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