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| The pool in Hofsos |
Many evenings, I find myself heading out for a walk around 9 or 10pm, if the weather is agreeable. On one of my first evenings here I wandered out toward the edge of town, finding a wide, dusty horse path that ran parallel to the highway. I followed it happily, my shoes slipping and sliding in the shifting gravel. My iPod played tune after tune to reflect my good mood and the beauty of this place. I was feeling a little giddy with the possibility of adventure, which is a bit silly perhaps, as I was literal feet from a paved road, and civilization. The late night sunshine and the shadows from the mountains were enough to make me feel as if I was setting off into the wilderness for a week.
As will often happen here, usually sooner rather than later, I happened upon a small herd of horses in a field next to the path. We were soon acquainted, and I admired them from my side of the fence, scratching a velvety nose if it was offered, and crooning calming compliments as I tried to urge some of the more hesitant ones to come a bit closer. I returned several more nights that week to visit them again, bringing Erica with once, and each time taking slightly different routes to get there.
Walking to these horses often took me down a road that passes through a field infested with Arctic Terns. They are a smallish, white, overly territorial bird that have been given the misleadingly delicate and charming sounding name of “Kria” here in Iceland. These aerodynamic hell spawn go bananas when I dare to take an old farm road that comes and goes from the back of the town. They go out of their way to harass me, though I’m not walking anywhere near their nests. Their throaty “CRAW!!” makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up as they swoop at my head, orange talons extended. You’ve never known true terror until you’ve been set upon by a gang of Kria. Bloodthirsty little monsters.
“I want your children to lead long healthy lives, even if you are a bunch of jerks!” I yell at them in a blind panic as they scream and dive at me. My hand is raised over my head in an effort to ward them off. “I'm nowhere near your damn kids! Go home and gossip with your equally obnoxious Kria neighbors. I just want to take a nice walk!” This is not the first time this week I've garnered such rage from them. Mostly I am annoyed, but part of me is a little flattered that they find me so threatening.
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| Photo courtesy of Wikipedia, since I don't exactly take the time to aim my camera with these little buggers around |
One night earlier this week, I tried a new direction, one that would hopefully keep me away from the screeching, murderous Kria. On this night, as I walk, words start to click into place inside my head and I begin to mentally plan my next post. Inspiration is easy to come by here, and I find myself inundated by phrases and ideas as I admire the scenery. I don’t get far before I have to reconfigure my loosely planned route. The little walking bridge over the river that I’ve had in my sights is gated off. I scowl (becomingly) and silently curse whoever foiled my plans. I end up circling back towards town, cutting my own path down toward the rocky beach just south of town. “Don’t slip and die, don’t slip and die,” I chant in my head as I descend the steep, earthy cliff. Graceful, I am not, but I reach beach level in one piece and stop to take in my surroundings.
I choose a suitable rock and sit down for a while there on the beach where the Grafará (river) pours into the fjord. The crash of the surf and the rush of the river blend together in the perfect white noise combination. No sound machine or app in the world can match this. I feel a bit of residual tension melt out of my shoulders and I have to shake my head in awe at the beautiful scene laid out before me. I snap a few pictures and then take a serious moment to consider the cookies I´ve brought along in my backpack as a hiking snack. I have the baggie in my hand, but at the last second set it back inside and gather my things to keep walking. I´m not “there” yet, I reason, not knowing at all where “there” is, except that it isn’t here. Tonight, “there” is a place for watching the water and the light on the sides of the mountains, and maybe (definitely) eating a few cookies while I jot down some notes. I’ll know it when I see it.
The large stones on the beach are easy to navigate as I head north. I hop from one to the next, shielding my eyes from the aggressive sunlight that I’m walking directly into. I cannot see the other end of the winding beach to know if there is an easy route back up to town level, but decide to take my chances. Worst-case scenario I end up backtracking, and my walk gets extended an extra thirty or forty minutes. It’s not like I have to worry about it getting dark. I fling my camera over one shoulder and pretend I’m a National Geographic photographer, or something equally badass. This makes me feel intrepid and allows me to consciously ignore the fact that in reality I look like just another (hopefully endearing) geeky tourist with a brightly colored backpack and a crooked ponytail.
Along the beach I find shells and partial skeletons of several different creatures; the delicate bones of a bird, parts of a crab, and a large section of backbone from what I sincerely hope was a sheep. It’s like CSI: Hofsós as I carefully investigate the still connected vertebrae pieces. My medical examination tools include a pointy rock and the toe of my tennis shoes. Pretty advanced technology.
