I packed up my campsite, then rolled through town to the fancy hotel room. I needed to spend one more day here to line up my schedule with the room I’d booked on the 13th, 52 miles to the east.
After my conversation with Paul I realized that I was probably doing things too formally, and I could just ride out to the hotel even though they were fully booked, and ask to pitch my tent on the lawn behind their building while waving 40 bucks at them. These hotels are generally not big regulated chains, but privately owned establishments run by locals who can bend their own rules when they feel like it. And 40 bucks is 40 bucks, right? Not a bad profit for letting a guy sleep on a patch of lawn for 10 hours and maybe use your toilet. I mean, I’d take that deal, if the guy didn’t seem too sketchy.
But that wasn’t the groove I was in just now. In fact, today I wanted to just enjoy my fancy discounted room and luxuriate in a bed that didn’t need inflating, and use a private shower without a timer.
The fanciest hotel room of the whole trip, I suspect. Got it on a deep discount.
With the bike indoors, I decided to clean and tune it, since it was way more comfortable lying on a clean floor than wet grass. As I wiggled around tightening bolts, I could feel my body flexing in ways that I was unable to make it do just a month or so earlier. Burning well over 5000 calories a day has benefits.
It wasn’t until dinnertime that I realized I’d washed all my socks at once. I reluctantly squished my feet into a pair and headed for the fancy hotel dining room. Everyone there was well-dressed, and my sweater and pants were classy enough but my gross socks were something a teenage boy would wear. I was probably the only person to notice. I ordered the soup of the day, plus a piece of Arctic char, a hamburger, and a mug of hot chocolate. The fries were extra crispy and combined amazingly with the fish. I only managed to eat half the food, so the rest came with me to the room in a cardboard box.
I wondered how much of the meal had been brought to Iceland on a container ship. Certainly the potatoes, the beef, and the chocolate. Also the cardboard box, napkins, table, and chair were imports, since those were wood. Oh, and the cotton tablecloth. And the silverware. And… I realized the list could go on and cover almost everything around me. Including me.
Global commerce is weird. When I’m in this hotel, am I even technically in Iceland at all?
I awoke well-rested but very hungry. Today would be a day of stuffing my face, and catching up with the digital world.
But first: Laundry! I washed my unmentionables in a bathroom sink, then hung them on the guylines of the tent to dry. It’s practical, and also a sort of theft deterrent, like hanging up a sign that reads: “Keep out, a gross person lives here!” Gross people are unpredictable.
Icelanders may be honest, but other Icelandic tourists? I do not trust them any more than tourists anywhere else.
I had to put more air in the front tire, but the leak was still too slow to patch. What worried me was not the leak, but something else: The tire felt warped. I could feel it bumping along even on perfectly smooth road. All that churning on gravel had torn something inside it. I could patch a tube over and over, but a ruined tire was a much bigger problem. Would I be dealing with that soon?
Along the way I noticed a building I hadn’t seen in yesterday’s gloom. A funky modernized convent!
Apparently it’s a reconstruction of a convent. I never did find the time to wander inside. ("Hey, were there any interesting things in there?" "No; nun!!" WHA-CHAAAAAH)
Apparently it’s a reconstruction of a convent. I never did find the time to wander inside. ("Hey, were there any interesting things in there?" "No; nun!!" WHA-CHAAAAAH)
Settled in at the restaurant, I looked ahead on the map for places to stay. I needed to lay out some stepping stones. There was one AirBnB with a free room, but I would have to spend an extra day here in Kirkjubæjarklaustur to line up with it. I decided to cash in some “points” from another travel website and get a fancy room for that night, at a deep discount. That done, I started processing my backlog of photos and notes.
Out the window I saw a guy pull up his bike next to mine. He was clearly on tour, and his gear looked very worn-in. On top of a windbreaker he was wearing a fluorescent construction vest, and had a look about him that Billy Connolly would call “windswept and interesting”. When he came in, he noticed my helmet resting on the table and asked, “Is that your rig out there?”
“Yep!” This led to the standard couple of questions about what it’s like riding a recumbent.
“Hmm, flat accent,” he said. “I’m guessing American. But from where?”
“Oakland, California! Right across the bay from San Francisco.”
He introduced himself as Paul, from Minnesota. A teacher of social studies, to 5th grade kids.
“I’ve been on the road for three weeks. Started in Keflavik, and I’m going clockwise. I’ve got a week left.”
This meant he’d managed to go almost entirely around the island in three weeks, and here I’d only barely crossed a third of it.
“I did the Westfjords,” he said. “All the way out to the edges as far as I could, in the north and northwest. I wanted to get off the beaten path.”
We chatted about our routes for a while and I described my detour through the highlands. He listened enthusiastically. I told him how easy it had been to cross the rivers.
“I was expecting big rushing things, like in the midwest after a storm. Like, take all the bags off the bike and hold it up over your head and wade across. But it was nothing like that.”
“Yeah,” he said. “A couple of the locals I talked to said this was a drought year for them. Some places are just dry.” He pointed to a spot on the north side, using the map on my screen. “Like, there’s no river here at all right now.”
