A bit of a warning dear reader: this travel post is rather lengthy, as it was an epic day in terms of ground covered and experiences had. Read at your leisure, and when you have a steaming latte or hot cup of tea at your side. Reflections on this day make me smile each time they come to mind . . . it was a memorable one, indeed! :)
We headed off in a new direction this morning, pointing our compass North up the Western coast. By taking the seven-km-long tunnel under Hvalfjörður, we cut the distance by more than 100 km, a savings of time and fuel that I still had to seriously weigh up against my discomfort of being under the icy waters of the fjord. While H, my eleven-year-old daughter, wished that the tunnel walls and rocks surrounding us were made of glass, I was grateful for the solid stone that allowed me to pretend we were not where we were.
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| The light at the end of the tunnel under Hvalfjörður was a welcome sight. |
As we traveled North, the sky hung heavy, blanketing the mountaintops along our horizon, wisps of cloud being pulled down like strands of cotton candy towards the earth. It was just around the time that the rain began pelting against the windshield that M turned to me expressing slight hunger. My hands flew to my temples and I may have uttered an expletive or two worthy of any viking warrior as I pictured the full picnic lunch I’d lovingly packed - sandwiches, apples, bananas, crackers, almonds - all safely bagged and resting on the kitchen counter back in our warm little apartment in Reykjavik. "How could I have forgotten??" I kept wondering aloud. Thankfully the Ziplock bag of granola bars that I always keep in our backpack had been replenished the night before, so at least we had some snacks before reaching a civilized village offering food options (few and far between along many stretches outside of Reykjavik. Once we did get to a restaurant, we fortunately knew we were in good hands when we read the advertised message, “Our chef is single :)”, written on the chalkboard menu (after eating we predicted that he surely won’t be for long!), and I finally let go of the angst I’d been feeling: if forgetting the picnic lunch was the (hopefully) worst mistake we make on this trip, we were doing alright!
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| Roadside stop on our way North. Obviously the grass looked green on the other side. |
Our destination was Vatnshellir cave, a lava tube at the base of Snæfellsjökull icecap along the Snæfellsnes peninsula (my favourite Icelandic word!). We happily discovered that the cave was in the middle of lava fields covered in wild blueberry plants, which tasted wonderful. Of course, responsible Mom that I am, I ate one first and eventually allowed the girls to have a few, too, when no adverse effects struck!
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| Happily picking blueberries while we waited for our tour of the Vatnshellir cave to begin. |
Due to the weather, the mountain’s peak was obscured in mists and fog. Luckily, this did not adversely impact what we had come to see underground. Our tour guide, who spoke flawless English as we’ve learned many Icelanders do, shared a perfect mix of factual geological information and fanciful Icelandic folklore describing the trolls’ dining room and meeting place in the depths of the cave. We descended 35 m beneath the field’s surface and then walked 200 m further into the lave tube. Stalagmites and dropstones were pointed out as we learned about the cave’s history and volcanic formation some 8000 years ago. From a literary perspective, images were conjured up from Jules Vernes’ “Journey to the Centre of the Earth”, the famous novel in which the characters’ descent began in the very mount presiding over us: Snæfellsjökull. The temperature in the cave was two degrees celsius, making the temperatures in the low- to mid-teens that we’d been experiencing in Iceland above ground seem downright balmy when we emerged.
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| Ready to go underground to explore the lava tube. |
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The spiral staircase we used to descend into the cave system.
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| In Vatnshellir cave. |
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| The temperature in the cave was a mere two degrees celsius. |
The skies began to brighten and the clouds to lift as we drove inland. I was beginning to wonder if driving the extra distance to see yet another few waterfalls was really worth it . . . and then we saw Hraunfossar and Barnafoss waterfalls. I’m quite certain each of us exhaled an audible, “Wow!” Hraunfossar is a multitude of gorgeous cascades and springs which emerge from under the edge of the lava field Hallmundarhraun and course down the rocks and into the river Hvíta, while Barnafoss is a violent, rushing force that plunges through a canyon where the Hvíta narrows. The rain caught up to us once again just as we drove away from the area, and we were thankful that we’d been able to fully enjoy this stop with good visibility.
