Backroads, aquavit and caviar

 As the world becomes a smaller place, more and more people are traveling.  There just aren’t that many places where you can get away from the hordes of tourists.  While we appreciate the Eiffel Tower, the Parthenon, and the Roman Forum as much as anyone, we love to find those places off the beaten path.  One can still find some of those off beat sights on the backroads of Iceland.

The wheels of the  campervan hop and skitter on the washboard gravel road.  Piled up gravel in the center and shoulders of the road throw us around.  Potholes jostle us and  Kate’s bag flys off the upper bunk and crashes onto the sink below.  We slide around a hairpin turn and my knuckles tighten  on the steering wheel as I look down the steep slope that drops a thousand feet to the fjord below.  The sign says, "15% grade next 15 kilometers”.   I downshift to second gear and the engine whines as we chug up the  steep grade.  The road switches back and switches back again and again.  The wheels hop and dig for traction.  The traction control on the dashboard goes berserk, flashing frantically, telling me that the wheels are more in contact with air than the rough gravel track.  To make things worse, each hairpin switchback is awash in loose gravel.  I grip the steering wheel still tighter, at the same time trying to stay loose and let the van drift where it wants and not overcorrect knowing that one false move and we are over the side.

I furtively glance at the snow capped peaks above, riven with cascades of white churning water.  Countless water courses cut through ancient basalt lava flows.  Each turn in the road reveals a new vista;  glacier clad mountain,   waterfall,   vertigo inducing view of the sinuous road below.  We reach the top of the grade  and find ourselves in a cirque of impossibly lime green lichen clad mountains footed by a meadow of impossibly green lichen criss-crossed with small streams with the undercut banks of little fairy grottos. 

I walk out onto the carpet of lichen, each step like stepping on a cloud.  I plunge my fingers down into the lush growth.  It feels like velvet.  I stand and look across a canyon that is several thousand feet deep and gaze across at a massive collapsed caldera of an ancient volcano.  I turn around and watch as a Toyota pickup  struggles past our van and switches back a few times and then starts up what seems like an impossibly steep slope and I wonder if our campervan can make the same grade.  I spring over the  turf and jump in the van and take off.  We make it over the top and start down the other side.  Dense clouds drift up the mountain slope and envelope the peak we have just left.  The downslope is just as white knuckle.  Switchback after switchback of impossibly steep road finally delivers us the valley floor below. 

Several hours and gnarly gravel roads later we finally arrive in our campground for the night.    Out the back window of the camper, the setting sun is reflected with snow capped peaks in a glassy pond.  Fluffy white clouds slowly turn pink as the light fades from the day. 

We are late arriving in camp and so forgo cooking dinner.  Instead we opt for a ghetto chic dinner of caviar with hardboiled eggs, thick Icelandic yoghurt, chopped onions, and avocado on dark rye bread washed down with Viking beer and aquavit.

I share some caviar, aquavit and beer with Kate

Driftwood on the beach

Friendly local

Deb finds the giant marshmallow patch

Mushroom

Bizarre sculptures.  

Modern henge-Icelandic style

Sky reflection or white water?

Fairy grotto

They know four wheeling here

The long and winding road

Manny, Moe and Jack try to figure out what is wrong with our camper

Mountains of the Eastern Fjords

Iceland-Part 1

Iceland has hot and cold running water

Clouds of steam pour out of a towering  mountain  that plunges into Djupifjordur or the Djupi fjord.  The wind blows away the clouds of steam to reveal a plunging cascade of boiling hot water.  The thermal fall drops well over one hundred feet to feed a hot river at the base of the mountain.  I  spin around  around to the opposite bank where another equally tall mountain plunges to the sea split by a beautiful waterfall of crystal clear ice cold water that feeds a rushing stream.

Iceland is a land of contrasts.

