Bright and early we rose, ditching our non-hiking bags in the storage closet of the Rey Apartments for the next five days. The kind Mathias had said that we could leave our bags for free there and take the closet key with us (but don’t lose it on a glacier or in a volcano!). I love how little crime there is in Iceland and how kind and trusting the people are. The whole country feels super safe and for the owner of the apartments to trust us with the key to his storage closet while we disappeared for a few days in the wilderness was a testament to the values of the Icelandic culture. I hope that the dang tourists don’t ruin Iceland…
We hiked out in the chilly silent morning, the cold tendrils of an early sub-Arctic autumn wrapping their silver veins around us in the hushed twilight. Reykjavik was silent, only one or two souls stirring in the dregs of the early periwinkle and peach skies. The bay was quiet and peaks across the fjord were cloaked in whipped steel blue frosting clouds. The somewhat cryptic email from the bus company said to meet their subcontractor’s bus at the music hall. There were about 3 bus stops near the music hall so we picked the one that had another couple with backpacks standing next to it. When I reserved the bus online I thought for sure I was on the wrong website because the photo of the bus was legit driving through a 2 foot deep river shooting plumes of water up the sides of the bus. They sure don’t have those kinds of buses where I’m from! The bus picked us up a few minutes after 0700 and we were off on our adventure – no turning back now.
We made a connection at a gas station where we stayed on the bus and (thankfully) over half the bus left. With the majority of thru-hikers heading north to south from Landmannalaugar to Thorsmork or Skogafoss, we were grateful for taking the road less traveled. I couldn’t believe how many hikers were on the bus to hike the Laugavegur Trail this late in the tourist season. We were about 15 minutes from the gas station when the bus driver got a call, presumably swore in Icelandic, and turned the bus around. 15 minutes backtracking we arrived back at the gas station and picked up a Canadian hiker couple from Saskatchewan who had missed the connection and had seen the bus driving away down the highway. The couple came to the back of the bus where we were and started talking in whispers about how not cool it was that one of them had been hotboxing their tent the night before. I thought these people are probably pretty legit.
We made a connection at a gas station where we stayed on the bus and (thankfully) over half the bus left. With the majority of thru-hikers heading north to south from Landmannalaugar to Thorsmork or Skogafoss, we were grateful for taking the road less traveled. I couldn’t believe how many hikers were on the bus to hike the Laugavegur Trail this late in the tourist season. We were about 15 minutes from the gas station when the bus driver got a call, presumably swore in Icelandic, and turned the bus around. 15 minutes backtracking we arrived back at the gas station and picked up a Canadian hiker couple from Saskatchewan who had missed the connection and had seen the bus driving away down the highway. The couple came to the back of the bus where we were and started talking in whispers about how not cool it was that one of them had been hotboxing their tent the night before. I thought these people are probably pretty legit.
Shannon and I ended up chatting with them for the last 30 minutes of the bus ride as we dropped off tourists at the swarming Gullfoss waterfall where a young Asian lady was having her wedding dress photos taken. The tulle was all matted and muddy already in the dark black/grey sand and it only looked like it was going to get messier. “Wow,” was all I could say. It reminded me of the “Icelandic pledge” that was posted all around the more touristic areas of Iceland whose third rule was along the lines of “Don’t die for the ‘gram” (In reality, the rule is “I will take pictures to die for, without dying for them.” What in the heck people – what did ya fools do to make this be a rule for tourists!!)
Four hours from our early morning pick up in Reykjavik harbor we finally arrived at the Skogafoss parking lot, the famed waterfall that plunged dramatically down to a tourist infested parking area. It was finally the first clear day of weather we had in the past week and so Shannon and I took our time exploring the nearby Kvernufoss waterfall that plunged dramatically off a cliff side across the mouth of a large cave. We walked a mile or so from the packed Skogafoss parking lot to open range cow and sheep pasture and snuck behind the local cultural museum complete with a turf roof village out back. Next to the cultural museum an enormous curved log, weather worn and mossy, piqued our interest. Why would a giant log be outside a famous museum? Suddenly it dawned on us that we were looking at an enormous whale rib that was over 20 feet long and probably 2-3 feet in circumference. Dwarfed by the huge bit of the cetacean skeleton we felt extremely small and insignificant and we were floored. My mouth definitely dropped open when I realized that this was only one piece of a truly giant animal, maybe a finback or blue whale, but I didn’t know enough about the whales around Iceland to know for sure. The whale rib was so random and so awesome and totally put us little baboons with backpacks in perspective thinking about how small we were.