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| Hraunfossar |
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| Barnafoss means 'Children's Falls' in Icelandic. |
A few impromptu stops were smattered throughout our day, including a roadside hillock hosting a small gnome or elvish village, and a chance to greet two beautiful Icelandic horses when we took a short break along their field.
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| Hello lovely! |
The day’s final adventure was a stop that we weren’t totally sure we were going to make, and that, in hindsight, we knew very little about. Glymur waterfall, located in Hvalfjörður fjord in West Iceland, is said by some sources to be the highest waterfall in the country at 198 m; other’s claim it’s the second highest, with a waterfall in Vatnajökull glacier called Morsárfoss believed to have a drop of well over 200m. Either way, we thought it could make a nice sighting. M chose to drive on some off-the-beaten-path roads on our way, which presented us with some gorgeous views, and we arrived at the small parking lot for Glymur in the early evening. Small, as in, no room for big tour buses. Strange, but no matter; this location just might be a bit too remote, perhaps it’s too late, or maybe these falls are really not that worth the trip. Oh well, I thought, we’ll just zip out, see it and get back on our way. After all, this was not our first waterfall, folks. We’d already seen Skógafoss, Gullfoss, Öxaráfoss, Hraunfossar and Barnafoss, in addition to countless other falls, nameless to us, which we’d seen trickling or cascading down mountainsides everywhere in this incredible country. All were easily reachable from a roadside spot or parking lot. Little did we know what awaited us.
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| View of the landscape from a roadside stop on our way to Glymur. |
Standing in the gravel parking lot as we quickly donned jackets and toques now that we were leaving the car again, our happy little foursome was approached by a young backpacker. This spunky girl, traveling on her own from France we learned, had everything she needed for a couple of weeks’ worth of trekking and camping strapped to her back. She asked us whether we were just arriving or leaving, as she was looking for a drive to her campsite a little ways away. We cheerfully said we’d just arrived, but that we’d be happy to give her a ride if she hadn’t found someone else to go with when we returned shortly. She looked at us somewhat quizzically, and said she’d surely find someone to give her a lift. As we walked away with a wave, we saw her approach a couple who’d just returned to the lot, and I was happy to know she was going to be delivered to her site where she could get prepared for a night of camping immediately. As we followed a rough path out of the parking lot, there were only three cars remaining in the lot, one of them our Peugeot.
A lovely trek with breathtaking views of mountains and valleys, and rocky moss-covered meadows all around had us wondering when we were going to see this waterfall. We continued hiking along, trying to ensure that we were still on the right trail, scanning the hills and mountains for any glimpse of a cascade, wondering if it would be in our view as we dipped down a valley or came around a hill. Three sheep, indifferent to our quest but cautiously wary of our presence, completed a picture-perfect vista to our right as we regularly gasped at the landscape surrounding us; this had become our habit in this magnificent country of gorgeous view upon view, each apparently trying to outdo the last gaze we’d taken. Reaching a hand-made arrow marker for Glymur was a reassuring sight, and we forged on in anticipation.
