feet, boots and all.

Aprés-scree

Around one curve we found a sweet little stand of alpine cotton and decided that we should probably start up the hillside to the parking lot pretty soon. It was rather humorous and maddening at times, the one step forward slide two steps back ratio that this clay/silty mix gave us in the way of traction and upward movement. But we made it, saw the parking lot, and then were able to see the Boiling Valley.

Hveradalur

Some of the group walked back down a path to the junction of the stream we'd been following and the stream that would eventually wind its way past our camp, and some of us sat and soaked in the warmth of the sun (which lessened each time the wind blew). Even though they were a good half mile away, you could hear the jetting vents with a roaring noise that got louder depending on which way the wind was blowing. There were many fun and thoughtful conversations during this waiting period, and I think we were all pretty pleased that we'd made it to the top and down without incident!

Back at camp, Sveini, Greg, and Janet had been busy digging a pit and lining it with rocks and charcoal to prepare it for roasting 4 savory legs of lamb, Icelandic-style. We also had a wonderful salad of fruit and vegetables, baked red onions and garlic cloves - what a feast! The lamb was so good - I was surprised to find that there was still some leftover for lunch tomorrow, some of which I promptly scooped up for a sandwich in the morning! The fancy plastic wine goblets were brought out, beer fished out of the river, and we all had a grand time. We would be packing up in the morning to do some last minute sight-seeing on our return to Reykjavík.









(better count their sheep, if not just their feet...)

I listened to the sounds of the stream, the quiet of the mountains that only echoed the occasional neigh of the corral of Icelandic horses several hundred yards away, and wondered when I would ever be in such a quiet place again. And then the wind kicked up as it blew down the valley from the glacier, and as I curled up lower in my sleeping bag (and bundled in several sweaters, longjohns, and a wool cap), I was ever-so-thankful for the mallet that I'd used to hammer in the posts for my tent fly.