“Dang.”
“Yeah, they used to say you didn’t need to carry water on this whole route because you could just get it out of the river. This time they warned me to take my own supply.”
Paul was definitely a tougher, lighter traveler than me. “I ride in a pair of sandals, with no socks. No raincoat. I don’t care if I’m wet or not. I just go!”
We talked some more about weather and traveling through Iceland in general He mentioned that he’d visited the country nine years ago. I asked what had changed since then.
“Oh a lot. When I came here in 2012 it was on a layover, so I didn’t have a lot of time. They really wanted tourism, so they had this deal where you could do an extended layover and they would throw some stuff at you for free in a tour package. I did that for a day and went to The Blue Lagoon, then I left the tour and rented a car. There was one car rental place in the entire country. I had a day left, so I drove up to the Geysir and parked close to it. There’s a visitor center there now but back then there was nothing. Nothing there; nobody around. I popped the rear hatch of the car and slept with it open, facing the geyser.”
“Wow! That must have been surreal.”
“For sure. It’s kind of crazy coming back now and seeing how different it all is. But, they did what they wanted. They wanted tourism, and they sure got it.”
I nodded. “Yeah. And they’re running with it. All the signs outside every town with the little symbols on them, all the guides and maps…” I pointed at the screen again. “This bicycling map here is incredible. I’ve never seen a map like this of a whole country. And they not only mark the hills on it… They mark two different kinds of hills, and they mark them in both directions!”
“And the people are helpful too!” he added. “On this trip, I was at a restaurant, and I asked the waitress if she knew what the road was like up ahead. She didn’t know, but she got on the phone and called the visitor center in the next town and asked them, and translated for me. All her idea. Wonderful!”
“Totally! That reminds me of this sign I saw a few days ago…” I flipped through pictures and showed him the one from the “Mountain Mall”, with the sign hanging behind the counter. It read: “BE NICELANDIC!” And scrawled beneath it in smaller letters: “Don’t be an Iceland dick!”
He chuckled at that.
He was curious about my work situation. Was my boss okay with me working so far from home?
“It actually works better,” I said. “My whole department was exiled from the building so the company could meet COVID restrictions. Since we’re all remote, the total occupancy of the building stays down. Now the scientists can set a regular schedule, and get in to run their experiments. Also, the time zone difference is an advantage because most of the other software developers live in Europe!”
I patted the laptop on the table between us. “I just have to make sure this thing doesn’t break. I’ve got backups of the info on SD cards and stuff, but it would be really hard to get a new laptop out here.”
He laughed. “Yeah. I used to bring a laptop with me. A Macbook Air, one of those really light machines. But the department said they would get me an upgrade, and I thought about it, and asked them for an iPad instead. I just do email and lesson plans and stuff. Works great. And I’m not working on this trip, so I didn’t bring a keyboard or anything.”
“Awesome! That saves a pound right there!”
“Yeah! There are things that bug me though. Like, I have one of those Garmin devices like you do, but it needs the Garmin Basecamp app. Well, they don’t have an iPad version. So I can’t put maps on the device. And for this trip, I said okay, I’ll load the Iceland map in advance, no problem. Then I got here and there was some glitch and the map wasn’t on my Garmin. So for three weeks I’ve been able to track where I’ve been, but without the map I’ve had no idea what’s coming.”
“So every day is a surprise!”
He laughed. “You could say that…”
“So, you’ve been in Iceland for three weeks… Is this part of a larger trip?”
“Well my plan is to ride all the way around the world, in segments. So, I have Kazakhstan, Mongolia, and China and then I’m done. This summer a lot of stuff was still shut down, so I flew to Seattle and went east across the US, and there was time left before school, so I tacked Iceland on the end.”
“That’s amazing! And a lot of ground to cover.”
“Yeah! I’ve learned a lot. I started each trip with a little less gear. Now there’s not much I could strip out. I have one pair of shorts. I have one shirt. People say ‘you pack your fears,’ so at this point I guess I don’t have a lot of fear. I used to bring food for days, and now I pack maybe one meal. People are generous, and it’s nice to get a free dinner, but I don’t rely on that. I just get to the next place quickly enough and I buy a meal when I get there.”
“That sounds like nearly the opposite of the way I travel.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I pack so much stuff. I don’t know how much is based on fear. Maybe a lot. Like, I must be afraid of getting a bad night’s sleep, because a huge amount of my weight is sleep related.”
“Like what?”
“Well there’s the tent. It could be smaller for sure, but I have this giant sleeping bag. And the sleeping bag has an inflatable mattress that’s like two pounds just by itself. And I have an actual down pillow in a stuff sack. I tried a few inflatable pillows but they felt awful. I could use my laundry as a pillow, but I already use that as a body pillow and hold it against my side while I sleep, because I have to be a side-sleeper to deal with my sleep apnea. Oh and I have long johns and socks just for wearing in the sleeping bag. And a mask, and earplugs…”
I gestured outside at the bike, parked by the window. “See those huge bags on the back? That’s all sleeping stuff. Sleeping bag on one side, tent and everything else on the other.”