When we came to a log resting over a rushing river with a wire-like rope strung along slackly beside it, we took a few moments to reevaluate this whole endeavour. As we stood along the river’s edge, gazing downstream a few metres where a set of rapids churned the icy water to a frothy mix, a fellow family of four approached the river from the opposite bank, obviously the occupants of one of the other two cars back in the parking lot on the return trek of the hike. The two children each crossed first, both older than my youngest daughter, and one looked to be about the age of my eldest. As the son splashed into the riverbank’s edge, he exclaimed his arrival in German to his sister, who followed. I speak German, and quickly engaged with the woman when she safely forded the river, asking her how much longer the hike to see the falls was, and whether there were further elements of great risk ahead. She told me we had about another fifteen minutes to go until we would see the falls. The narrow and steep climb up a cliffside which we could see across the river was slippery from the day’s earlier rain, she said, but after that it sounded like we would be through the most dangerous parts of the hike. After thanking them and watching them depart, we briefly debated and then made the decision to forge on. M and H crossed first, and I’m quite certain I held my breath the entire time as I watched her navigate the slippery log and try to balance as she weebled this way and then wobbled that way as the slack line provided little stability. E and I approached the log, and I gripped the scruff of her jacket firmly, holding the rope with my other hand. In this manner we side-stepped our way across the log in synchronicity, leaping successfully to terra firma at the other side.
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| The rushing river we crossed on our trek to Glymur. |
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| To the far right is the cave we made our way through, and the log we used to cross the river is visible in the distance. |
With one parent leading our family and the other at the rear, presumably there to catch anyone who might fall down the narrow way, we managed the steep, cliffside climb, our full attention required as the upward path was slippery with mud and stone. Once at the top of this climb, we enjoyed some views that took our collective breath away. Hiking onwards a relatively short distance and, finally, after nearly an hour of unexpected hiking, we reached a place affording us an incredible view of Glymur. Amazing! A splendid, mossy green canyon awaits the cascade of this beautiful waterfall, and each of us was grateful that we had come on this rather unplanned adventure. As it was already past 8:30 at night (thank goodness for long days of sunlight in Iceland’s August) and the threat of more rain loomed, we turned back after relishing the view for a while. The journey more than exceeded our expectations. Looking upwards to the cliffs near the top of Glymur, we saw an older, lone woman hiking toward the source of the fall, and I admired her solitary courage and determination.
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| Nearly there . . . |
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| Our first glimpses of the falls. |
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| Glymur!! |
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| We did it! A thoroughly exciting hike to Glymur, part of the adventure no doubt lying in the fact that we had no idea where we were going or what we were going to come across along the way! |
We completed our hike in reverse as we returned to our car, finding the downward slopes of the slippery, muddy cliff even more difficult to manage than we found the path during our ascent. E earned the nickname “the mountain goat” according to the rest of us, our mighty mite proving that she is a fleet-footed and agile little hiker who loves leading our group. Walking back into the parking lot, we now took the time to look at the signs that we had either neglected to see or unconsciously ignored as we assumed we’d be back a short few moments later. These postings announced that falls along this hike could be fatal, that there was, indeed, a river-crossing via a log, and an aerial map showed in perspective the distance that must be covered. Though most definitely not my most responsible parenting moment, I’m grateful for having missed those signs. Had we read them prior to embarking on the hike, perhaps we wouldn’t have embarked at all. Perhaps we’d have turned around and given the French girl a lift instead. And then what an experience we would have missed out on! While not our longest day of hiking during the trip, our trek at Glymur was most surely our most adventurous hike, and one we’ll fondly remember for the rest of our lives. As we reversed out of our spot through the gravel, the first raindrops began splatting on our windshield, and while we were relieved that we’d made the right call to turn back when we did, I couldn’t help but think of the woman who was hiking up at Glymur’s summit. We could only trust that she appeared to be a very experienced hiker, and that she was in the midst of her own memories-in-the-making at that moment. As with our own adventure, sometimes it truly is the unplanned-for aspects of a journey which indelibly etch it into our spirits and hearts.
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| The sign we inadvertently missed as we began our hike! |
Back to Reykjavik we drove, where our easy picnic supper awaited us on the kitchen counter :)
My wonders: Have you ever thought you were prepared for a trip or other adventure, only to find out that maybe you weren't quite as prepared as you'd thought? How did this affect the experience? And, like our Glymur adventure, have you ever done something without fully knowing what you were getting into? What was the outcome?
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