August 2022 Hike to the Active Volcano

 Yesterday I was flipping crêpes at my market stand in Baltimore. Then, thanks to the miracle of jet engines, in-flight meal service, and carousels of parading luggage, I was now having a grapefruit at a kitchen table in Iceland.  My host’s housekeeper offered up some food a recent guest had left. I ate it. I ate it all. No, I’m not proud.  Besides, it was good. Some kind of meat and beans dish. There was bread as well, a kind I hadn’t tried before. I spread some brie and blueberry jam on it and I had something of a meal. We talked while the laundry swished in the kitchen washing machine. I’d only been up for a few hours after a nap of about two hours which I sorely needed when I stumbled into the house this morning, dragging my pack and other gear I’d need for this trip. I was still very tired. I’d come for the famous Laugavegur trek, and I was more than a little trepidatious, not being an experienced camper. Or trekker for that matter. But then, in other news, there was this volcano erupting. I might have to look into that.

“I’ll go to the volcano tomorrow,” I told Reynalda.

“Why don’t you go now?”

It was four in the afternoon, and it’s true that this being the month of August there was still plenty of daylight left. The sun would set around ten o’clock.

I didn’t want to admit that I was tired and a procrastinator to boot. Mostly a procrastinator.  And I knew the path from last winter when I’d visited the dead volcano. It was demanding. I took a bite of grapefruit, looked at Reynalda expectantly. Maybe she’d changed her mind. I'd get a "pass" for today.

“Volcano, huh?”

“Yes! Go!”

“Now?”

“Go! Go!”

I got my gear together. I was going to the volcano.

It’s a short drive to the trailhead from the airport town of Keflavik. I mostly remembered the route, knew that I had to head towards Grindavik. To reassure myself I looked for the derelict machinery abandoned at a rock quarry along the coast. Yes, it was still there, no one had moved it. I was on the right track. I stopped in at the N1 station in town, bought a sandwich. I’d loaded up on food back at the guesthouse but I knew the hike would be at least two and half hours each way, with a substantial climb to the top.

I mentioned that I’d been to the trail last winter. I’ve been to Iceland a lot. I don’t want to share how many times because it’s actually a little embarrassing. I’m something of an Iceland addict. I could imagine one of those twelve-step programs where you have to sit and admit you have a problem.

“Hi, I’m Gerrit and I’m addicted to Iceland.”

The other Iceland addicts:  “Hi, Gerrit.”

So I’ll keep my number of visits a secret for now. Not going to tell. I’ll leave it up to your imagination. Ok, twenty-one times.  I’m starting to know my way around by now.

This time there was a heavy police presence. The Icelandic search and rescue teams were out in full force as well. In January it was calm, not many people wanted to hike to the dormant volcano. Parking was now at a premium, and the landowners around there had set up makeshift parking lots in the wild countryside. It was an amazing sight to see—-rows of cars, hundreds of them. I’d have a lot of company on this hike. Seeing that the first parking area was full to capacity, I drove farther down the road. There was another lot that was quickly filling up. I found a spot and parked. I ate my sandwich in the car, put on my outer rain gear and took my trekking poles out of the back. These make me feel like an experienced outdoorsperson although I’m relatively new to using them. On my practice hikes back home on the Appalacian Trail, the long distance “through-hikers” I met told me I should be using them for the trek I had in mind. I bought a set. I’m glad I did; they help tremendously with balance and minimizing strain on the back and knees. And they make me look like I know what I’m doing. 

In January, during my last visit, the weather was ok down below where the trail starts. Just a little cold with some wind. Then up top, in typical Icelandic fashion, frozen stuff started falling from the sky. Freezing rain, sleet,some snow. Just a healthy winter mix. A little of everything. This made for a cold situation, and the footing, which was already treacherous, more slippery. For this trip I put on some outerwear that would fend off rain if Mother Nature decided to pull that stunt again. It turns out the weather was phenomenal, a very unusual thing when describing the weather here. It is often windy with rain that slashes your face. It can be unpleasant, but in a fun kind of way.

The path at the beginning is deceptively easy; it is a wide track with some loose dirt and rock but very easy to negotiate. It continues on like that for some time, then after twenty minutes or so a small mountain looms up ahead.  And the trail winds back and forth up the steep incline. It would be necessary to get up and over. No easy way around. It was reminiscent of the famous Knlondike Pass from the days of the Gold Rush. A single line of hikers, one solid string of humanity, struggled up the steep slope.I’d soon be joining them. I’m glad I had my sandwich. . For this part of the hike, it would be accurate to describe the path as a “trail.” That’s what everyone calls it. After getting up and over, the terrain opens up to a jumble of jagged rocks, boulder fields, and more jagged rocks with a variety of different hazards thrown in for good measure. The trail markers at this point are just a general reference to get the hikers going in the right direction. But by now it’s a mad scramble with a wide field of volcano-seekers making their way in a fairly disorganized wave. Think of a concert letting out, and everyone heading back to their cars. It was like that.  From time to time I glanced at the markers, which were often some distance from where I was actually walking. For the most part I just followed everyone else. They seemed to know where they were going.