Shannon and I snuck behind the parking lot of the museum where there was some farming equipment and we weren’t sure if we were on the right track to the cave waterfall. We paused at a fenced-off pasture that had a metal set up of stairs to climb over the gate to let humans through but not the animals. A well-worn path curved along the fenceline and we saw hikers up ahead on the dirt trail suddenly disappear into a cleft in the hills. Smiling, we clambered up and over the human steps, following the trail through the dandelion field and soon the cliffs hemmed us in on three sides in what appeared an impassable track. We scanned the trail – did we have to cross through the stream over some sketch slippery rocks? We didn’t see wet footprints so we didn’t think that this would be the way.
I scanned the hillside and picked up a faint goat path that would involve scrambling over some loose rock and steep cliffs that would prove to be the crux of the hike. Overcoming this obstacle, the canyon opened up into a laconic grass tufted hillside where a huge ribbon of water plunged straight down into a misty rockfall over the mouth of a shallow cavern. A rainbow shimmered brightly in the spray of the falls and when you shifted your gaze ever so slightly, the colored light beams danced like a water sprite. With the beams of sunshine warming our skin in the secluded valley on such a perfect bluebird day, the whole place felt like some deep ancient magic was tucked away here safe from the ways of the modern world.
We took some photos and clambered behind the chute of water, delicately balancing on the loose sand and gravel slope of the shallow cave. A Dutch photographer sat with us and we struck up conversation as the three of us watched the sun gleam and shimmer through the thick bands of water pouring over the cliffs into nothingness. Taking the time to look, listen and feel the thunderous spray of the Kvernufoss, the three of us noticed that for some reason seabirds constantly circling the waterfall. The gulls would take turns leaping from the rocky cliffs to dive as close as they dared to the falls, some barely catching a few droplets on their wingtips, others daring to soak their whole bodies in the pounding torrents. There were no insects or food that we could see that they would be diving for and the current was too rough and water depth too shallow to have fish. The Dutchman smiled and said, “I think diving into the waterfall is a game for the birds.” And he was absolutely right. We laughed and pointed out the daredevil birds and soon it was time for us to go. As we left Kvernufoss, I peered down the trail at a freshly dead seagull battered by the waterfall whose body had washed up on the side of the creek. I named the gull “Icarus” as just as in the Greek myth, he had gotten too close to something that could damage his wings and he plummeted to his death. In the Greek myth, Icarus flew too close to the sun and the wax melted his wings sending him falling out of the sky. At Kvernufoss, it seemed like Icarus the seagull had dared to get too close to the waterfall and the torrents of water were too much for his wings.
On our hike back to Skogafoss from our side trip to the cave waterfall, the fish and chips truck painted red with white spots had finally opened for lunch. We ordered 2 fish and chips and some sodas as we sat under a shade tree at a humble makeshift table with pallets for chairs. The fish and chips were amazing and the place was packed with comings and goings of hungry people. The owner was the sweetest guy, constantly checking up on how things were and thanking each person individually for coming. Upon serving the fish and chips, he told you about all of the condiments and the different types of salts made in Iceland by a father and son team he knew. We tried licorice, arctic thyme, lava and other flavored salts on our fried chips for a subtle tastebud explosion. Fed, full and with the early afternoon shadows starting to lengthen, we decided it was probably about time to hit the Fimm trail and hike to the huts after dawdling around all day. One last picture in the sunshine with the famous Skogafoss falls that were most recently on Game of Thrones during the cheesy season 8 (ugh) scene of Danaerys and Jon Snow on their dragon date they go on while everyone else is getting ready to battle the enormous army of the dead, they go to make out next to Skogafoss.
The area next to the Skogafoss waterfall was bustling with crazy people trying to get pictures for the ‘gram. We snapped our obligatory “We were here” photo and as I stood “in line” to take a photo on this iconic rock at the base of the falls, a jerk of an Italian guy cut in front of everyone waiting to get a photo. This girl in front of me remarked none too quietly, “Wow – what an asshole!” I laughed in agreement and after the asshole guy left we got our photos and Shannon and I eagerly moved on up the Fimmvorduhals trails away from the throngs of tourists.
The metal grilled steps built into the hillside on the side of Skogafoss were complete chaos as we headed up from just above sea level to a 200 ft climb to the top of the waterfall. It was completely crazy – if there was a slow person in front of you, you just had to be patient and go slow while other people pressed closely behind you because there were loads of people coming down the other side of the slick metal steps and passing was not possible. Close to the top, my quads burned in a good way and the crowds started to space out as people tired of the climb. It was still thick with tourists at the overlook at the top of Skogafoss but less anxiety inducing from the crowds.
