Clean might describe the lines of Iceland, at least the uplands and mountains, the rock profiles and serene treelessness and moss carpet valleys. Lower by the sea a circumnabulation of the Island reveals the mystery of water appearing and disappearing at will, flowing from rock and gorge and waterfall (…foss) with the rage of unfettered freedom tossing up the spirit of mist Norse Gods forged into the landscape from their earthy furnace below. Of the twisting rage of wild water and stupendous sound roaring from cataracts, the softening effect of mist- the mystifying shapeshifting essence of evenescence, the wabi sabi summation of form and emptiness and Tao of light energy issuing upwards as a ghostdancer- is most memorably the character of place. Everywhere signs of geothermal volatility escape the earth in belches, shape cinder cones like minarets across the wet desert, and settle into hot spring nirvanas worthy of exploring as they pour heat out of hearth earth. And everywhere ghosts and everywhere light and everywhere water pouring straight from rock into thin air.
A holy ring of an island tourists flock from around the world to for expressions of purity and unpretentious grace.
Food and lodging are expensive, particularly Rekyavijk, but rental cars (at least in fall) are cheap. And the best parts of Iceland- as in life- are free. I can’t tell you what I think about Icelanders. Much of the hotel work is done by foreigners- spaniards and croatians os forth. What Icelanders themselves work at is a mystery but I hear they work hard. Maybe its a shame. Maybe it takes two trips to know them. If its your first trip- as it was ours- you will spend most of your time looking past people anyway to the artwork that is the water and weather and fire carved island.
Iceland is art a unique physical presence fluent in the tongues of the planet.
And rain! Don’t forget rain gear! It rained really hard on the slick two lane road from Rekyavijk to Tingellvir. Tourist buses bore down on Kat and I and it was nerve-wracking in the misty half light. The “Ting” is where local tribes gathered to sort out jurisdictional issues and set law for the loose confederacy of island tribes. A quarter mile down a rock formation that felt like (and was) a basalt rampart thrust out of the earth for the very purpose of manifesting and celebrating co-evolution between rock gods and skin clad vikings, sat the law rock. It’s where the elected Minister of Laws recited one third of the entire orally kept code every year. And where new laws were proposed and debated. Of all the dramatic places in Iceland they came to the place at the north end of Lake Pingellvir, in the mist, with no beginning or end, wrought with the wildness of a heathen scream.
A black wall of solid basalt honestly as spiritually startling as the obelisk from Kubrick’s space odyssey. Out of it a hydro cannon of muscular stream, crushed between palisades crying for revolution. Further further down, splashed over rocks and pooled the stream slacks- tailing salmon spar and mate in the gloom.
And didjaknow the Ting sits atop the exact spot the North American Plate plunges beneath the Eurasian Plate causing all sorts of havoc and magic. The exact spot. Fire and water and earth forging organic law where the tribes heard a steady voice of justice issue from the source…
We improvised a hot bath and beer at the end of our tour of the Golden Triangle (Ting/Guysur/Gulfoss). There was a recommendation for thermal baths at Laugavern (from Rekyavijk before any of the featured stops on the maps of the golden Triangle tour) in our lousy guidebook. But about this it was right. We saved it for last. It’s so fun slowly rolling along rainy side roads reading a map and actually finding a place. Suddenly you’re there at the nordic modernesque spa with mist hissing from from pools, the building sleek concrete and glass and vertical wood cladding blonde and attractive and craftsmanly trimless. Once inside we snooped for clues about protocol. Were the baths free? Was it for town people only? Did they rent towels? Would they tolerate Kat in her underwear? No. No. Yes. Yes. We slipped into the big pool which shortly filled with yakking American college girls on one side and a bachelor’s party of large Icelanders all well endowed with saggy man boobs. Quite a scene. The boob men were like Vikings the first to exit the pool and cold plunge in the lake beside the spa. Kat and I went next and fuck was it cold! Sobering and refreshing and cleansing too.
We kissed many times as we always do but cleaner being so close to the north pole.
We drove out the snout of the Sneffelsness Peninsula northwest of Rekyavijk, aiming for Anarstrapi. Another rainy day with a clearing long enough to share a picnic lunch along a coastal strip at the toe of significant foothills. Ducks and shadowily across the lowlands highlighting finally, the farmstead which, as all farmsteads in Iceland, and a red pitched roof over cream walls. But the uplands look like Hawaii with dramatic folds in the newish mountains erupting steeply from the altiplano. Less green more red desert though with scars of basaltic ebony. And this was the second time we noted magic mesas and promontories launch tongues of rivers over cliffs and wildly down sets of falls where they’d disappear before spurting straight from broken rock further down. Arnarstapi’s way way out. After a rainy night it cleared and we walked the high bank trail over the crashing North Atlantic. Like everything it was magical with side trails and caves and mossy elf clefts and crazy patterned veins of frozen formerly molten rock.
Look at the pictures, you’ll see. But only being there does it justice.
Kat and I drove miles- even after the coast hike and the glacier hike- to find a hole in the wall hot springs. I thought we would run out of gas. Kat didn’t think so. We both thought we were crazy but pressed on. We were crazy. We got there at sunset with rain mounting a campaign and daggers in the breeze. There were six cars there and I thought we should leave. The springs are so small only three people can fit in at a time. Kat has more patience than me and we hung in for a turn. A good idea! Not even the sulfury rotten egg smell could mask the healing heat and meaning of that mineral jackpot. God it was a shot to the soul and salve to the body. Our bath was quick because people were waiting. But we went back in the morning- our last in Iceland. We thought about going to the Blue Lagoon, the famous mass bath by the airport. But we decided for our little …. Hraun instead.
It was even better the second time with enough time and freespace and wild wind to smuggle stateside in our tumbleweed hearts.