For sheer difficulty of walking, I don’t know which part of the hike I’d choose. The beginning was relatively easy, then after three kilometers or so a whole new landscape of obstacles opens up. It is like warning from nature, the equivalent of no trespassing signs:

KEEP OUT

YOU DON”T BELONG HERE
GO BACK

My trekking poles, while very useful in the more even parts of the hike and the steep climbs,  were all but useless in the rocks and small boulders. They’d get jammed in between. I knew it was only a matter of time before one got bent into something I could no longer use. Fortunately they are very light and I was able to tuck both of them under my arm to make faster headway and not get stuck between rocks.  

Since the mental concentratrion involved in getting across this torturous terrain is considerable, after some time I forgot why I was actually doing this. But then, there it was. After yet another steep descent over large and rounded rocks, then across a field of randomly-jutting stones, the view gave way to the constant eruption. I didn’t have any expectation or feelings about this beforehand. Would it be fun? Exciting? Spectacular? All of those? I didn’t think about that. I just wanted to get to it in the first place. In trying to choose the right word, I will use one that I think is probably over-used these days. For example, when one have the right change to pay for their purchase, it is not necessarily “awesome.” It might be convenient or fitting. And if one manages to finish all their work by quitting time, I don’t think that is particularly awesome, either. But when you climb over the last hill, and you’re feet are on the edge of a valley simmering with a river of molten lava, and the constant eruption is heaving liquid rock over two-hundred feet in the air, then I think I am justified in using the word “awesome.” So it’s that. And the lava makes a rumbling, churning noise as it roils and boils in defiance of any special effects Hollywood can come up with. It’s better than anything in the world, for the simple reason that it’s what made this world, one of the forces that helped shape our planet. It was a humbling experience, to see this small glimpse of the massive power buried deep within our world. 

And it was right there. Another twenty minutes, across the field of fresh and cooling lava, and I’d be standing in front of the volcano. I wouldn’t have survived the trip, however; I’d be burned up by then. At that point there was no safe place to walk. Those of us who’d made the trek were mesmerized by the heaving eruption literally right in front of us. Our valley was steep where it dropped to meet the black and cooling lava. The slow-moving river flowed continuously, seeking new areas to deposit this recently-erupted material. For the lower parts of the hike, these dark fields of lava were present right alongside the path; the lava field was extensive, having been produced by the older eruptions from last year.

I chose a spot on the steep hillside to appreciate this rare scene—one that I would probably never see again. An older couple from Paris was there, and the man had a nice camera that he was taking a photo of his wife with. I told him I’d capture the two of them together if they’d take a photo of me with my phone camera. Otherwise no one would ever believe I’d done this. They’d come to Iceland just for the volcano and were also visiting other areas. I didn’t go into my whole history with the country but explained that this was something of a warmup hike for the big Laugavegur trek I’d be doing later. We left things like that. With a volcano erupting nearby, small talk wasn’t really called for. 

Beginning hike to the volcano

The hike down was not as strenuous as the climb, but was possibly more treacherous. Many parts were very slippery with loose dirt and rocks. I may as well have been walking on small marbles. I noticed at these places the rescue teams were strategically placed. They were standing by, ready to help if anyone should slip and fall. I had time to listen to the different languages of the other visitors and found that the French, Polish, Americans and of course Icelanders were heavily represented on the hike. Everyone was united in their quest to see the eruption. 

As I neared the flatter sections below, I knew I was getting closer to the parking area. I recognized some landmarks. I eagerly scrambled to the large mass of cars parked together out in the wilderness. Looking around, it didn’t seem quite right. I was in the wrong lot.

I’d have to hike another 2-1/2 kilometers to my car. 

Oh.

Mýrdalsjökull: A Newbie Meets a Glacier

This is from my early days of exploring Iceland. Actually, my first trip to be exact. During these times I looked at the little map I’d been provided by the car rental people, and chose places at random to visit. It was not a very well-organized approach. But then again this doesn’t swing too far wide of my general approach to life.

I recall the drive from the airport that first visit. The plane lands in darkness, and this night continues well after its arrival at 7:30 in the morning. This being towards the end days of October, the light would eventually come from the eastern sky around nine in the morning. This is coming back to me from memory and notes from that time, so what follows will be a bit random—but here we go.

The radio played—on that first and subsequent visits—the most obscure and eclectic collection of music that somehow found its way into the car on these dark, early morning drives to the capital. These were songs that no american radio station would dream of playing.  But, strangely, they evoked images of my homeland from days gone by. And I mean long gone. The dusty cowboy boots, crooners lamenting the loss of a woman, quick musical brush-strokes that painted a scene of loneliness and lament. It was this that I listened to. Easily I could have passed a theater marquee with latest James Dean feature in block letters, and it would have fit. It was made for this drive in this foreign and strange landscape. I’ve sought out the selections from these airport trips, because it is music I’ve heard nowhere else—and often a song so long buried in memory as to be irretrievable will make itself heard on the radio during these times. It is an amazing combination of sound and vision. Should anyone reading this be planning a drive from the airport to the capital, I’d strongly suggest tuning into whatever signal is strongest and is playing any kind of music.

I should add that many of the selections are also Icelandic songs, and though the meanings are unknown to me, the melodies and rhythms are beautiful.

