Thoughtful Ride To Þjórsárdalur Camp

I had a meta-dream last night.  I was wandering around in a hotel, and I ran into a guy I knew in college named Kenny.  He was wearing pajamas and brushing his teeth.  I said: “Wow, I haven’t seen you in a while.  What have you been up to?”  He said nothing, just kept brushing his teeth.

I said, “Ah of course you can’t answer, this is a dream.”

He took out his toothbrush long enough to say: “You can’t tell me what to do in a dream!”

I said, “No, no, this is my dream.  And I don’t know what you’ve been up to, so I can’t dream you telling me!”

“Agree to disagree,” he said, and shook his head and kept brushing his teeth as he wandered away.

Ready for another day on the road!

Packing went well. Everything was dry, thanks to the wind and sun.

Fast-moving canyons of cloud cut the sunlight into miniature days, fading the landscape around me from gray and somber to green and dazzling and back to gray, over and over.

Now you see it ...

... Now you don't.

I the distance I could see the side of the first real mountain on my route, often showing sunlight when the terrain closer at hand was buried.

Frozen mountain top in the distance.

As I went up, the clouds came down, mingling with the terrain. Sometimes they would condense a bit too much and coat my bicycle and the road. There were almost no cars to break the silence.

The open space gave me time to think.

In the back of my head, I’d been wrestling for the past few days with the state of my romantic life. The last time I was in Iceland two years ago I was at a curious inflection point where I was newly single and considering the idea of staying that way, while I continued riding, somehow extending my three month visa into a journey much longer. Work, then the pandemic, altered my plans. This time, I didn’t feel like there was an inflection point. I knew I was on a trip with a limited timespan and I was fine with that. I also knew I had some romantic trauma to recover from but it was different in nature.

Probably the strongest evidence that things were different this time was that I felt like I knew who I was, rather than a stranger trying to rediscover himself. But there was still work to do.

Messy post-rain cloudscape.

My obsessive filing-clerk soul wants to nail everything down and remember it. So I’d been writing, for the last week or so in bits and pieces, about my last relationship and the way it ended. I was convinced that some useful insight would eventually appear. At the same time, I knew I was going through my own version of a process that everyone does, when things go wrong and pain happens and they need to get somewhere past it. You sift, and you think, and you talk, partly just to pass the time while the pain shrinks to something small enough to fit on a shelf where it won’t be underfoot. Maybe you pick something out that feels like a big insight, and that becomes the label you stick beneath it on the shelf. And maybe the insight you chose was just what was in front of you when you got tired of looking. Maybe it’s nothing more than a flourish, announcing that you can move on.

It’s a jaded interpretation, I know, but it’s useful for me: Obsession and documenting can unmoor my brain from the immediacy of life in a living body. Sometimes it helps to let some hot air out of that self-important balloon, and drift back to Earth.

I arranged the flight to Iceland just after I got vaccinated, when the country was still making tourism top priority and flights were dirt cheap. It seemed like the best idea, since I’d already tried dating for six months and my heart wasn’t in it. I even walked away from two promising starts, in favor of this long-term travel. Then in Reykjavik I had a vague feeling like I missed romance even though I was probably still bad at it. So I turned my dating profile back on and browsed around a bit, distracting myself from work and enjoying the diversity of people and their stories. Then I forgot it was there.

A week passed, and a couple “intros” appeared in my email, but they were inane one-liners like “hey how r you.” Easy to ignore. Then two days ago I got a message that caught my attention. The sender actually acknowledged I was in Iceland, which I’d written at the top of my profile, and asked some good questions!

I started a conversation with her over email that quickly snowballed into an avalanche of words. So at the same time I was trying to wrestle the story of my previous romance down onto the page, I was eagerly sharing brain-dump emails with this interesting new person, and there was so much more to talk about that I didn’t really feel like pondering my ex or what happened any more. I didn’t even care about searching for a nice label to put on the shelf. It felt like a waste of time.