The floor of the overlook was a trippy experience as you were hovering directly over the steep plunging torrents of a 203-foot-tall waterfall with thin strips of steel grates bolted into the side of an eroding hillside with not much else supporting you. The plumes of mist shot all the way up the waterfall coating you with a fine sheen of spray as you stood admiring the view, legs slightly shaking over the far drop below the metal platforms. As we stood admiring the view from the top of the magnificent waterfalls, we spotted the same seagull phenomenon that we noticed earlier at the smaller Kvernufoss, as daring white gulls dipped and dived in the torrent’s offshoots, making it quite the adrenaline-filled rush for the birds.
Shannon and I continued up the dirt trail up to the Icelandic highlands where the crowds thinned and there were thankfully less day hikers. As we hiked on, the deep blue Skoga river brimmed and weaved a loom of beautiful white foam and pearly falls. An American lady we met said that there were 22 waterfalls that we would see as we hiked up, each unique and beautiful in its own way. Her advice did not disappoint and throughout the afternoon we passed many cascades, some with names translating into Power, Stormy, Sunset and Flowering Falls.
As we stopped at a large overlook to admire some falls and catch our breath, somehow the obnoxious Italian man from the base of Skogafoss falls showed up and stood ridiculously close to Shannon and I. Like there was 20 feet of space at the overlook and despite Shannon and I taking up 3 feet of it, the man had to push his way in front of us to stand literally a handbreadth away from me to take his photo. At first I thought he was maybe trying to pickpocket me standing so uncomfortably close but I quickly realized that all my good stuff was stuffed way deep in my bag and it was only my pepper spray and switchblade were the most accessible items for homeboy to grab from my stinky backpack. Then I realized this guy really was probably a tourist with a serious case of lacking self awareness. Maybe it was a cultural thing that it was okay to stand so damn close to people but with his track record of being an asshole at the bottom of the waterfall earlier to the people in line to take photos and now again at the top with him standing practically on top of me, I couldn’t not say something. I cleared my throat and in a deeply annoyed voice said, “Excuse me,” as I literally elbowed him away from me. He still didn’t move much when my elbow made contact with him. I mouthed “What the fuck?” to Shannon who then leaned over and death-stared him down until Signore Asshole looked up at us mean-muggin the shit out of him. He sheepishly backed off and headed back to tourist-assholeland where he came from. Seriously what the heck is wrong with people? I hate being a jerk but this guy was just not getting the picture.
Shannon and I left the bad vibes behind us and climbed up, up and up into the Icelandic interior. Most people start the opposite way on the Laugavegur and Fimmvorduhals trails as the elevation drops with you as come down from the northern highlands to the southern sea coast. We were looking for less crowds on such a popular trail so northbound we went. Starting at warmer temperatures on the coast, it was t-shirts and shorts weather for us (yes I realize we totally stood out as Americans in our shorts, but hey, ain’t no rules in the woods!) until we saw loads of shivering, soaked hikers decked out in full rain gear, hats, gloves and jackets coming down the trail. They looked at us strangely in our summer weather clothes but we were steaming up the hills with the elevation change and it was still pretty clear and warm weather for us.
We stopped to chat about the hike with a Indian-American couple from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in the US who had brilliant smiles and flushed cheeks ruddy with excitement. They were finishing the same extended hike of the Laugavegur-Fimmvorduhals trek that we were just embarking on, just going the opposite way, and they couldn’t stop passionately describing how fantastic the trail had been. We laughed and asked questions about the conditions of the glacial passes and if they seen much snow. We probably could’ve stayed and chatted and grabbed a drink (or several) with them but like the Robert Frost poem, we had miles to go before we slept. The couple waved goodbye to us and wished us luck as we continued up, up and up into the clouds.
Soon the good weather came to an abrupt halt as the Icelandic highland winds picked up and a stiff breeze pelted us with cold fat drops of rain. Shannon and I stopped to layer up our t-shirts and shorts with warmer long sleeves, tights and rain jackets. I tried out my new warm waterproof gloves recently purchased from the Icewear gear shop that were substantially better than the lightweight gloves I foolishly brought with me from milder weatherland in the US. Thank goodness I was able to quickly realize that the gloves I had been using for our US hikes in the southeastern summer climates weren’t going to do shit for me with all the rainy and snowy weather of the subarctic North Atlantic. The Icewear Iceland gear shop in the outdoor hub of Vik was truly a lifesaver with helping me find more waterproof gear and one of the only decent gear shops on the southern part of the island. I think many hikers come unprepared for Iceland’s subarctic climate and Icewear seems to do quite the business with underdressed tourists.