Let’s see where this brings us. I won’t dwell on the landscape, because it’s hard to describe through the darkness. But over flat lands interrupted by hillocks and swells, you’ll see in the distance more prominent features. Covered in snow, they’ll rise up from volcanic plains—a reminder of the origins of this place. Mostly this drive takes you between rows of high overhead lights that border both sides of the highway. The airport itself is in Keflavik, and the town of that name is close by. It’s a good place to stay for a few days to get a feel for the language and culture before plunging into the big city of Reykjavik. This isn’t what I did, however. This being my first visit, I went straight to Reykjavik, drove around until I found my hotel, and gratefully pulled into the parking lot. The drive should only be around 45 minutes, but I’m sure I managed to stretch it to an hour or more. As I write this there appears just now a news item describing the detour one american made when he followed his GPS device’s instructions. The drive that should have taken 45 minutes became a five and a half-hour gruel-a-thon as he blindly steered his car north, north, north until he came to a place that his device said would be his final destination. I would think after an hour or two he might have stopped to ask someone. Even if he didn’t want to consult a map, most Icelanders speak english well enough to tell him he was going the wrong way. When he arrived at some random house in the city up north, following his device’s assurance he was at his destination, he knocked at the door. Of course the person who answered didn’t know how or why this  visitor came to be there. There was surely a moment of confusion as the american explained why he was some 400 kilometers from where he needed to be. When he offered up his explanation, describing the hotel in Reykjavik he was looking for, it became obvious he was hopelessly and stupidly lost. Shortly thereafter he became an internet sensation, even making the New York Times. 

The name of my hotel was Esja, and it was nice. Probably nicer than I’m accustomed to, being used to more—how shall I put it—modest accommodations. Even a basic hotel in Iceland is cleaner  and more modern and offers better amenities than its american counterpart. This trip was a stopover on the way to Paris, and—at this time—Icelandair and the tourist industry were offering some incentives to spend a few days in Iceland instead of hopping back on the plane for the final push to europe. I was one of the people who took them up on their offer.

As I mentioned, I didn’t have an itinerary or agenda of any kind—other than to get in my rental car and drive around and see what there was to see. My first day I headed out, following some random roads on my little map. When I spied a hitchhiker from Sweden, I stopped to give him a lift. It was an extremely windy time—something I’d come to know as a trademark of the country. So, safely out of the wind with his large backpack stowed behind, he gave me some tips, which I followed.

First I drove to the area where the famed Geyser is. It’s a geyser, yes. But it’s also named Geyser--or "geysir" to be exact. And there are several in that area. They are all grouped together, with bubbling pools of scalding hot water scattered about. It’s a steamy and impressive sight. There was little in the way of tourist accommodations at the time—a small restaurant and gift shop. On my recent visit, the place has expanded considerably. The geysers themselves are unspoiled, but there is much more in the way of shopping and food than before. A little commercial oasis.

Geysir

Skogafoss was one of the first giant waterfalls I found by chance. Along the coastal road, a uniform wall of water cascaded as if from the edge of the world, and plunged with thundering precision into a pool of clear glacial water below. If you like things neat and tidy, this waterfall is for you. I believe the official height is listed at around two hundred feet. What makes this vertical sheet of water and mist so impressive is of course its sheer size, but also the fact that you can get very close to it. This magnifies its size to some extent. It looks like it drops from the edge of the world because in fact this was at one time the edge of Iceland. It is where the coastal cliffs met the sea. Now that the coast has receded, the cliffs and cascading water are left to put on this display a little inland. The day that I stopped my car to stare in slack-jawed wonder at this behemoth of nature, it was misty, with light rain falling. The photo I’ve included is from a sunny day and the waterfall is often befriended by a colorful rainbow or two on these days. On my visit, the busier tourist season being mostly finished—I had the luxury of enjoying the roaring river of falling water on my own. I’ve talked mostly about the sight of this wondrous thing, but I have to delve deep and remember my impressions of the sound. With the intervening years I’m better able to describe this. Iceland is a quiet place. The sounds of nature are what bubble to the surface—birds, streams, waves lapping at rocky shores. To come upon something like this waterfall in an otherwise quiet landscape is akin to hearing a sleeping giant roar—or perhaps snore loudly if it’s still sleeping.  For a first-time visitor like me, it’s hard to soak it all in—the magnitude is just too much. It’s a not-so-subtle hint that you are visiting a place where earth-changing forces are at work. 

Skogafoss

And I’ll interrupt here for a moment to share what I tell people who ask about Iceland. First, if you want to experience it or get an idea of what it’s like, just go there. But my initial impressions are what I always share as well. It’s a place I always say offers landscapes that hearken back to the beginnings of time. You sense that you are walking through giant creations of upheaval and millennial carvings that are still taking place. I am sure this is true for other places on earth as well—but Iceland seems to be a more accessible place to view this and get lost in the magic and mystery of it. 

Later I was to follow my Swedish hitchhiker’s suggestion to see one of Iceland’s wonders: The boisterous and vast network of waterfalls called Gullfoss. Again following the little roads marked out on my map, I made my way to this place. My car was a Toyota wagon with five-speed transmission and it held up mostly well in the conditions on that first trip. I was to put it to the test later. But the wind made itself felt in the little car, often pushing it one way or the other. I remember exiting the car, struggling to close the door, and then struggling again to stay upright as I climbed the wooden walkway to the lonely outpost just outside the falls. The wind was intense. Thankfully the walkway had iron railings to hold onto, and I held on for dear life. There were a few other visitors there, and they employed similar survival techniques—grabbing hold of the railings and bending towards the wind to stay upright. 