“Huh!” he said. “Yeah, I think my version of that juts fits in one bag.”
“Yep, yep. So, there you go: I live in fear of a bad night’s sleep. I also bring a lot of gadgets, because I love gadgets. I don’t think that’s a fear thing. Maybe fear of boredom?” I shugged. “But I can definitely say, I have a lot less fear about the whole idea of bike touring, and being on the road, and improvising. My fears are smaller than they used to be, for sure.”
“What’s the biggest change?” he asked.
I thought for a bit. “My fear of other people. Well, actually, something more specific about that. My fear of people in places that I only hear bad things about in the news back home.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “You wanna know what my favorite country in the whole world is?”
“What?”
“Albania! Who do you know back home, who has some vacation time saved up, and says, ‘I want to go see Albania’? Nobody.”
“Yeah. Former USSR country, right? I only hear about that region when there’s some kind of war going on.”
“I know, right? But… The country is just beautiful. I’ve never seen so many gorgeous mountains all crammed together. And the people are so nice. There’s a cultural tradition of giving hospitality to travelers. I swear, I went from place to place and people would ask what town I came from, and it was like they would compete. ‘Oh they fed you? You stayed for free? Our food here is better. Our house is better, come stay in our guest room. We’ll show you what real hospitality is. Tell us your stories.’ It was the most amazing travel experience. Day after day of these really kind and curious people and beautiful mountains.”
“Huh! And from what we hear back home, I would expect to be shot or kidnapped if I went there.”
“It’s ridiculous. Good luck trying to change anybody’s mind. They’ll never go. But I don’t want to overstate it. I mean, there’s also stuff going on there. Like, initially I wanted to go north. I thought I would go into Romania and then Ukraine, and keep going east from there. And I actually got near the Ukrainian border, close to Moldova, and I met up with some people on the road. They had guns. And they weren’t threatening exactly, but they told me I probably shouldn’t go into Ukraine, because things were messy there. They were rebels.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yeah, their tone wasn’t angry, but they said ‘There’s nothing for you there.’ So I took the hint.”
“Uh, yeah. Good idea.”
“I went back, and down into Bulgaria, and went east into Turkey instead. Through Istanbul, and along the northern coast.”
I excitedly showed him the scrapbook of routes I’ve been gathering, including a zig-zag through Turkey and Georgia. He traced out the roads of his own journey, and I asked him questions.”
“How much of a language barrier did you have there?”
“Well, I speak some Spanish, French, and German, and that got me by, until about here.” He put his finger down on Istanbul. “After that, it was harder. The World War II generation speaks some German, but with the youth, I mostly spoke English to them and that worked better. I don’t know any Turkish or Greek.”
I felt encouraged by that. I told him about my ongoing attempt to learn Russian, and he said that would definitely help in Georgia. “I think it’ll probably be good that you speak Russian with an American accent,” he said.
“Yeah…” I said. “You didn’t have any trouble being American there, did you? Did you have to tell people you were Canadian or something?”
“Oh no. No trouble. But I didn’t go that far north. There’s an area the Russians invaded in 2008. I passed by that. And it’s weird; it’s not like America where everyone is kind of on the same page with current events. There were parts of the country where it just didn’t seem to matter who I was. And parts where there was just nobody around.”
“Like, open country?”
“More like, small towns, and structures that nobody cared much about — or policed anyway. Like, I remember coming to this ruined Byzantine church. It could have been 500 years old, or it could have been 2500. Nobody in it, nobody around for miles. I set my sleeping pad at the foot of the altar and spent the night there.”
“That must have been surreal.”
“Oh yeah. I remember looking around at all the tiles on the walls and thinking about how vibrant they must have been, like, a hundred years ago. And about all the ceremonies and the words people spoke, and how many times the building was reconstructed in the same spot, maybe for thousands of years. I had this massive feeling of how temporary everything is. How temporary I was. I mean, we’re here and we’re gone in the blink of an eye, and we barely even get to look around. Most of us never get the chance at all.”
“Yeah… And I wonder, what would those people a thousand years ago have thought, if they could see into the present, and see the church fallen into disrepair, and then this one cyclist coming along with a sleeping pad…”
We pondered that for a moment in comfortable silence.
“Well,” I finally said, “you must be starving, eh?”
“Ravenous. I’m going to order some food and then let’s keep talking, yeah?”
“Sounds good! I’ve got lots more touring questions to ask you.”
And I did. The conversation was slower because Paul was devouring several dinners at once, but I got a lot more information out of him.
Eventually Paul rode away to find a campsite. A few minutes later, I realized that we never shared contact information. We might see each other again in town, but then we’d be heading in opposite directions. Darn!
The remainder of the day was photos and writing. I had dinner in the same seat where I’d eaten breakfast. Then it was back to the campsite to take my laundry inside and crash.
I awoke refreshed, but hungry. As I re-packed my bags and hauled them to the bike I discovered a tube of salted peanuts in the depths of a pocket. This would be my breakfast.