The further we climbed, the line of hikers had thinned out incredibly and we were able to squeeze in a quick pee in a land where there is not much cover to do your business. The landscape had become more rocky, the Skoga river narrowed into a deep canyon where someone had thankfully built a mobile bridge to cross the raging torrent that we had been hiking next to for the past two hours. In the distance near the bridge you could see a backcountry toilet that was truly one of those remarkable sites you only see while hiking. The toilet was just that – a toilet – and nothing else. No walls, no shelter, no privacy. You could literally wave to people on the other side of the Skoga River if you would like to while you were on the throne and they could wave back because there was nothing but rocks and sand between you and your new friends. It was amazing and unfortunately I would’ve used this backcountry gem for the absurdity of it all if I hadn’t ducked behind some rocks not much earlier.
Along the trail Shannon and I met up with two older gentlemen dressed in thick colorful wool sweaters hiking through the boulder fields. They introduced themselves as Isladur who was a nearby hut warden on the Fimmvorduhals trail and his older brother whose name we didn’t quite catch. It was getting late in the day and Shannon and I were starting to get nervous that we would have to hike in the dark to one of the huts that allowed camping which would make for a 15 mile day and we had only started hiking around mid-afternoon which was extremely silly on our part. Isladur said we should stay at his hut tonight which was the second one we’d see (about 8-9 miles in from Skogafoss waterfall). We thanked him and told him that we would love to but we heard that camping wasn’t allowed there. He laughed and said that was a load of nonsense and that he would absolutely let us camp for free up there but just to be prepared that it would be a little bit windy. We thanked him profusely and said we’d definitely see him there. I guess it pays to make friends with the hut owner and Isladur told us he’d see us up the mountain as he told us he was going to stick with his brother who was going a bit slower. Like we used to say on the Appalachian Trail, the trail provides.
We soon came to the first hut named Baldvinsskali, which true to its name, was very barebones on a bald rocky outcropping. (Actually I don’t know if “bald” means the same thing in Icelandic as in English but google translate seems to think so.) If you needed to refill your water up here, it cost something like 500 ISK ($4) because the hut master had to haul the water several kilometers up the mountainside on their back all the way from down in the valley where we started hours ago. Unfortunately Shannon and I had both run out of water but needed to ration our Icelandic Krona to pay for camping over the next few days instead of water. We also figured with the upcoming glaciers that it was more than likely that we’d come across some ice or meltwater soon enough and if we didn’t, we could come back to the hut for water.
The Baldvinsskali bathroom at the hut, however, was an improvement from the last toilet we saw a little while back that had the nice view of the nearby trail and the constant stream of new friends you’d get to meet while sitting on the throne baring it all. This new toilet was not by any means the Hilton of toilets but instead was a very utilitarian hole dug into the lava rocks with a large wooden box built over it. The best part was that we lucked out and the toilet had a roof and four walls that offered a bit of privacy for once in the barren Icelandic highlands. A rustic oval was cut out of the plywood board and complimented the royal backcountry throne. Luckily the interior designers had sanded the splinters off the seat (which was thoughtful of them) and the four walls and roof surrounding the toilet took you out of the constant North Atlantic wind for a couple minutes. Also you could warm yourself up a little while taking care of business since the byproducts of the bacteria decomposing the human waste in the pit below actually generated a little bit of heat. Talk about some backcountry luxury! What more could you ask for?
Technically I don’t think I was supposed to use the pit toilet since I wasn’t paying money to stay at the hut but it was either I peed on the red lava soil near the hut or I peed in the bathroom. I decided I should probably leave no trace and pee in the restroom and enjoy the warmth of being out of the wind for a few moments. We packed up and headed out to our new friend Isladur’s hut.
Soon Shannon and I saw the second hut up ahead on a mountain ridge where our new Icelandic friend Isladur would be starting his volunteer hut master duties for a week. It was getting late in the day and the weather was turning for the worse. We noticed that the Fimmvorduhals hut was perched way high up on a ridge where dark clouds turned everything a dull grey brown. Shannon and I raised our eyebrows at how spooky the hut looked from a distance but supposedly it offered a flat, glacier and rock-free spot for camping which we noticed were in short supply here in the highlands. Beggars can’t be choosers and the hut master had been especially nice to us earlier – we were going for it.
After leaving the Baldvinsskali hut, we clambered down into a valley and came to a standing puddle at the bottom of a small melting glacier. We noticed that it did not look like there would be much water or places to hide out of the wind at Fimmvorduhals hut but it was all part of the adventure. I don’t prefer drinking from standing water in the backcountry even with water treatment, but this was the best water we would probably come across for a while in the desolate frozen wasteland. The glacier water was freshly melted, still ice cold and luckily most of the sediments had fallen out in the sand at the bottom of the puddle. We dipped our pots in the pool and filled our water bladders up with three liters each for cooking tonight and the breakfast next morning. Come get your sand-filtered Icelandic glacier water people! I’m only charging 400 ISK and all donations go to the Brennivin fund for thirsty hikers.