You view Gullfoss from a vantage point up above. The terrain is wild and invites no intrusion from weak human-lings. The vastness is like looking out at a wild prairie or extensive plain. But this plain is full of waterfalls—coming at each other from different angles and competing with showers of spray and crushing plummets of white that are relentless. The roar is a bit more distant than the up-close Skogafoss I’d seen earlier, and again it’s difficult to absorb the scale of what you’re seeing. You see the river approaching in the distance, then being broken over the crazy ruptures and uneven landscape that then sends it into a wild and cascading frenzy. The sun was out at this time, and there were two perfectly-matched rainbows keeping the frothy white water company. 

Wide View of Gullfoss

Gullfoss

Here are two different views of Gullfoss. In case you haven't guessed, "Foss" is the word for "waterfall" in Icelandic. It comes to mind also that I shot a video that shows some of these first travels. Here is the link to that video, and the background song "'39" by Queen is one of those musical oddities I'd heard on the drive from the airport one dark morning.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSFuXMBvDNs

Please forgive the quality of the video, as I shot it on low-tech equipment by today's standards. But a Sony Hi-8 camcorder is what everyone was using back then, so that's what I had. Editing it on a primitive platform didn't help matters any, but mostly the song by Queen comes through intact, and the images bring back memories of those first days in Iceland.

That evening I returned to the hotel, put the car away and walked to the old part of Reykjavik—an interesting collection of art galleries, cafés, small restaurants and so on. These early times saw me eating a lot of hot dogs. For one thing, I like hot dogs, and for another these were good. I won’t claim to know what exactly they were made from, but they came on a good roll, were a recognizable food, and they were an easy fix for someone like me who doesn’t eat a lot to begin with. With a hot dog in one hand, a bottle of coke in the other, I was getting to know Iceland. It was our first date.

The next day I was to get maybe too familiar with her. Just a little. I knew I was in a country with massive glaciers. It was hard to hide this fact, because they were prominent features on my little map. Besides, I’d heard people talking about them. And the raging rivers and waterfalls had to come from somewhere, didn’t they? So I spread my map out on the bed back at the hotel, made some marks on different roads close to where I’d been the previous day, and set out along the southern coast. The radio in the little Toyota wagon was playing something unusual—either Icelandic or a hopelessly obscure selection from England or the USA. I should add that there is a lot of talk on this radio station as well, but when they stop to play music, the selections are always good.

At some point I turned onto route 221 or 222. It was a road that would take me north and partly into the interior. Straight ahead lay the sleeping Mýrdalsjökull. Since the end of the name, “jökull,” is the icelandic word for “glacier,” I will skip the redundancy of saying “Mýrdalsjökull Glacier.” My recollection is that the distance was not significant—maybe ten or twenty kilometers to get to the glacier’s edge. But the road was a significant obstacle. With rocks, washouts, dips and more rocks, it was clear I wasn’t going to zip up to the ice field and take a leisurely return trip to the coast. But the scenery. It is what I live for, this. Massive boulder fields, side tracks leading to glacial rivers, then flat expanses of moon-like desolation. I was to learn later who was responsible for this desolate landscape, and her name is Katia. More about her later. This kind of driving was tiring, mainly because I had to be always vigilant about the ruts and rocks and various hazards that would break the little Toyota if I didn’t watch out. At this point I remember I was climbing. Up, up, up. And as I climbed, the road got worse. To research this writing, I consulted some recent narratives of people who made this drive. Mostly they turned back.

There was no other traffic during this trek. The only vehicle I came across was a dormant Caterpillar bulldozer from the 1970s. With an enclosed cab and a massive blade to push large rocks out of the way, it was simply left out there in the middle of this nothingness to be put into service when the need arose. Judging by the state of things, it hadn’t been put into service lately. 

I pushed on. Now the road was getting crazy bad. Because I was climbing into an area that would eventually become the highlands, snow appeared on the road. Not a lot, but some. This was October, near the end of the month. The patches of snow were significant enough that I made a run at them to get through without bogging down and getting stuck. This strategy worked, but the snow was followed by areas of mud as well. So this required that I hit the gas, getting some momentum to carry me through the mud bogs. Result: Car covered top to bottom with splattered snow and mud. The Toyota had been shiny red back at the airport. Now it was mud-colored almost everywhere, with some patches of red showing on the roof. 

At some point I came upon a strange sight. Maybe halfway to the glacier, a large tracked excavator—another Caterpillar—was being operated by a solitary man at the controls. No one else around. His american-made pickup was parked nearby, and his work consisted of gouging a trench through this massive landscape. I stopped. None to clear about where I was exactly, I approached the yellow digger. I wanted some reassurance. He swung the dinosaur-like machine around on its pivot to face me. 

“Glacier?” I asked, pointing up the deteriorating track I was following.

He didn’t speak much english, but he knew what I was looking for.

“Ja, glacier.” 

Then I gestured as if to drive there in my car.