Running out of food in the midst of burning thousands of calories on a bike tour is just miserable. I decided to chomp the peanuts early in the day and hope I passed some other source of snacks. My target was the city of Kirkjubæjarklaustur, nearly 40 miles away and 1000 feet down. If I could get there at a reasonable hour and catch a restaurant or a supermarket, I would stuff my face. In the meantime I tried not to think about it, to keep my stomach from turning into knots.
As I readied the bike I was dismayed to find the front tire very low. That meant a slow leak — probably too slow for me to find yet, even if I disassembled the tire and put the tube in a sink inside the lodge. I would have to re-inflate it, then ride on it until I either got where I was going or the leak got serious enough to make the bike unrideable. Then I could do my best to patch it on the side of the road, using a couple rough techniques to find the more obvious leak. Not fun.
Next to me I noticed a man gearing up his own bike. I hadn’t seen him in the lodge. He said hello in French-accented English, and we struck up a conversation. He’s been on tours all over the world, sometimes bringing his daughters along, who are in their twenties. A very friendly fellow who reminded me a bit of my Uncle Denny. We traded photos as we left, but I completely forgot to ask him his name, or give him mine. That’s rather silly.
I bet I’m very wrong with my rough translations, but I think these say:
Go to sleep as long before me as you can, so I can spread upon you all the better.
Unknown Author
And:
How about that? Lína, who lives at Laugaveg, (now I neither lie nor spew) I love her dearly although it is a pity she is so ghostly.
Hrólfur Sveinsson
I can’t tell if that’s a poem about a sick person, a pale person, a dead person, or something else. It’s probably got several Icelandic-only cultural references that a local would need at least ten minutes to explain.
Speaking of locals, I also chatted with the two Icelandic women from the lodge as they loaded their car. They mentioned there was a waterfall behind the campsite and enthusiastically told me to check it out. “It’s only a ten minute hike,” they said. “And you can eat breakfast while you see it!”
Of course, for me that meant it would be half an hour or longer, because I’d stop to take photos every 20 steps. Sounds good!
Funky rocks revealed in the channel cut by the river.
An interestingly layered chunk of rock. Obsidian subject to repeated coatings of blowing dust as it cooled?
The cool rocks started just as I found the trail. I paused to text an image to my nephew James. Much later, when he was awake, we had the following exchange:
Me
Found this rock. Obsidian subject to some odd pressure?
Chunk of cake? Slab of roast basilisk?
James
I think it’s a bunch of layers of obsidian stacked on top of each other and then cut.
Though it’s hard to tell from a picture, and whatever it is, it’s really beat up.
Me
I didn’t know it could stack!
James
It would have to be like repeat lava flows separated by sediment for that to happen, but it’s possible.
Me
A plausible theory. Pretty thin lava flows!
James
If that is what it is then the layers are probably pumice actually.
Me
I promote this pumice prognosis.
Soon the river appeared. The sound grew louder as I tromped into the hills, and the air grew thick with mist.
In about half an hour I was standing over a thundering waterfall that had been entirely invisible from the road.
I sat down and ate breakfast: A tube of peanuts and some water. Well, the setting was fantastic even if the meal wasn’t.
A rainbow hovered perpetually over the spray. I took a video but the camera wrote to the wrong card and barfed, so I took a few more. My clothes were quite damp when I finished.
It was a glorious space and I had it entirely to myself, which struck me as odd. I imagined the area crawling with onlookers just a few months ago, holding phones up to the railing or stomping excitedly around and chatting with their friends. I stood there hearing only the water, closed my eyes, and drew the mist into my lungs.
On the way back to the parking lot I had another of those “only in Iceland” thoughts: Usually I would be extremely paranoid about leaving my bike next to a lodge, fully loaded and unlocked. I couldn’t think of any other place in the world where I would feel fine just walking away from it for an entire hour, let alone doing what I had just done, which was to walk away from it without even thinking about what I was doing.
I shook my head, put a bit more air in the front tire, and started pedaling.
For a while I passed through gently rolling grassland. I could see warm air ripping on the hills. In the far distance I saw a broad flat plain of snow on a shelf-like mountain.
The closer to the horizon you look, the colder the terrain!
The closer to the horizon you look, the colder the terrain!
Then the downhill bits got more serious, and I had to lean on the brakes. I worried about the front tire. It was losing air, but still too slowly to attempt a patch. There was also a curious vibration – or, a ghost of one, I couldn’t quite tell because of the lumpy road – and that worried me even more.
Follow that cloud! But first, have lunch before going up that dang hill.
I didn’t fall over today, but I was very cautious on the descents. There was less loose gravel on the road, which was better for my balance but worse for the tires. Lots of small rocks can push each other out of the way when a wheel comes, but a few rocks on a hard surface, like the baked mud of this road, have nowhere to go and press into the tire much harder. Sometimes they get launched off to either side with a “ping!!” and collide with stuff.
I passed a gang of five cyclists going the other way, up the hills on big-tired bikes with extra-long racks, carrying lots of gear. I couldn’t tell if they were electrified, but there was so much gear and the frames were so heavy that they must have been.