The steaming peak of Mt Snaefelllsjökull looms over a massive glacier that clings to slopes above ropy ancient flows of lichen clad basalt. At 65 degrees north latitude, just below the Arctic Circle, even in late August the days are 19 hours long.  On the summer solstice, the sun rise at 1:30AM and sets at 12:30 AM. In the winter, there is just a few hours of daylight.

After landing in Seydisfjordur on the ferry from the Faroe Islands we made a beeline to the Northwest corner of Iceland to an area called the Western Fjords.  We wanted to beat the cold weather here where winter starts to set in in mid-September and also to meet up with our friends Bob and Pauline from Mt Shasta.  We were expecting a frigid trip with lots of rain.  So far, every day has been T-shirt weather but rain is expected in the next few days. The past few days we have hiked to a waterfall,  walked along the shore of a pristine fjords, hiked to lighthouse that looked like something from a Buck Rogers movie, stood on basalt arches 50 feet above the North Atlantic and hiked to  caves that provided a refuge for  Gisla, a character from an Icelandic saga. 

Our rented campervan continues to be problematic.  It is a cantankerous old beast that I have nicknamed Moby Dick because it is a great white whale of a camper.  Every morning Deborah prays to St Jude that it will start and about half the time it does but only with copious amounts of starter fluid, cursing, and a few kicks to the bumper.  The latter two procedures don’t really help it start, but it does provide relief for the driver.

Tomorrow, we are headed out to the western most point in Europe (if you discount the Azores according to Lonely Planet) to visit bird rookeries.  More on that later.

The sun has just set but at 9:30 but twilight will last until well after 11:00.  Fortunately, our little camper has pretty decent blackout curtains so I am ready to hit the sack  anticipating the adventures of tomorrow. Stay tuned for more of our adventures in the great white whale.

62 Degrees North

62 degrees north is the average latitude of the Faroe Islands, a small archipelago midway between Denmark and Iceland.  What it lacks in size, it more than makes  up for in scenery which is probably some of the best in the world.  Largely unspoiled, these islands continually had me saying WOW!

Fog creeps into the fjord at sunset.  Gray clouds  lined with orange reflect in the water below.  Impossibly high, green clad mountains silhouetted against the sky rise up out of  wind ruffled water.  Cascades of water pour over the edge of sharply cut basalt eroded by water and wind.  Rivulets, creeks, streams and gushing rivers plunge into the air, oftentimes blown sideways by strong winds into mists that dampen the lush green grasses, mosses and lichens that cling to impossibly steep slopes.  As the sun sets over the mountains to the west,  the full moon peaks above the mountains to the east.

Fantastic, majestic, unbelievable day driving scenic roads up one side of a fjord and down another.  Twisty  one lane roads  wind up over  mountains to the next fjord beyond.  Rocky karsts offshore thrust skyward;  the stuff of myth and legends.  Elves hide in tunnels only to be glimpsed out of the corner of the minds eye.  Waves crash into sea caves startling birds nesting on the cliffs above.  Molting sheep graze contentedly on steep mountain slopes.  Every turn in the road reveals a rugged mountain/water vista more amazing than the last.  Dramatic, incredible, amazing; astounding scenery.  I can think of few places in the world that match the Faroes for rugged natural beauty.

I dream of driving at high speed in a long dark tunnel that is just wide enough for one car.  In the distance I see headlights approaching at high speed.  My palms get sweaty and I prepare for impact.  Just when I start to get really nervous, the twin orbs disappear to my left.  I continue on hoping for the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel but much to my dismay another pair of headlights is barreling towards me.  I can feel Deb grabbing her seat but, just as before, the headlights disappear to my left.  After the fourth time this happens, I finally spot the light at the end of the tunnel and soon burst free into the sunlight.  This was no dream but only a somnolent reflection on the day’s drive.  Crazy as it may seem, there are several one lane tunnels in the Faroes with turnouts every hundred meters for the benefit of oncoming traffic; call it a polite game of chicken.  The object is to drive through the tunnel…and survive.

Elf House

Elf on a rock

As I relive the low level panic of the day  the wind swirls around the van gently rocking us to sleep.