“No,” he said, looking at the little Toyota and shaking his head.

With the arrogance and ill-founded self confidence of a new arrival in this country, I got back behind the wheel and headed for the glacier.

I’ll skip over the rest of the drive, only because it was more of the same conditions I’d already encountered—only worse. One of the main hazards I’d later realize was that the soft snow I was pushing through could very well have hidden some good-sized rocks. Hit one of them with the underside of the motor, and it was quite likely I’d punch a hole in the oil pan. Catch one at an odd angle, and rip a wheel right off the car. I was lucky on this trip, but I would not recommend anyone else try a similar approach.

Near the end of this dirt and rock road stood a hulking glacier-bus. I don’t know what it’s actually called, but it was obviously something built way up on big flotation tires to carry camera-wielding tourists onto the icy plain. Then, beyond the glacier bus was the glacier itself. The other thing—among many—that I didn’t know at this time is that the weather can change dramatically at any moment. On a subsequent glacier tour in another part of the country, my driver took me onto the ice in his “super jeep,” parked, and we got out to take some pictures. The day was bright and sunny, clear blue sky overhead with dazzling and blinding white from the snow-topped glacier. Within a minute or two a dense fog rolled in, totally obscuring any visibility. And it didn’t let up. On a field of white that we couldn’t see, socked in by grey fog, the situation looked hopeless. But he’d been tracking our route on his GPS device, and it was thanks to his knowledge of these conditions that we were able to slowly re-trace our path. Following a crude line on the GPS monitor’s screen, we got down to a lower elevation where the fog cleared out enough to allow us to see.

Up at Mýrdalsjökull my main concern was that the daylight was starting to dim. I’ve mentioned that Iceland is a quiet place for the most part. Here the silence was complete. Face to face with the giant expanse of ice and snow, I was left alone with my thoughts. One would hope that such a moment would bring great and deep insights into the nature of one’s being or self and a sense of place in the world. I can’t say this was necessarily true. I was nagged by knowing that the road back was not going to be any easier than the road here. And I still risked breaking the car.

But the glacier. And the hulking and idle glacier bus parked in this improbable place. And alone there—like so many other foolish travelers had been before me. The introspection would have to wait. I wanted the experience, yes, but I didn’t know what to DO with it. Go out on the glacier? I was already pushing my luck just being here. And the issue of waning daylight was becoming more pressing. It was only late afternoon, so I still had a little time to linger and make the slow trek back. 

Mýrdalsjökull commanded the landscape with a quiet authority. Millenia had led her to being here, and her icy expanse of white silenced everything around. Just the state of being was enough--no additional fireworks or show were required. I tread softly, lest I somehow anger her—or the sleeping volcano she hid under the ice. Yes, that would be Katia, the one'd I'd already mentioned. For if it's fireworks you want, then imagine her eruption under the blanket of Mýrdalsjökull last recorded in 1918.  This was an earth-changing event of unimaginable proportions. Sudden explosions of molten rock met the thick ice covering and produced instant floods that changed the landscape all the way to the coast. It extended, in fact,  the coastline about five kilometers out into the sea. In purely non-scientific terms, it was a case of "all hell breaking loose." These facts I found out after I'd visited that place. Standing there in my insignificant way, I didn't know much how to interpret all this, and what exactly I was looking at.  What registers now, in retrospect, is  what a non-entity I was there, how undeniably trivial. This was a landscape indifferent to me and my little car. Should I have expired and somehow been swallowed up by the nature around me--it would not have registered so much as a sneeze for Mýrdalsjökull and her sleeping sister underneath.

Mýrdalsjökull

I actually made the return drive okay. By the time I'd put the washed-out track of rocks and ruts behind me, it was nearing the end of dusk. Now I was on a black gravel road that shifted like ball-bearings under the 

car's tires, but it was like a superhighway compared to the road that climbed up to the glacier. I met exactly ONE vehicle coming the other way. It was a tow truck. I imagine the enterprising tow operator was accustomed to retrieving hapless visitors who'd gotten themselves in a fix. With disabled and twisted wrecks dangling from his tow-hook, the trip down to the coast was most likely made in silence.

I'll leave off there, as this stay in Iceland was only three days. I've reconstructed the narrative from journal notes I made at the time, and used photos that are available for public use on the internet. The few print pictures I have were made from film, and would be poorly reproduced here. 

I flew to Paris, made the most of my time there--visiting the haunts I remembered as a schoolboy. But now Iceland had a hold on me.

Of Kleiners and the Pepperoni Taco Sandwich

I’ve once again disturbed the timeline of the narrative,

because what I recount here happened close to my

arriving in Iceland. And it has to do with sandwiches.

The Pepperoni Taco Sandwich, to be exact. It’s a pre-
wrapped convenience that comes in its own shiny
cellophane, and can be found in the prepared foods
refrigerated section of any Icelandic supermarket. I
know you can get them at Bonus, so try there first.
It's the store with the somewhat demented-looking
piggy bank adorning a yellow flag outside the store--
something of a Nordic Piggly Wiggly.

Pepperoni Taco Sandwich

Pepperoni Taco Sandwich. With a name like that, how can it NOT be good? Long and slender, it is pleasing to the eye. Yes, the list of ingredients is long, but I don't dwell on it. It is like the drawn-out
descriptions you come upon in a good book where you mostly want to get back to the action. Do you REALLY need to know all that? 

