Through the fog of sleep, I heard the horn. It was a cruise ship coming in, navigating the narrow fjord toward the docks of Akureyri.
Breakfast was a beautiful affair, spread upon a multi-level table, and in the soft light, resembled a still life. We were happy to enjoy it by ourselves for a while, before a handful of Chinese tourists filled the space with their noise, followed by a French tour group who filled it with their bodies. Their guide tried to get the Chinese to all sit together so that he could consolidate his own group, but the latter ignored him, munching away as they eyeballed their smartphones.
We drove out of the fog as the road rose with us. It climbed into some high alpen lakes that reminded me of Tibet, before leveling out on a high plateau that was more Hokkaido. Our first stop on the day was at Goðafoss Waterfall, and approaching its carpark I gasped at the number of tour buses. I'd forgotten that cruise ship passengers not only fill their port towns, but they also radiate outward on excursions.
Iceland, with a population of 300,000, hosted 2 million tourists last year. And they were all trying to get into my photographs. A solution was found in walking further toward the falls than they did, and with the masses at my back, and the roar of the waters filling my ears, I had the illusion that the place was all mine.
We detoured north to Húsavík. Iceland shares with Japan the infamy of its whaling culture, but at least here they seemed to be shifting toward admiring the whales from a distance greater than a lunch plate. The fjord here is supposed to be a veritable aquarium of the great beasts, so it was with some wishful thinking that LYL and I sat with cups of take-away coffee atop a cliff, watching for any breaks in the blue spreading before us. (I actually had seen a whale spout from the car while driving along one of the fjords of the previous day, a burst of white that dispersed in the gusts of the day.)
A lonely unsurfaced road led us south again, to the visually rich Mývatn area, and we spent the rest of the day playing connect the dots with the highlights. Skútustaðagígar came up first, but there were just a few too many people up on the hills, so we drove on, admiring the same scenery of small islets, though from below. Here and there, turnouts provided different points of view.
Further on, Dimmuborgir was a maze of paths through the crusted formations of an old lava flow, which brought to memory similar places in New Mexico, where renegade tribes used to play peek-a-boo with the US Cavalry. Here too it served a similar purpose, including a cave for the Yule Lads, who appear at Christmas and act a bit like naughty Santa Clauses. (David Sedaris has a hilarious bit about the Dutch equivalent.)
As we walked, Hverfjall maintained a steady presence in the distance. It seemed the logical next choice, so we bounced along a very rough road to get to her feet. There were a surprising number of cars in the carpark, most notable being the camper vans. A trail ran diagonally up the side of the volcano, reminding me again of Hokkaido and the path up Mt Tarumae. Though much lower, the summit was much like Fuji's, a near perfect crater with a rollercoaster-like path around the rim. I chose instead to admire things from where I was, gazing out over the lake and the far off peaks, until the growing gusts encouraged me down.
After a quick detour to Grjótagjá Cave (featured prominently in Game of Thrones), we broke the journey for a dip in the blue-water of the Mývatn Nature Baths. An idyllic choice, with the lake spread out before us, and the hot water rejuvenating after the cold wind. We returned to those winds all too soon, to stroll the labyrinth of mud pits and hissing fumaroles at Hverir, then a more massive steam flow at the bigger Mt. Krafla not far away.
While Krafla is a newer volcano, older eruptions had defined the landscape of the whole area. A road had been laid upon them, cutting through formations that were pastry-like, shaping cookies, or brownies. Black had returned to the landscape, and the sky again grew dark. Where the road ended we began a short hike out toward Dettifoss, over and around a jumble of stones that recalled the cover of 'Houses of the Holy.' Over the next rise, I was confronted with one of the most awesome sights I've ever seen, of millions of gallons of water spilling over the abyss. The grey of water matched that of the stone banks, which made it look as if what was flowing was in fact earth, a feeling that was horrific in its own way, making me feel how insignificant I am as a human being on a powerful planet undergoing near constant change.
The next stop made for a more peaceful respite. Modhrudalurr was a peaceful little farm hamlet consisting of a church and a mere handful of buildings, including little turf cottages to rent. It would have been the perfect place to stay, but we had already arranged something further on. Instead, we huddled over cups of coffee, and the sky grew darker and darker outside.
The map showed that this unsurfaced spur road would rejoin the main Ring Road further on, so I continued south. The rain that had been threatening finally began, making me hope we'd rejoin asphalt before too long. A nagging thought rang in my brain, worried whether this was indeed the right way. Accustomed to the uncertainties of similar roads in New Mexico, I hated the idea of our driving directly into the hills with a storm coming on. Luckily, wheels grabbed tarmac once again.
But conditions continued to deteriorate. The low long valleys had much fewer traffic as we moved further and further east, and the skies lowered even more. Our road out to Borgarfjörður Eystri rose until we were in those clouds themselves, and visibility was simply gone. I couldn't tell whether the drops at the side were sheer, and construction machines loomed up suddenly like dragons. The weather too washed out any chance of seeing the colony of puffins out at Hafnarhólmi, though a few did burst away from the hillside, wings frantically as they flew (poorly) toward the water, and dinner.
Through the fog over the mountains again, then later, once again. The road finally ended at Seydisfjordur and the Hotel Aldan, a converted bank this time. A late dinner was had a short walk away at the center of town, as the candles did their job, burning away the darkness now growing just beyond the glass.
On the turntable: Jimi Hendrix, "Axis: Bold as Love"
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