Iceland, Part Two

Flying into Akureyri was definitely the coolest flight I've experienced. After flying over inland mountains and glaciers for half an hour, we gradually descended into Eyjafjörður, the longest fjord in Iceland. For 15 minutes we flew between the barren, snow-covered highland plateaus, as the grassy green valley floor, dotted with red-roofed farm buildings, opened up beneath us. At eye level, sheep grazed on the steep mountainsides and countless early summer streams cascaded into the valley. Flying north, farms gave way to Akureyri and the waters of the fjord, and we circled around to land.

Akureyri is Iceland's second largest city, population 17,000, and home to most of Rob's Icelandic relatives. We were immediately welcomed by uncle Addu and girlfriend Ästa, both sunburned from a recent mountain climbing trip, and convivial (though mourning her English skills) great-aunt Helga-Maggy. As I donned my new windbreaker and considered putting my boots on, the others, outside in short-sleeves and eating ice cream, commented on the warmth of the weather. (Side note, I think I ate more ice cream in Iceland than I have in the past three months.)

That evening, everyone (Ingibjorg, Guðmunder and four kids included) drove over the mountain range to have a barbeque at the summer house, built by Rob’s grandparents, in the next valley. It’s a comfortable, modern pine cabin secluded from the road by young trees, the fringe of the country’s second largest forest -- which is not very big, since from settlement in the 9th century until recently, trees have been practically unheard in Iceland, although today everyone is planting them. Water is piped in directly from the creek running alongside, which is bordered in summer by indigo and white Artic lupine, and runs into a river just downstream. On the opposite bank, a grazing field ascends a steep hill between the creek and the river, and there are popular campsites a mile upriver.

Rob’s four young cousins played around the cabin while the adults prepared dinner - salmon on the grill - and Rob and I (adults, yes?) did a little of each and joined in on the English conversation. Evenings are long and relaxed in an Icelandic summer, and we ate until the food was gone, or nearly so, sitting and talking until we had room for seconds or thirds of both dinner and dessert. (All our hosts reminded me of my grandmother -- never so happy as when you manage a third helping.)

The next day, sunny and warm, Rob and I set out in Addu’s Land Rover to visit the sights eastward. Driving out of the forest, we passed through farmland, around lakes, crossed glacial rivers, into the volcanic landscape of Lake Mývatn. South of the lake is green, with a clear salmon river meandering through bright green grasses dotted with yellow flowers; to the west is marshland, off-limits during nesting season, and when the wind blew in the right direction we could hear the cacophony of bird cries while we hiked up the 1500 foot barren conical peak of Vindbelgjarfjall. North of the lake are a small town and 18th century lava fields, as well as the volcanic craters and fissures, where the last minor eruption was only 25 years ago. The lake, however, contains evidence of pre-settlement eruptions in the mound-to-hill-size pseudo craters and tall rock columns, bizarre shapes created when lava flowed into and then out of the lake over a thousand years ago.

At Leirhnjúkur, next to Krafla volcano, where there is another geothermal plant, we walked along the dangerous steaming vents and sulphurous, bubbling mud pots. It’s great, scary fun, although they are building a raised boardwalk over the trail in an attempt to prevent wayward tourists from burning their feet on thin ground. I suppose the sheep will still walk where they choose!

Further east, we drove 20 miles on a gravel road through windy, dusty, gray lands to Dettifoss, the highest waterfall in Europe. This is one of the driest parts of Iceland, and if there was a river on the moon, I think it would look like this. The canyon was impressive, great blocks of rock stacked upon end or tumbled down into the river, and the power of the 45 meter waterfall, which we approached at the top (there are no railings) was amazing.

The aunts had told us that only the week before the temperatures had dipped below freezing in northern Iceland. So on the way back to the summer house I marveled at the variations in the terrain, imagined the harshness of winter in this volcanic and glacier-formed landscape, northern winds bitterly sweeping across the land, and fully appreciated just how nice it was to get a sunburn on a summer day with a southern breeze.