Thinking back, I shouldn’t have turned the profile back on, in case something like this happened, because there is currently no way I can tell if I’m actually attracted to this person, and there won’t be a way for months. Today in the latest email we both acknowledged that, which put me in this thoughtful mood, and led me to a particular thought:

My ability to make records has outpaced my need for them. This trip needs to be less about processing, and more about letting go of the past, to make room.

One liter of reduced-fat milk: My constant companion in Iceland.

Enjoying the wacky weather.

Spot the sheep!

So I decided to close the file on my ex, and made no commitment to return. Maybe what happened with her could just be something that faded from memory without a lesson learned … or at least without a lesson identified. Maybe going back over it was just forcing me to relive the trauma. Maybe I would feel better, faster, if I just talked about all the rest of my life with this fun new person, and the rest of my family and friends.

More looking around and forward, less looking back.

I arrived at the campsite early, and wandered around until I found a spot that looked safe from the rain. I didn’t want pools forming under my tent. For the heck of it I decided to make a video while setting up camp:

That inflatable tent makes it so easy!

Ready for another evening.

Comfy as usual!

The soft patter of rain faded in and out as the clouds continued their march overhead. I ate snacks, listened to a few podcasts, made some notes, and generally drifted until sleep overtook me. It was still light outside of course.

Chilling in Árnes campground

This late in the season, campgrounds are often underpopulated. I awoke to find I was one of just three people. Everyone else had moved on.

A pretty good spot.

Drying out items before packing.

The tent did not appear to be leaking, but the air was so humid and cold that my sleeping bag and some of my clothing was damp, presumably from condensation due to my body heat and breath. The stuff I had under the alcove next to my bike was dry.

The changing weather gave me an hour of sunlight in the late morning, so I stacked everything on the roof. The meager heat and the air worked their magic.

It rained for most of the day.

The place was deserted for most of the day. Later on a busload of tourists would stop and most of them would order food from the restaurant. For now it was just me.

My shelter from the rain. Snacks, bathroom, and electricity!

I don't know where it came from, or why it's here in this tiny entryway.

I managed to synchronize my email and work materials, using the wifi in the store. Most of the day passed with my head down over the laptop, writing code and updating tickets and documentation.

Eventually the bus arrived and a crowd of other adventurers temporarily surrounded me. The company was welcome. Everyone was in good spirits regardless of the weather, and happy to get a warm meal.

People ordered food and clustered at the little tables, chatting about their lives back home. Some of them were actually Icelanders, taking the shuttle to reach friends elsewhere in the country. I overheard a trio of women talking in mixed English and Icelandic about e-bikes and scooters, and how disorienting it was to see them flooding the streets in the capital city over the last few years. “One of them almost clobbered me today!”

A little girl walked past my table into the bathroom area.  Her mother followed shortly after, and said, “Dear, you went into the gents bathroom” in a strong Indian accent.

The girl was mortified.  “Oh no,” she said, her voice echoing from behind the door.  She was already inside a stall. “Oh no! Oh nooooooooo!!”

“It’s okay; stay there,” said the mom, with the faintest hint of exasperation in her voice. She waited outside the room while her daughter finished up.

He plays the saxophone really well, and drives tour buses for extra income.

The most gregarious person there was the bus driver. I complemented him on his hat, and he told me the story of how he ended up driving a tourbus in Iceland. We would have chatted for hours except he had a schedule to keep, and soon he raised his voice and said “fifteen minutes, everyone!”

I got an ice cream cone and followed the crowd out to the bus, and waved at the driver.

Melty mid-day snack.

Cool people put this on their fries.

I lingered in the common area for as long as I could, continuing my work. Eventually they locked up for the night.

Committing to the highlands

It was an exciting morning. On today’s route I would reach an intersection, and if I turned left, I would be heading up towards the highlands. Or I could chicken out, and follow the coast. I still had a few hours to think it over. In the meantime: Breakfast!

Must ... eat ... baked .. goods!