So I set out on Christmas day to visit the geysers about two hours away, perched in the seat of my rented Jeep. A rarity on this day--I found a store that
was open. Walking up and down each aisle, I finally
found a store man who could tell me where they kept
the sandwiches. I'd had them before, and was
determined to have them again on this trip.

Bonus Supermarket

"Is there. By vegetables,"He nodded vaguely towards
a display. He was spare in his speech,
getting his meaning across using the fewest words
possible. He then went back to the pastime I'd
interrupted--which was staring blankly at the empty
conveyor belt that currently wasn't conveying
anything other than bleak emptiness.

I'd found my sandwich. There aren't many things
cheerful about a dark and cold Icelandic winter. The
days offer up a steady pelting of ice, snow, rain,
sleet--which I think is the stuff that comes down in
the form of little white pellets. You get all this and
more, because I could be faulted for leaving out the
wind. It's a howling wind, and not just howling
because it blows all the wetness and various sky-
fallings directly into your face and against your
person. It would be howling even without all that.
Earlier in the trip my host and I stopped for gas in her
car, and she was reluctant even to get out and fuel
up. She was Icelandic, and did not want to leave the
car. I even offered to take on the job, feeling it the
proper thing to do, but she decided she really wasn't
in the mood for gas after all. 

I can imagine the Pepperoni Taco Sandwich is a real
mood-lifter for many Icelanders. It's a substantial
outlay--costing around 500kr.--which is roughly five
dollars. But, given the weather conditions they deal
with usually for days on end--if anyone deserves a
Pepperoni Taco Sandwich, I think Icelanders do.

Typical Kleiners

I rounded out this meal with a kleiner I bought at the
same time. And an orange, and some Icelandic
licorice. The kleiner deserves a closer look. It's a
traditional Icelandic doughnut, twisted in a special
way to form a kind of knot. So it is not a round
doughnut, nor does it pretend to be. At the risk of
name-dropping, I happen to know the Icelandic
National Kleiner-Making Champion. She has racked
up honors too numerous to list, but year after year
the crown goes back to her. She currently resides in
a city in the northern part of the country.
The thing that stands out about this woman, is that you 

could spend two hours talking to her and you would never

know she is reigning Kleiner Queen. No entourage,
no special car or security detail. Even if you specifically 

asked her about kleiners, it is likely her modesty
would prevent her from revealing the enormity of her
position. Not to belabor the point,
but she is not some county fair blue-ribbon winner
who was judged on a few nibbled doughnuts from a
grease-stained paper plate. No--she is National 

Kleiner Champion for ALL OF ICELAND. The
magnitude of this is beyond my understanding, and I
always feel guilty when I eat a kleiner, because of this
simple thing: I can't tell if the kleiner is as good as
hers or if it falls short in some obvious way. For
me all kleiners are good. After two or three days they
are beyond eating, as might be expected. But when
they start out, I think they are really on equal footing. 

But back to the sandwich. Yes, again. I thought I'd
exhausted all I had to say, but now I remember a con-
versation. I was in the kitchen of my Icelandic hosts'
 talking to the eldest of their young sons. We
hit upon the topic of food, this being the kitchen, after
all. He told me about his preferences--the fish, the
Icelandic version of Kentucky fried chicken that uses
actual Icelandic chickens in its making, the chocolate,
cokes, the mish-mash of things that nourish a young
person's body to a greater or lesser extent.
Then it was my turn. What did I like?
"The Pepperoni Taco Sandwich," I said.
A pause.
"That's it?"
"Yes."
Truthfully, there is not much food I like. Being afflicted
with a condition that makes it terribly difficult to swallow,
I am pretty selective about what I try to jam down there.
This sandwich goes down pretty easy.
But it gets better, this conversation. Never could I have
dreamed this up.
My young friend told me of a time when his aunt ate
one of these sandwiches and got terribly sick. Food
poisoning. It went on for quite some time, this illness.
The makers of the sandwich were made aware of this-
either through litigation or another formal complaint.
He had my full attention.
"Go on, Go on!"
I sat, my chin in my hand, face absorbed with every
detail of this sandwich story.
To settle this unpleasant business with the sandwich
and the woman's illness, the company offered up this:
A lifetime supply of Pepperoni Taco Sandwiches. Yes,
as long as this woman is still drawing breaths, she can
have as many of these sandwiches--and, I presume,
the other offerings from the same company--as she can
manage to eat.This seemed like paradise to me. I can't
imagine a world with an unlimited supply of sandwiches.
Get up in the morning and feel like THREE sandwiches
that day? No problem! Maybe skip a few days, then hit
the sandwiches hard again? That's okay, too! Granted,
I did no fact-checking, am basing this all on the account
given by my young friend as we chatted in the kitchen.
I for one am all too eager to believe it, however.

For this trip, my overland travels will take me to a
distant part of this island that I’ve known

and come to see as a second home. The drive can be

made in one day, but I’ll split it in two, resting for a night

in a town called Holmavik. I’ll say a few words about

Holmavik, for the simple reason that I don’t know much

about it. It’s a fishing village and the town’s offices overlook

the fjord with a magnificent window that invites an

undisturbed view of nature. The building sits up high, and

the builders made sure they placed this window to

allow an enormous slice of the fjord to be viewed from

the comfort of the town’s offices. I simply wouldn’t 

get any work done there. Do they ever see seals?