Go bikers go! Also: Dang, pedaling that load, in sandals? I bet those are e-bikes.
There was a bit of car traffic. Usually I tried to increase my safety by pulling over and stopping as each vehicle approached. While bike tires can throw rocks on this kind of road, car tires can sometimes fire them hard enough to break glass. Best to get some distance, and turn your head away for good measure if the car isn’t slowing down. It sounds paranoid, but over the years I’ve actually had little rocks crack into my helmet as cars went shooting by.
Some of these cars did pass rudely, without slowing down, kicking up walls of dust. Then one guy rolled carefully to a stop next to me, complimented my weird bike, then continued going. That might have been a bit too polite…?
Fine place for a walk around … then a picnic … then a nap!
Fine place for a walk around … then a picnic … then a nap!
The road stayed rough. Lots of bouncing around in the seat. For a while I took a break in a field, leaning on a furrow of grass and sipping water, resting my butt a little.
I rolled around a bit, and saw little bumbly spiders walking around on their overland adventures. So much happening, even on what looks like quiet terrain…
It’s the cover of that unreleased prog rock album that Pink Floyd would have made before Roger Waters got too spazzy
The hot chocolate vanished so quickly I was momentarily confused and couldn’t remember if I’d even bought some. I cleared all the plates in about 20 minutes, except for a handful of fries, which I wrapped in some napkins and crammed into a mesh bag along with the candy bars.
After eating all that food it was like turning a furnace back on in my body. Suddenly I was making heat inside my clothes, and could turn the pedals without gasping for breath. Bodies are amazing.
I struck out for the campsite on the edge of town. It was bustling but I found a nice open space among the other cyclists.
Sleep apnea jolted me awake early, despite my jaw insert. I was hit with every fatigue factor at once: I was cold, my breastbone hurt from sleeping unsupported on my side, my ribs hurt from the hard ground, my face mask couldn’t block all the light, I was thirsty, and I needed to pee. Arrgh!
I stuck my Airpods Pro in with the noise cancellation on to try and block the yelling of the other campers, but it was too late. Sleep would not return until evening. Time to pack up my gear and get riding. It would be a long and interesting day.
Looking back from the little pedestrian trail, as I manhandle my bike along it once again.
Looking back from the little pedestrian trail, as I manhandle my bike along it once again.
Today I would be making the journey out of Fjallabak Nature Reserve and losing almost all my altitude, hopefully getting to the Hólaskjól Higland Center before nightfall. I expected to cross many rivers along the way, and still had no idea how difficult that would be.
Sometimes I get the impression that sheep are activelty searching for the most remote patch of grass, even when they’re surrounded by perfectly good grass near home.
Sometimes I get the impression that sheep are activelty searching for the most remote patch of grass, even when they’re surrounded by perfectly good grass near home.
Pretty sure this is the last actual bridge the road will provide me with for the next 50 miles.
Pretty sure this is the last actual bridge the road will provide me with for the next 50 miles.
For a while it was easy riding. The road was still gravel but it was blessedly flat as it weaved gently between strange treeless peaks and skirted a dramatic blue lake.
For a while I got a gentle downhill slope across a valley, and observed that one of the reasons this terrain felt so strange was I could see so much of it at once, with zero trees blocking my view. Even the deserts I’d crossed had sagebrush and cacti complicating the foreground.
Alas, the easy riding wasn’t permanent. For short intervals, gravel lost out to sand in the battle of erosion, causing the bike to pitch out of control and putting a spike in my heart rate as I flailed to regain balance.
Aaah, the open road! I really should have come here with better tires...
Enjoying the day.
Ugh, more loose sand.
But could I complain? Naaaah! Just after skirting the lake, I rode along the edge of a gorgeous flat valley covered in flowers, and it was time to stop and have a little picnic of crackers and tinned sardines in the sunshine. Bloody hell, this is the life.
Some motorcyclists waiting for their group to catch up.
Stopping for a snack and pee break, because why not.
After a lazy half hour I was rolling again, but soon I was forced to stop by something way more compelling than flowers or sunshine. On the left side of the road I beheld a giant living carpet of bright green moss, vaguely circular in shape, exploding across the loose rocks and gravel. The color was so intense it was hard to believe I was seeing something natural.
I’d seen carpets like this before, usually growing alongside streams, but this one was interesting because it was so flat. That gave rise to a much stranger phenomenon: There were tiny puddles of rainwater floating in the hollows of the carpet, suspended there with surface tension.
And they were … vibrating … in the wind.
I’ve been around. I’ve seen a fair number of weird landscapes on this planet. But until today, I hadn’t seen anything like this. Not even in nature documentaries.
Oh look, Timmy has spilled his soda water on the polyester carpet! Except… THE CARPET IS ALIVE.
Oh look, Timmy has spilled his soda water on the polyester carpet! Except… THE CARPET IS ALIVE.
You think it’s ice, don’t you? Or some kind of resin or sap? Nope! It’s ordinary rainwater, floating on top of a blanket of thick moss due to surface tension.