I leave the bones behind and continue my trek across a section of extremely slippery, textured shelf rock. Rivuets of water trickle out of the side of the cliff onto this layered platform of lava rock. The water has erroded little holes in the ground below and left strange colored mineral deposits and pockets of slimy moss and other goopy plant life that I don´t have names for. I manage not to fall and smash myself to smithereens on this slick surface, congratulating myself heartily when I make it back to sturdier, dryer ground. Stellar job, Swanson.
I eventually reach the end of the road, so to speak. The beach tapers off into the sea and I realize there is indeed not necessarily a great way to get back up to the level of the main road which leads back to town. Not a problem, though. The incline is grassy and it will be relatively simple to climb. I channel my inner mountain goat and zigzag back and forth until I’m about two-thirds of the way up and suddenly I find my “there.” The perfect spot for thinking and cookie eating.
The light is perfect, and I sit there for nearly an hour, watching how the colors of the scenery change as the evening progresses. Bill Holm perfectly describes a night and a view like this one, minus the seals, which I long to see.
"The midnight summer light in Skagafjörður is remarkable; the mountains turn pale orange and lavender, the sky pink and gold. The water shines as if the light polished the surface with a lemon cloth. The cliffs both north and south of town are symmetrical columnar basalt full of fine perches for fjord contemplation; the seabirds cry all night; seals pop their oily black heads up out of the tide to examine you. The first wildflowers are up on the grassy hillside: poppies and violets and aromatic angelica. There are no mosquitoes in Iceland, nor have there ever been. If your body can’t do a little howling and singing and cavorting on a night like this, there’s probably not much hope for you as a human being." -Eccentric Islands, page 209
I refrain from any audible howling, not wanting to attract attention and concern from anyone who may be near enough to hear me. I even manage to keep my cavorting to a minimum. I do not even try, however, to keep myself from singing and humming. I sing along to music regularly, even when not in such an inspiring setting: in the car, while making dinner, in my office. I may not sing well, but it cannot be said that I do not sing. Here, I could not have resisted the urge even if I had tried. I dare anyone not to be compelled to hum along to the soaring, “How to Train Your Dragon” soundtrack when sitting beside a fjörd in Iceland. It's just not possible to hold it back.
For a change of pace from a normal work day, I got to go to Landsmót 2016 in Hólar Thursday night, all day yesterday, and again tonight (the final night of the show). Landsmót is the bi-annual National Horse Show in Iceland. All the best Icelandic horses (the only breed in the country) are brought to this week long competition to see and be seen. I sat on the hillside overlooking the track for hours yesterday, along with thousands of other people.
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| Happy campers at Landsmót |
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| I´m official |
The weather was what I consider to be classically Icelandic; chilly and a bit damp. Fog hung low over the tops of the mountains that skirt the valley, called Hjaltadalur. A cold drizzle would come and go, occasionally bringing with it an unpleasant blast of wind. It couldn’t have been warmer than 40 degrees, and sitting outside for hours at a time it began to feel much colder than that. Article by article I added more layers to protect me from the elements. A warm hat, fuzzy woolen mittens, my “just in case” blanket and scarf, and packable down jacket. All this on top of my established layers. I admired the people who had lawn chairs, but the rain jacket I brought along worked well enough to separate my rear end from the cold ground. My fascination with everything and everyone kept me well distracted from the cold.
It is a breathtaking sight when the horses fly by at the tölt or the skeið, muscles rippling and legs striking the ground in perfect, patterned motion. I had to get up occasionally to get my cold blood flowing again, but tried not to miss a moment of the show. Inside some of the barns were a variety of displays, booths with horse related gear and souvenirs, and even a few demonstrations and lectures to watch. It was an impressive event and I feel incredibly lucky to have been able to attend. Valgeir and Gunna were generous enough to let me have one of their tickets, and I am so grateful to have had this experience. Dream come true.
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| Gunna and I at Landsmót |
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| Gunna and Viktor at Landsmót |
Gunna and Valgeir's 9 year old grandson, Viktor, is visiting Hofsós for the next couple of weeks and I've already decided he's my new best pal. He talks a mile a minute in both fluent English and Icelandic, has decided he is going to be my Icelandic language teacher, and swears like a sailor (like many Icelandic kids). This afternoon he kept me company at work by teaching me card tricks, and then came along to Landsmót where he challenged me to races up and down the hill and engaged me in conversations about evolution (where do dinosaurs fit into this whole timeline again?) and the questionable legality of drones. #bff
Oh one last fun thing... I went with Gunna to an art exhibit at a nearby farm. The farm, called Bær, is host to an artist residency program and they were having a showcase of the work. The art was very nice to see, but it was the farm and the view itself that impressed me most. https://www.baer.is/about
Thanks again for keeping us in the know! Love the horses!
ReplyDeleteAwesome! So very winderful to read about your adventures. Your writing is fabulous and I cannot wait for more. Have a wonderful weekend!
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