This question is always foremost on my mind. Yes, the

town’s administrator said, sometimes they do. A giant window

and the possibility of seeing a seal. The town would quickly

devolve into a chaotic and disorganized mess under my watch.

For the time being I am on the southern coast near
the airport in a town called Keflavik. The house is
warm--being heated by the hot water that comes
directly through pipes under the street and that runs
through its radiators. There is a dog and a cat and a
Bonus supermarket just across the street. Hopefully, I
trekked across the iced-in parking lot in search of
another Pepperoni Taco Sandwich this evening. It
was late and I knew the chances were slim. I
described my wanting to the store man at the Bonus. 

“Is finished, the sandwich,” he said

I’ll borrow his words to wrap this up: 

“Is finished, the narrative.”

Icelandic Symphony Orchestra: Kicking off 2016 concert season at Harpa

“What exactly have your gotten yourself into?” This was what I was wondering as I drove farther along this single track, punctuated by large rocks, ice and snow. I’d left early for the big New Year’s concert at the Harpa symphony hall, and thought I’d detour onto this interesting side-road. It had the name of some place just eight kilometers away. Eight kilometers. I could handle that. “This’ll be fun,” I thought. So—when my counter passed eight km and there was no end in sight, I started to re-think the whole situation. Besides the terrible road in no-man’s-land, I’d put on my good pants. I was out in this desolation wearing good pants. By good, I mean they had creases and weren’t stained with paint.

Shortcut to Reykjavik

To turn back seemed ridiculous. I still had daylight, and it’s not like I was in the middle of nowhere: I could see the lights of the main highway about a half-mile to my left. My thoughts returned to my good pants. They really are nice. The main hazard on this hell-blasted single track was a blowout. The little suzuki 4X4 was handling the snow and ice with little effort. But the rocks were big and numerous. I could picture myself getting out, jacking up the little off-roader in the snow and the muck, wrestling with a spare tire and stowing the old one away. Result: Perfect mess, pants ruined—and I’d be a prominent eyesore at the concert I was so looking forward to. Even worse, I might manage to get the truck stuck and have to trek over to the highway for help—a humiliating and unnecessary situation.

I could see up ahead the lights of some industrial center. I was now about halfway between Keflavik and the capital. I’d assumed that—since someone had taken the trouble to post a sign at the beginning of the road, and the fact that it actually had a route number—that it would lead somewhere. And I was well past the eight kilometers I’d allowed for this detour. I was approaching thirteen right about now. Which brings up another point and detour from the narrative: I’m skeptical about the distances listed on Icelandic road signs. As an example, I’d turned onto the main traffic circle leading out of Keflavik and took the direction towards Reykjavik. As I entered the circle, the distance to the capital was 41 kilometers. But—as I exited—the distance was now 43 kilometers. I think I should at least have gotten credit for the 200 meters I covered before exiting the circle. Instead, I was penalized an additional two kilometers.

So—the eight kilometers that was posted at the beginning of this very rough track—I can’t even call it a road—was a fantasy. But I stayed the course. I didn’t relish retracing my path, since what lay up ahead couldn’t be any worse than what I’d just covered. The lights of the industrial center got closer, then things got a little strange. Stranger even than before.

I crossed an area of disturbed ground, big and open, with the unmistakable crawler tracks of heavy equipment stamped in the snow and mud. It was that kind of place. A hulking bulldozer stuck out of the frozen landscape some distance away. Then, more strangeness: The area opened up even more, and now I was out in a very wide and flat place paved with solid ice. Nothing but ice.  At least it was much smoother than what I’d been driving on.

Off-roading en route to Harpa

Then the realization struck: I was on a landing field. I was driving on an airstrip. There were no runway lights, but the flat area was long and then ended abruptly some distance to my left. Great. Just as I was crossing this airfield, a pickup came from the direction of the industrial area. I rolled down my window, pulled alongside.

“I really just want to get back to the main road. I’m sorry.”

The driver laughed, pointed in the direction I was headed. I was so grateful he didn’t give me a hard time or call the cops. As sure as I am writing this I will never trouble him with my presence again. He can have the airfield all to himself.

The smooth ice gave way to an actual paved road. Then I followed it for a short distance to get to the main highway. This area was made up of commercial enterprises occupying large buildings. Construction contractors, tool rentals, truck repair--it was all here. This was great—I didn’t have to turn back, and had actually put a lot of distance behind me. Reykjavik was only about 15 kilometers away. I could handle that.

From memory I steered towards the old downtown part of Reykjavik, found a parking spot about three blocks from the shimmering Harpa concert hall. I was safe, all tires had enough air--no blowouts from my recent misadventure. I was ready for the concert that would kick off the 2016 season. It was a big deal.

First, something to eat. My ordeal that ended at the airfield had taken it out of me, so I stopped in at the Tea and Coffee place I like. They have sandwiches made on croissants, and they’re fresh and good. I had some coffee, looked at a design magazine, and lingered awhile. I still had time. 