You think it’s ice, don’t you? Or some kind of resin or sap? Nope! It’s ordinary rainwater, floating on top of a blanket of thick moss due to surface tension.
Sometimes the water sinks in, sometimes it doesn’t.
But I had a destination to reach, so I couldn’t linger there forever, tempting as it was to set up camp and sleep next to this thing, and maybe photograph it in sunset light.
As I sat by the side of the road, a dude in a huge red truck went blazing past, riding on enormous tires. Probably a rental. He left a plume of dust behind him ten meters high. I doubt he even saw the mossy patch that had so captivated me.
It was within easy walking distance of the bike, so I strolled over.
Nice sno-cone material, except for the grit.
Scoopable!
A bit farther down the road, I came across the first fording place. It was basically a giant puddle, with a bottom made of loose rocks that caused my narrow bike tires to flounder.
I resigned myself to getting wet feet, and carried the bags across, and then the bike in a second round. It was inconvenient but I was still pleased because it was’t dangerous.
Near me a guy was having his car pulled onto a trailer. It probably had an electrical short, or maybe water soaked through the air intake from too much splashing around.
Crossing number 2. Same deal as the first crossing.
Successfully shoved the bike across. Good thing I have waterproof bags along the bottom.
That was how some of the fordings went. There were twelve in all — four more than the eight displayed on the tourist map. With about half of them I could just dismount and push the bike around the margins of the puddle without removing any bags. The rest were more serious, and I had to move things in stages while pushing against troublesome current. I wouldn’t say they were actually dangerous, but they were risky, because if I slipped and dunked the bags I could mess up some of my equipment or even lose it downstream.
This fellow did a U-turn in the river, since it was the widest part of the road. He’s probably towed a hundred broken cars down from these roads over the years.
This fellow did a U-turn in the river, since it was the widest part of the road. He’s probably towed a hundred broken cars down from these roads over the years.
Up there somewhere is a cute little lake, according to the map.
I reckon if I’d been traveling in the springtime, all these crossings would be much harder, and some of them would be quite dangerous indeed. Rushing current up to my waist, and I’d have to carry the bike over my head just to drive my feet down against the soil and avoid being knocked over. Not good.
As it was, I did fine, and was rewarded with even more strange terrain, this time in little sections between short hills.
I don’t recall seeing hills this dark anywhere else. The lack of vegetation contributes to it.
The terrain was so jumbled that I lost track of my progress. I had a line on my GPS that I could vaguely match with the line on the map, but that couldn’t tell me whether the route ahead would get easier or harder. I could be out here for the rest of the afternoon or the rest of the day. There was one road, and all I could do was follow it, as it sank into rivers or elbowed its way up hills.
Even with the river crossings, this chunk of the route is actually easier than the chunk leading down into Landmannalaugar from the north.
Even the river crossings became fun, once I was used to them. I got overconfident at a smaller one and tried to plunge through it without dismounting, and just as the front tire cleared the water it drove into the sand. I laughed and laid the bike down, getting the outside of one arm and one leg wet, amused at my own folly.
Just then I heard the rumble of tires on gravel and realized a car was approaching. They would spot me easily with plenty of time to stop, so I wasn’t in danger of being run over, but I was in danger of looking like an idiot to a motorist. Cyclists are weirdly sensitive to that. I scrambled the bike upright and got on my way, feeling like a cat who has just fallen off a shelf.
One of the larger fjords, but it had a narrow span suitable for my bike.
The land opened up again as I drew near the last river crossing in the highlands. I passed a long row of rocks, placed to make the road visible when it’s covered with deep snow. I’d be so screwed if I was biking this in the winter!
These rocks are here as a polite reminder that people shouldn’t go joyriding away from the road.
These rocks are here as a polite reminder that people shouldn’t go joyriding away from the road.
And then there it was: The last river crossing on the map, before a very long downhill shot to the lowlands. There was one more after this, but it had a trail and a footbridge around it, so this was probably the last river I would need to push through in my Iceland journey.
Just before the long downhill, the land rose slightly, making a lip. In the dust of the road I found what looked like a crushed animal skin. Closer inspection revealed a destroyed pair of pants. Hmmm. Iceland stole someone’s pants.
Hundreds of square miles of wandering river, in one view.
I had to ride the brakes on the downhill. I was worried that the lumpy road could tear a hole in one of my tires, leading to a nasty crash and a really long walk down to the coast.
Deep channels eroded into the hills from meltwater streams.
Deep channels eroded into the hills from meltwater streams.
I was treated to a panorama of a valley sliced and diced by hundreds of versions of the same river re-routing itself over intervals measurable in human lifespans. Again, the complete lack of trees enhanced the weirdness of the view.
Partway down, leaning on the brakes. A fall onto this at speed would be brutal.
Partway down, leaning on the brakes. A fall onto this at speed would be brutal.
As I went, I got more worried about tire damage, and went slower. This hill would have been an absolute nightmare to climb. Glad I came at it from the other direction!
At the base of the hill I was pleased to find the terrain was just as wonky as before.
