Over the last pass

Time for one last day of riding in Iceland. From the map and my memory of two years ago, I knew it would be a tough one.

The oversize basket on the edge of town is there to lull you into a feeling of comfort:

There’s that big basket from last time!
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There’s that big basket from last time!

I squiggled up, and up, and the wind increased with the altitude. Rainclouds pelted me and then scooted over the horizon, making space for the next batch of rainclouds in hour-long intervals.

Dang, I don’t have chains!
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Dang, I don’t have chains!

The road won’t turn you to stone, but the wind will certainly scare you.
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The road won’t turn you to stone, but the wind will certainly scare you.

Hours passed and I burned a lot of calories, but it still seemed amazing how high up I was when I paused to take a photo of the town I’d left.

Quite a view up here.
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Quite a view up here.

Just before the plateau, the wind got especially bad, as I knew it would. I made a little video of my defiance:

If only the wind was blowing the other way, it would shove me right to the top of this range in less than half an hour. Instead it shoved rain directly into my eyes, making the sunglasses mandatory.

Who’s smug that he made it all the way up here in this insane wind? This guy!
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Who’s smug that he made it all the way up here in this insane wind? This guy!

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying the day. The weather could get aggressive and that was fine: It was the weather’s last chance!

When I reached the plateau I glanced at the turnout on my left and saw the cement blocks from the art installation two years ago.

The art installation has lost a bunch of portable TVs.
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The art installation has lost a bunch of portable TVs.

All those blocks used to have television sets perched on them. Now they’re gone, but there’s still an expository sign planted there. Perhaps the artist printed a different sign, inviting a different interpretation… But I didn’t get close enough to read it.

Finally reached the plateau.
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Finally reached the plateau.

The wind relented somewhat at the plateau, and the rainclouds moved past so quickly they barely had time to drop rain. The ground was still soaked, of course.

Large patches of moss appeared on either side of me, some large enough that it was more accurate to call them fields of moss.

That looks like a good spot for a nap!
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That looks like a good spot for a nap!

Water goes on top of and inside this mossy carpet.
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Water goes on top of and inside this mossy carpet.

Beware the gooseprints: They indicate goose poops nearby.
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Beware the gooseprints: They indicate goose poops nearby.

Quite a cool spot for napping.
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Quite a cool spot for napping.

I had to park and go wandering in, of course.

I only laid down for about 15 minutes. It would have been great to stay there an hour…

It’s like a big green mattress!
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It’s like a big green mattress!

Aaaah, time for a nap.
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Aaaah, time for a nap.

Right around here, I set down my rain cap and it blew off the back of the bike. I didn’t realize it was gone until I’d pedaled half a mile away and felt my head getting wet. Drat!

Around me the clouds drifted low, and did strange things to the light.

So many colors in these clouds.
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So many colors in these clouds.

Snow under late summer clouds.
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Snow under late summer clouds.

Dramatic lighting up here!
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Dramatic lighting up here!

Mesmerizing sunset colors.
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Mesmerizing sunset colors.

The feeling of being on the surface of some other planet grew intense.

The high elevation brings the clouds closer.
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The high elevation brings the clouds closer.

Narrow band of horizon.
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Narrow band of horizon.

As if to complement this rugged weather, I got a random text message from my nephew Nick, asking about rugged ancestors:

“Didn’t you say that grandpa is part Mongolian at some point?”

I spent some time narrating an answer into my phone, and sent it in pieces.

“Well, there’s no recorded history for his family on his father’s side, before they left the Volga river settlements.  No one knows whether they were there for 50 years, or 150 years. With marriage traditions what they were, that’s as much as seven generations. It looks like somewhere along the line, someone with epicanthal folds on the outside of their eyes must have gotten involved. There’s no documented evidence for it other than ‘your grandpa’s father was born of a group of people who collectively all lived in X place for somewhere around 100 years’, though.  Which isn’t much to go on.”

“Even less information is available for your grandpa’s mother, who was part of a large family that moved down from Canada shortly before she was born.”

Garrett: “Does the ’51’ mean you’re five-foot-one at this point?” Ben: “Hah! No I was six-foot-two. ’51’ is the year I graduated.”
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Garrett: “Does the ’51’ mean you’re five-foot-one at this point?” Ben: “Hah! No I was six-foot-two. ’51’ is the year I graduated.”

Hazel, 1924
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Hazel, 1924

“On the other side, your grandma’s mother is from a ‘black Irish’ family, the ‘black’ referring to their dark hair.”

Sonya on the right.
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Sonya on the right.

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“And her father, Hans, was born in Denmark and comes from a large Danish family that crossed the Atlantic more-or-less together when he was a little kid.”

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“Companies like 23andme do their best to nail down certain genetic trends to certain regions by correlating documented evidence and family anecdote with sequenced genes, but when it comes to the last 200 years or so in Europe and Asia, things get vague quickly.”

“Besides, as I am fond of saying, ‘your genes are not special; the way you were raised is special.’   You and me and grandpa and grandma are all from families that place a high cultural value on education and graciousness as the route away from not-too-distant poverty.  Which is why we all feel more comfortable around people who embrace the same, no matter what they look like or where they got their genes.”

That fun diversion, including looking up the various photos I used as illustration, carried me across the plateau and down the first run of dramatic, whooshing descents towards the town. When I came around the arm of the mountain and saw lights in the distance I paused for a snack and a photo.

Good ol’ Valoria, always ready to stop for a photo — and hold my snack while I’m taking it.
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Good ol’ Valoria, always ready to stop for a photo — and hold my snack while I’m taking it.

It was the same spot where I’d paused two years ago.

A night-time approach photo to match the one from two years ago.
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A night-time approach photo to match the one from two years ago.

One more whooshing descent, burning the brakes, and I arrived in Seydisfjordur. Only order of business: Check in and go to bed.

The hostel room was quite cozy.  No one in the building was wearing a mask, even in the common lounge area, which I could only shrug at.  The rules have always been loose at tourist-heavy spots.

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