Just beyond the bakery I found what looked like a great bike path right next to the road. After about 15 meters it dissolved. What a dirty trick!

Spontaneously ending a road is a dirty trick to play on a cyclist.

I put on my headphones and turned the cranks, enjoying the fresh air and the greenery. The traffic was heavier than usual, but the road was decently wide.

Fasten your seat belts!

I suppose it’s the increased traffic that makes these signs necessary. (“Munið Bílbeltin” means “remember the seatbelt.”)

I dig the highly visible vest!

My first cycling friend of the day! This well-prepared fellow was heading back towards Selfoss. He passed me as I stood at the fateful intersection, deciding if I was crazy enough to try for the highlands.

This is the intersection where I commit to a trip through some of the highlands.

Do I dare? Yes I do!

“If things get bad I’ll just turn around,” I told myself. Even though I’ve never done that before when things got bad. Hmmm.

I was suddenly reminded of a cartoon show where a little kid walks up to a door with a sign on it: “DANGER, DO NOT ENTER.” The kid stares at it, then proudly declares, “Hah! This sign can’t stop me, because I can’t read!” and flings the door open…

Pastoral goodness.

Perhaps danger lay ahead. For now, the road was easy and the landscape was delightful. Everything had that breezy “just rained on” feel.

Suspicious sheep.

Very pleasant riding out here.

It wasn’t long before I encountered more cyclists.

Fellow adventurers!

These folks could have told me about the route ahead, but there wasn’t quite enough room on the shoulder for an easy conversation.

Nearby the kids had a boombox blasting "Smells Like Teen Spirit".

I passed by a microscopic settlement – too small to be a town – and noticed a bunch of kids playing on a giant trampoline. I waved and they waved back.

For the next couple of hours I rolled along snapping photos of wildlife and listening to podcasts.

Resting where a pond used to be.

Hay is for horses!

Pleasant country riding.

More stuff that way than this way.

Up and away!

I'm not entirely sure what operation is happening here, but it looks difficult.

One of the more remarkable things I passed was a sheltered hillside with an actual forest growing on it:

Back home, I could get a shot like this in millions of places, especially if I went north towards Oregon. Here in Iceland, seeing this many trees in one spot is so rare it’s almost unsettling. It feels out of character for the country. That’s tragic of course, because a couple thousand years ago, forests like this were everywhere.

I imagined a whole menagerie of forest animals, enough to populate the island as it was, hemmed in together in this little patch of trees. Foxes, mice, and the occasional polar bear, all of them bouncing around like molecules in hot water, constantly finding an edge where the trees stop and turning around to run back into the darkness. Impatiently waiting for their territory to grow…

Still very much an open question whether that territory will ever grow, or just keep shrinking until the last tree falls over in the shallow soil…

The register display was stuck in self-test mode. I was amused.

Enjoying the weather and my hat flaps.

I arrived at Árnes campground in the evening, and paid for two days. I had room in the schedule, and I wanted to make sure I was rested and ready for the ugly roads ahead.

Tucked away in the tent.

The rain started again just as I stowed my gear. My phone said it would last most of the night. The internet was spotty, and I could only exchange a few delayed text messages with the folks back home. A sign of isolation to come?

Stopping in Selfoss

Today was one of those “rest and repair” days. I did get out for a little while, but mostly I stayed in the hotel doing a thorough tune-up of the bike, while the weird pale daylight spilled through the ground-level window of my sunken room.

Sunset at 11pm, sunrise at 4:00am. I hope you brought a sleep mask!

I’d been at this high latitude for weeks now, but it still felt strange to see the numbers for sunrise and sunset, right there in my weather app. It looked like some kind of software glitch.

For a good chunk of each evening, this bridge is a traffic jam.

During my outing I passed by the bridge into town, and it was just as clogged with traffic as before. What a serious mixed blessing for the local residents.