A landscape of fuzzy lumps. Not a tree or even a bush in sight.
A landscape of fuzzy lumps. Not a tree or even a bush in sight.
In due time I came to the last river crossing. It was annoyingly deep. A path led to a bridge on the west side, so I tried that, and the path turned out to be so lumpy and slick that a slog through the river looked like the smart choice after all.
But I’m stubborn, so I just grunted and swore my way over the bridge, taking pictures to document my suffering. Well no, it wasn’t that bad. I’m being dramatic. The bridge itself was adorable.
Someone got so wired on their French-press coffee that they took off and forgot the French-press.
Beyond the river, more wonky terrain. The sun was getting low, so instead of taking the cue and hurrying up, I slowed down to get photos of nicely backlit hills and sheep butts. Gotta have your priorities.
I tihnk these ruts are from groups of horses and cattle being run up and down the road.
At first I thought these parallel ruts were made by animals. Then I realized they were previous versions of the road.
People drove their trucks over the hill in the same ruts, year after year, until the ruts got plowed too deep and began scraping the underside of the vehicle. Then they started driving up a fresh patch of ground on one side, adding another rut. Do that for fifty years on a fragile landscape … and the results remain visible for another century.
I always like signs with lots of symbols. Plenty of services to choose from.
I’d been planning to grab a campsite and set up my tent, then pay in the morning, but I was early enough to catch the attendant and ask about the lodge — and food.
She walked out to greet me. “As soon as I saw that bike I knew I had to ask you about it,” she said. I gave her my usual spiel about how comfortable it is to ride, but how awkward it is to haul around so much gear. She was intrigued.
We turned to logistics. “I have water, and some drinks to sell, but no food,” she said apologetically. “Not even candy bars.” But there was some good news: The lodge had plenty of space and the beds were quite reasonable. After a couple days of roughing it, I decided to open my wallet and get a real mattress.
There were three other people in the big house. A pair of Icelandic women who chatted quietly over tea, and one solo bicycle tourist. He was writing determinedly in a small notepad. I wonder if he’s writing about fording rivers?
I wonder if he’ll mention the weird guy who came in with a huge pile of gear off his weirdo bike?
I sorted photos on the laptop, taking advantage of the power sockets and table space. It seemed to get dark all at once. Exhaustion threw a cloak over me and soon I crawled gratefully into the bunk.
I checked in with the campsite manager and paid for my previous night. I wasn’t sure if I could stay here another day, since I was low on food. Riding all day on sketchy terrain with zero calories can get dangerous!
I did some sink laundry and hung it up, then went exploring again. There was another cluster of buildings farther down the valley I hadn’t seen.
There was a lot of activity. People in vans and trucks were arriving on a regular basis, pushing their way carefully through the giant puddle at the entrance.
Honestly, I will never understand the appeal of sitting in a hot spring with two dozen random strangers.
The water feeding into the spring was lovely, though. A big chunk of the valley was threaded with tiny streams, some of which were clearly way above ambient temperature and hosting some interesting life forms. I wandered among fluffy sheep and other quiet hikers, enjoying the heat of the sun and water mixing with the cool air and the shadows from the peaks.
I wonder what the story behind these is. Are they all from cars that got destroyed by the roads?
Tourists arrived and departed constantly, all day. Every time, spectators would pause and turn their heads to watch the minor drama of a vehicle fording the stream.
A beat-up diagram. I’m currently at the lower of the two house icons.
Just look at those hills! Gotta get up in them thar hills! Let’s do some footwork that isn’t pedaling!
The local maps showed a network of major hiking trails, taking off in different directions and promising multiple days of rough cabin camping, plus a few looping paths that went out into the lava field to the west and up along the ridge line.
Hikers examining the local maps, and getting advice.
I lingered by the ranger station and listened to people ask questions about the weather, the terrain, the daylight, the landmarks, and so on. The variety of broken forms of English was fascinating.
Eventually I decided it would be more fun just following the bank of the river on the north side of the valley for a while, rather than doing a loop trail. All of them felt longer than I wanted, since I tend to walk very slowly and inspect the ground and wave the camera everywhere.
Climbing up out of the narrow valley, onto the lava field.
I swapped some kit out back at the tent, and started some Skyrim music on my headphones because I’m hopelessly metropolitan. The shoreline was easy to follow. True to form, I spent half the time with my head bent down staring delightedly at tiny weird plants and textures of rock that were familiar in context but alien in detail.
Eventually I climbed up the hillside and walked out along the top of the lava field. Actually, “top” is the wrong word: It was a massive tangle of ridges, like a stormy sea frozen in place, coated with rock, and then squished together.
Some artist could probably turn this into about two dozen really nice looking table lamps. Well, except it would be illegal to do so.
These were absolutely stunning rock formations. More than the whimsical terrain of Skyrim I was reminded of the crumpled life-on-top-of-life set design in The Dark Crystal. Picking my way carefully, I had to concentrate intensely on keeping my sense of direction, because If I took more than two steps in a straight line I would tumble into one of countless steep fissures obscured by pillows of moss and lined with jagged rocks like broken glass.