The wind outside had picked up, so it was a good time to walk the few blocks to Harpa—the modern-art version of a concert hall. It really is impressive—with the vast arrays of glass and lights that change color, giving the exterior a shimmering look against the night sky.

Interior of Harpa

I picked up a program before going in, and leafed through it. I understand maybe one in ten Icelandic words, so there are rather large gaps in my comprehension. What I DID gather, however, is that near the end of the program was a little section devoted to other big names in music and literature. They all had things to say about Johann Strauss, Jr. the person whose works I was to hear tonight. For the most part I didn’t understand any of it, but for Johannes Brahms—a contemporary— what I took away was this:

“His music is so good I could just give him a hug.”

I’ll work on my Icelandic.

The evening's programme

It was a light mood at the Harpa concert hall, as befits this music. On the lower level was a brass quintet pumping out lively polkas and familiar tunes. Up near the concert entrance were young men in a string quartet entertaining the concert-goers with excerpts from Strauss’s works and others. All of these young people were exceptionally talented—and I thought at first I was hearing the orchestra warming up. 

I waited long as I could, then finally took my seat. “I’ll blend in with all the people around me,” I thought. The concert hall was pretty well-filled, this being a big night for the symphony. Except for my row. As I sat down in seat three, row eleven, I was conspicuously the only one there. About twenty seats were vacant to my right, and the remaining seats to my left were empty. So much for blending into the crowd. A few minutes after taking my seat, a woman came and sat two seats over from me. But then she got up and left—so I was by myself again. Actually I was keeper of my row until well into the concert’s first two selections. By the time the the third piece came around, the remaining seats filled during a pause. A group of geriatric and well-dressed concert-goers shuffled in, and I was closed-in by humanity. “About time,” I thought.

The conductor was a Swedish fellow by the name of Ola Rudner. He addressed the audience in English—a godsend for me. Dapper and with a good sense of humor, he kept the evening light. They even wove elaborate skits into the program to enhance even more the music’s feelings of joy and hope. The orchestra opened with “Die Fledermaus,” a work familiar even to those who don’t follow classical music. I am not a music critic, so I’ll do my best with this. What I can say is that the different movements flowed seamlessly one into the other, with a seemingly flawless performance by the strings. The orchestra knew the compositions, and played them with energy and confidence.  When the time came for the “Emperor’s Waltz,” a personal favorite—I could have asked for a bit more fortissimo from the brass section as they thundered a counterpoint to the melody carried by the strings. Just a small thing. But the drama and feeling of the piece were mostly as it should be. I was grateful to be there with this wonderful music.

Brass quintet playing at intermission

I am looking at the program now, and can’t for the life of me figure out what piece I am trying to find. It was a light-hearted arrangement with a musical pause to allow for a man with a strange-looking flute to play exactly TWO NOTES. Of course, in typical Icelandic fashion, the conductor made a huge production of welcoming the guest flute-player and allowing him to don white gloves in preparation for the music that called for this instrument. The sound it produced was akin to that of a cuckoo clock, and I believe that was the whole idea. Of course, to round out this absurd scenario, the flute-player feigned trouble with his instrument, had to go to the side of the stage and make a commotion as he tried to fix it, and then re-joined the orchestra to fumble through the end of the piece—barely managing to croak out his two notes. It was a welcome and comedic respite from the otherwise serious world of classical music. In fact, I think Strauss would have approved—he being something of the “pop-star” of the music scene in his day—maybe akin to the ABBA of the 1830s. I had one contribution to the evening—feeling that the voice of this one, lone and obnoxious american should be heard. It happened that a man appeared on stage to place a music stand. The music stand was—ridiculously enough—for the flutist to know where to play his two notes, even though there was an obvious musical pause that was very hard to miss. But he also placed the stand for the soprano and tenor who came to sing operatic pieces. There was complete silence as the man came, placed the music stand, and then walked off the stage. He was a stage hand, dressed in black, and had every eye in the house on him. I thought to myself—“What do americans do best? We make noise!”  So, as he walked off I clapped vigorously, and the concert hall erupted in applause for the efforts of the poor guy who mostly wanted to be invisible. It was a fun evening.

String quartet at intermission

The second half of the concert featured other well-known waltzes—including the beautiful Blue Danube. What really brought it home was the appearance of professional dancers—two couples dressed in period costumes—who performed beautiful waltzes to the orchestra’s music. The strings, percussion, brass—and then the dancers—produced an overwhelmingly beautiful combination. Just magnificent. It was an evening where the very air seemed charged with energy that washed over every person—audience and musicians alike.

It had to end sometime. But the orchestra and conductor were ready to prolong the fun. They did two additional pieces after taking numerous bows, and ended with a lively polka--a very recognizable work by Strauss but whose name I regrettably don't remember. Anything I write here will probably be wrong so I'll leave it alone. To commemorate the recent New Year's celebration, the orchestra produced the cheap and festive headwear of a typical New Year's party--tiaras, sparkly things, and even antlers adorned the heads of the serious and well-schooled musicians. This was all well-planned out, and had great comic effect. The final piece--as the conductor put it--was an homage to joy and hope--a great and appropriate ending to an extraordinary evening.

Final bows: Opening concert 2016