Deb admires a cirque of waterfalls

Skagen, Denmark

Independent travelers  know that everything is not always perfect.  There are missed connections, misplaced bookings, and sometimes you just get the date wrong.  Our first twenty-four ours with out Dodgy rental van was one of those days when a combination of circumstances, some beyond our control, made for a day that was not one of our favorites but in the end turned out pretty darned good.

I wake in the middle of the night to a flapping sound on top of the camper.  The wind is howling outside but we are mostly sheltered by low trees to the south and reed cloaked dunes to the north.  I step outside and look up at windblown clouds racing across the stars.  The giant flash from a nearby lighthouse startles me; then another.  I walk around the camper just as another brilliant beam blinds me.  I watch as the beam sweeps across the low dunes…then out to sea… then whirls back around illuminating the land.  The trees rustle around me  dancing in the stiff wind.  I crawl back into the camper and lay wide awake still jet lagged yet tired and long for sleep.

Staring at the ceiling, my mind churns over a challenging and tedious day.  It started with  a city bus ride to a street corner in south Malmo  to pick up a campervan.  I stepped down from the bus and followed the directions I was given, but there was no sign of the campervan we had reserved months ago.  At first I though I had been had, but I continued down the street to find a giant scruffy Viking standing by an equally scruffy van.   Built in 1999 it was obvious this camper had seen better days.  Its’ body was dented and dinged with faded paint.  A crack zig-zagged across the top of the windshield.  I had expected something better from the description on the website but rationalized that at least I would not have to worry about damage from our impending trip over the graveled roads of Iceland.  The giant Viking introduced himself as Jarmo and quickly started to explain the camper’s systems and idiosyncrasies to me.  Having arrived the night before, after a long drive to San Francisco and a long flight to Copenhagen, I was tired, jet lagged and not processing the information as well as I normally woud have.  Nevertheless, I was soon on my way.  

After a few stops to outfit the camper we spent the night at a campground near Aarhus, Denmark.   Following a quick breakfast, I fired up the motor which clanked and clanged and spewed clouds of white smoke.   To the not so bemused looks of the other campers, I roared up the hill and...the engine died.  After several tries at starting the engine, it finally caught.  Then I remembered that Jarmo had warned me to let the motor warm up to 50 degrees Celsius.  After about ten minutes the gauge read 50 so I roared off again.  This time I got about 400 feet and…..the motor died again.  No amount of coaxing, swearing or starting fluid could revive the dead beast.  Then finally…the battery died and the motor would not even turn over.

We called for road service and a knowledgeable young Dane had us up and running in no time.  Somewhat chagrined and questioning the viability of the old camper, we headed up the road.   Our destination for the day was the town of Skagen at the northern tip  of Denmark.  Along the way, we made our second stop in two days at Ikea (they are all over Sweden) to buy some things to stock the ill equipped kitchen in our van.  The kitchen was short a few essential items like pots and pans and, most importantly, a sharp knife.

After a rainy night in Skagen, we woke to a sunny yet still blustery day.  After a quick breakfast we were off on a walk to the very northern tip of Denmark to see the confluence of the North Atlantic and the North Sea. 

Hangin' at the northern tip of Denmark

The two seas meet in a maelstrom of crashing waves with currents going every which way.  Signs on the beach warn the unwary not to swim in this swirling cauldron of white water.  We stroll back up the beach past a bird filled saltwater marsh and climb up on the dunes for an overview of the northernmost tip of Denmark.  We continue past several World War II bunkers; hulking masses  slowly deteriorating in the salt air.  The blustering winds bring clouds to darken our sunny day.  As we reach the parking lot, drops of rain begin to fall and we rush to our camper congratulating ourselves on the well timed return.

Our Dodgy van 

We stop for a quick bite at the Skagen Brygghaus and head to Hirtshals, Denmark where we catch the ferry to the Faroe Islands and Iceland.

Grilled Plake,  mmmmm!

99 bottles of beer on the wall.