The official bathing area isn’t the only spot with hot water. All this water runs the spectrum from warm to burning.
As I drew closer to an established path, backtracking and jumping over gaps, it became very clear that this landscape was both too dangerous and too fragile for people to go hiking across like I was trying to do. The risk of cutting my leg open and falling into a hole just deep enough to stop my voice from projecting anywhere but straight up felt so great, it almost felt inevitable; as if the lava field was actually a labyrinth designed by some spiteful artist to keep misbehaving explorers trapped and confused … until it extracted a price in blood.
IN BLOOD! BOOHAHAH HAA HAA HA HAAA!!!
If I’d been a good tourist and read all the signs beforehand I would have known that being here was frowned upon. Every footprint compacts the soil and makes it harder for the meager plant cover to persist. I only realized my error afterward when I came back down along a sanctioned trail and saw the sign. Oops…
Thank goodness I got back safely. I’d been foolish. If I went missing, no one would wonder about me for weeks, and no one would go looking for me for months.
Three sheep buts clustered together looks really alarmingly like a black bear.
The trip back to the campground was trivial. Just walk along the trail, and grab the guide rope if you want. I did have one frightening moment: I came around the corner and saw the wooly butts of some sheep standing together and mistook them for a black bear. Finding a black bear in Iceland was completely impossible, regardless of the era, but my instincts were tuned for wandering in the California mountains. I laughed it off but it took a while for my heart to stop pounding.
Mineral deposits crusting over the hot water spigot, making it look much older than it actually is. Not to mention gross.
Mineral deposits crusting over the hot water spigot, making it look much older than it actually is. Not to mention gross.
Close to the ranger station I got a good look at one of the built-up water spigots feeding the pools. Years of mineral build-up and clouds of steam gave a clear signal that this water was very, very hot.
In the evening I re-packed my stuff for a smooth morning departure, and organized my photos. These ritualistic movements gave me time to revisit some earlier thoughts about communication and ecological change.
As recently as my father’s generation, the main problem with humanity on a global scale was that most people just had no idea what was happening out there. Humans have been gobsmackingly ignorant of their impact for 99% of human history, and our ability to really make change on a global scale, and adjust to keep changes from backfiring, is a recent development. Recent enough that we still don’t even know the scope of our problems or what we’re capable of. We’re discovering it as we go; as I live and write this.
This situation only exists because communications technology has improved at a pace comparable to our environmental impact. We have global-scale economies now, relying on fast global communication. We have “breaking news” available all the way around the planet. A producer of grain on one side of the world can get compensated for it by customers on the other side. But economics on this scale has also made us vulnerable to disruption by human conflict — especially conflict over land, and especially when that becomes open warfare.
The environment can bounce back from war. Some of the worst battles of World War II happened on sites that reverted to farmland in a few decades. But humans, on the other hand, are fragile: Deprive us of food for a couple months and we’re goners. Block a couple of massive grain shipments from a few crucial ports on one side of the globe, and suddenly ten million people are in danger of starving on the other side. Any number of us could be held ransom at any time by a sufficiently armed warlord. The flexibility of our communications might allow us to adapt, but it might not. If that grain is held up too long and rots, some people, somewhere, are going to starve, and the commerce over the wires is just going to be about who specifically.
So, the same miraculous technology that might have rescued me if I fell down a ravine today drives a global economy that – like my own body – has enormous reach, and is also terribly vulnerable.
And, somewhere in the middle of this micro- and macroscopic view, our communications technology is responsible for making me – and tens of thousands of tourists around me – aware that Iceland exists as a tourist destination. I like to think of myself as an environmentally conscious person, but if I truly prioritized sustainability and the environmental sanctity of Iceland… I would not be here at all, right? If I truly worried about the fragility of a globally wired economy, why would I be feeding the demand for food and tchotchkes in Iceland — a place that would starve terribly if the shipping lanes were cut off? Is the point of coming here to realize that I shouldn’t?
It seems an obvious case of hypocrisy. And it would be, if we left the lid closed on our ideas about economy and conservation. But: If the overriding goal is to preserve, for example, this lava field from all human interference, a crucial stepping stone towards that goal is making humans give a crap about the lava field in the first place. And given that if you take the long view, the planet could shake us off like a case of fleas and keep trucking along for another 600 million years (at which point the sun will be bright enough to interfere with the carbon cycle of the planet, and all plant and animal life as we know it will be permanently extinguished regardless of what we do) … then the question of whether humans should give a crap about a lava field is very much open for debate when there are mouths to feed and lives to live here in the present.
So, putting pictures of a lava field all over the internet, busing people up to it, and then threading rope-guided tails across it so humans can admire it and feel humbled and refreshed by it and get attached to it … doesn’t seem like a bad move.
Because, frankly, it worked. This is an amazing valley and I’m glad I came here. And I’m grateful for the struggle Icelanders are waging to balance global interest and investment against the soiling of their own back yard by millions of curious feet. And all this has made me think about a bigger picture, just as it will do for others. Not everyone, sure. And maybe not immediately, or directly.