The river under the bridge was one of the largest I’d seen in all of Iceland. Dig that tiny island! I wonder how many people have tried to anchor a boat there and climb up. Humans love being on little isolated chunks of land. There’s something cozy about it. Perhaps the whole of Iceland has that advantage, relative to other places…

They're all too tiny to wear, but they're quite adorable.

I’ve seen sweaters shrink in the wash before, but this is ridiculous!

Those lovely birch-carved trout bits!

I poked around town a little more and eventually settled in another cafe. I had some research to do: Was it possible to take a detour up into the highlands, and see some of that amazing territory, without going too far out of my way or getting stuck on messy roads that my recumbent couldn’t handle?

Mapping things out carefully day-by-day, using Google Street View to inspect the roads when possible, and closely following the official Iceland bicycling map, I put together a plan:

Day 1:

Day 2:

Day 3:

Day 4:

Day 5:

Day 6:

I wasn’t very happy about the pricey hotel stay at the Highland Center, but it was obvious why they could charge so much: It’s the last facility with hot water, or rooms, or a restaurant before a long, rough road to the Landmannalaugar campground.

Beyond that hotel, I was also a bit worried about the roads. Gravel on hard-packed ground would be fine. Loose gravel with some depth to it, or patches of sand, or dirt softened by rainfall could force me to walk the bike for miles, and that would be annoying. Also the river crossings were an exciting unknown: Would I have to hold my bike up over my head and pick my way across loose stones in a fast current? Or would I just be shoving the bike across creek beds, with the water barely splashing halfway up the waterproof bags on my seat?

We shall see!

I made screenshots of my itinerary on the phone for easy reference, then rode back to the hotel. Time to start that bicycle tune-up.

As I worked on the bicycle I put the movie “Jungle Cruise” on in the background. A bit of brainless action to help the process along. Staring at the bike, I couldn’t help thinking about my relationship to it, and to travel in general.

Riding a bike doesn’t use the full range of movement that a human body can do. It’s actually pretty restrictive, especially on a recumbent. I could get the same exercise sitting at home on a stationary bike, and in that situation, whenever I stop pedaling I’d have my entire house around me, including a giant comfy bed and a pantry full of snacks. What else am I really getting, out here in the world, that’s worth the trouble and the expense?

Do I actually stop and touch the environment I’m pedaling through?  Yes, but sometimes not for hours. Is the air better out here than at home? Usually yes, but sometimes not, because of truck fumes and grit. The sun can be intense and the rain can be chilling, and indoors I’m safe from both. If my interaction with the world is primarily visual, couldn’t I get the same thing by planting the stationery bike in front of a television set? There are readymade products that do exactly this, complete with a fake 3D view of a fantasy world, or a processed recording of a real trail in some exotic place that crawls along at the same speed I pedal.

With that available, how does my desire to bike tour make any sense at all?

I guess there’s just something way down in my hind-brain that settles itself when I’m traveling, that doesn’t settle when the travel is simulated. Driving has this effect, but bicycling has it much more. I think it has to do with the idea of reducing my existence to a container – something smaller and more portable than everyday life allows – with my body at the center of it. It draws me back into my body.

The effect isn’t absolute. I still carry all my obsessions and interests, and I often feed them along the way with audiobooks. Also, I’ve been a computer programmer for so many years that you could pick me up and drop me in the middle of the Mongolian steppe, and I’d be standing there thinking CLC, REP #$30, LDA $00, ADC #$75, PLX, … “Oh, what a nice view.” … STA $2000,X, INX, BNE $2014 …. “Wow, the wind is amazing.”

That makes traveling for the memories a bit slippery.  Now that I’m middle-aged, a lot of the stuff that’s fixed in my brain is outdated engineering specs. Sometimes I have to knock my senses about pretty consistently to crowd the new memories in.

But that’s it, really: The idea of reducing my physical existence to something smaller, and then moving it. Call it a nomadic instinct. There’s something important about the movement itself; the fact that you’re never in the same place for too long. A feeling of safety or security in that.