A and I took a road trip to Hvalfjörður, or Whale-fjord, not long ago. We took the scenic route there, and stopped along the way to check out a river that had frozen over. This is what I love about Iceland: you can drive a matter of minutes outside of Reykjavík proper and spot something interesting that makes you want to pull the car over, jump out, and run around like a little kid at the wonderment of the landscapes. For instance, I am a big sucker for moss, although you’re not technically supposed to walk or drive on it (!), as it takes many years to grow back if it’s damaged. In some spots, it’s several inches thick and feels like a squishy mattress to lie or walk on. When I see a giant black lava field covered inches thick with lush, green moss that has been virtually untouched for hundreds, maybe even a thousand years and no one is around and there’s nothing within sight, I have to fight the urge to take a stroll on it, lie on it, feel how soft and velvety it is to the touch. It’s seemingly smaller things like this that make me feel happy, grateful, and alive.
When we reached the frozen river right off of the road, I felt a similar urge to explore. I’d never walked over a frozen river before, and it was a little daunting; you could hear the water flowing underneath inches of ice. I didn’t think I’d fall in, but you never know in this country; you just never know. Just last week, a woman and her child fell 20 meters through a covered crevasse on a glacier; the woman died, while the child survived. The area was cracked — a sure signal that the ice is hollowing underneath — and no one should have been walking there, but they didn’t know or maybe they didn’t notice.
I remember once hearing an interview with Bjork, where she was asked what Icelanders do in their free time. She said something about how people like to go off-road driving on the glaciers, and sometimes people fall into the large crevasses, and that’s just the way it goes here. And it’s true.
Iceland is an Enter At Your Own Risk kind of country, a large contrast to the liability concerns that seem to control most Americans. There are very few areas that are roped off, even at some of the most popular tourist attractions — for instance, at some of the large waterfalls; if it’s icy or wet and you walk too close to the edge and slip and you fall over, that’s it, it’s over. (The only place that I last remember seeing ropes were at the geysirs, where one might easily walk into a large boiling hole of water this time of year in the darkness, because you just can’t see them.) You can climb and explore and walk over icy areas and the nearly unchartered, fragile grounds in the northeast, but the ground might break where there’s boiling mud underneath, or you might step into a covered fissure or hurt yourself walking over hardened lava, or fall into a glacier river and be swept away. You just never know, and so it has to be at the forefront of your mind when you venture out to explore; a simple walk near the beach might become a risk-benefit analysis you run through in your mind.
The southern beaches can be particularly dangerous to visitors who travel to see the breathtaking and surreal views. The waters are rough and ominous, pounding away at the black beaches, pulverizing the volcanic remains. Every once in a while a rogue wave — usually attributable to an earthquake at sea — will swallow someone whole. This tragically happened just last summer to an American tourist, whose body was never recovered; she, along with a small travel group, was walking along the beaches taking pictures, taking in the phenomenal views, breathing in the cool sea air, when a deadly wave suddenly came and swept her away.
I don’t take pleasure in these kinds of tragedies at all; they are nothing short of pure horror when they happen. But the fact that they do happen, that the land is one of such extremes where real risks exist for seemingly innocuous endeavors, where taking a simple walk along the beach or countryside can leave you injured or worse, means that a level of awareness and humility is required to venture out to some of these places. That in itself brings with it a certain level of exhilaration, submissiveness and wonderment; it brings you down a few levels and reminds you of who and where you are in the grand scheme of things. I appreciate this.
When we finally reached Hvalfjörður, there was steam coming up from the ground from hot spring water, some of which was being led into a hot pot overlooking the fjord. This is where whales were often caught, and until the 1980’s it was the home of one of the largest whaling stations in Iceland. During World War II, this is also where a naval base for the British and American navies was located.
One Comment
Your words and pictures brought me there; thank you.
It is similar in the Alps and many European playgrounds — you can walk right up to the crevice or take a tumble on the cement, there’s nothing to stop you. At least it was so in the 90s. I wonder if they’ve replaced playground cement with recycled tires there, too.