After collecting and treating the meltwater, Shannon and I snacked on the go as we took our time carefully navigating across our first glacier field. The light was wavering and the clouds quickly moved in, darkening the skies until they were a bruised gray-blue. Parts of the glacier were covered in thick layers of black lava gravel which gripped your feet better than the slick ice but also hid deep cracks and crevasses underneath their dark blankets. We had to watch the trail carefully across the glacier as it was easy to lose the way even with the tall yellow or wooden trail markers the trail caretakers had placed across the ice. It was easy to forget that the huge glacier was always moving and more often than not the markers that designated the Fimmvorduhals trail were knocked down, covered under ice and rock. Some had shifted a good distance away from the trail by the unstoppable force of gravity pulling the giant glaciers down towards the ocean.
We would often follow a well worn trail used by hikers earlier in the summer only to be forced to abruptly stop short as the ice had disappeared completely into gaping dark holes and ominous crevasses that would most definitely swallow you up if you weren’t paying attention. It was extremely slow going, especially as we traversed out of the glacial valley. Sharp glacial peaks carved by meltwater were dangerous as they concealed icy smooth rivulets that would tear your feet from under you if you didn’t pay attention. Layers of slick volcanic sand covering the ice was less dangerous but also extremely slow-going in that it made it so each step forward you would take a half step backwards down the glacial basin. Neither of us brought crampons or microspikes with us so each step up the glacier wall we had to be very careful balancing with our hiking poles and ensure we had good footing under our boots. We clambered up more ice, slid down sandy gravel slopes and forded half-frozen rivers until as the dull sky darkened we finally came across a wooden sign pointing us to the Fimmvorduhals hut, or what we were had been affectionately calling the “Dracula’s castle” or “the Addams Family mansion.”
As the two brothers matter-of-factly instructed us in what to do in case of a volcanic explosion, I saw glanced around the room watching as several of us non-Icelanders silently muttering something along the lines of “what the f*ck…” But supposedly we shouldn’t worry too much about sleeping next to a giant glacier-volcano that would cause catastrophic flooding and had stopped air traffic across an entire CONTINENT for weeks. The Iceland bros comforted us by saying that there would be a 5-6 hour advanced notification before the volcano exploded as there were new seismic meters in place around the mountains here. Somehow we found out that being up in the hills near the volcano’s crater was actually the safest place to be in a volcanic eruption because we would avoid the glacial flooding that had wiped out entire towns in the lowlands in the past. I still wasn’t 100% convinced that sleeping right next to the second-largest volcano in Iceland was the safest spot to be but another sip of honey bourbon later made it easier to come to terms with this and helped me sleep that night. The next day we would see actually volcano evacuation plan maps posted next to the trail and it said get to high ground if tremors started, confirming the two brothers’ advice.
Most people hiking on these Icelandic trails must not be as cheap as we were as it turned out we were the only ones camping and ended up finding a nice windbreak next to the hut that we buckled down in which was totally fine with us. The Pittsburgh couple whom we had met hiking earlier in the day warned us of the importance of securing our tents down with heavy rocks each night as at some of the campsites they had stayed at they witnessed a few people having their tents blown away in the stiff sub-Arctic winds. Taking note of their advice, Shannon and I found a few large volcanic rocks that we strategically placed on our tent stakes and made sure to pile all of our gear inside the tent to create some additional anchors.
If our tent blew away up here, it would either end up falling down the mountain in the jagged glacier field that we had just come from. Alternatively, the tent could blow down the other side of the ridge into the upcoming volcanic craters we’d see tomorrow. Lava or ice, such great options! Or maybe the tent would get eaten by some Icelandic trolls or arctic foxes. Ugh… I couldn’t bear the thought of another one of our tents getting eaten by foxes again like on the Tour du Mont Blanc trail. I added some more rocks to the tent stake rock piles so there would be absolutely no chance of our tent blowing away.
High atop the Fimmvorduhals ridge under the Icelandic flag, Shannon and I cooked a delicious dinner of Knorr pasta sides (the non-US versions are always a delight) mixed with dehydrated soup veggies, leftover greens and canned salmon. For side dishes we snacked on Icelandic dehydrated fish with butter smeared on it like we had been told was the traditional way to eat it. Dessert was chocolate-filled cookies washed down with some non-alcoholic electrolyte drink powder brought from the USA mixed in Icelandic glacier water. Our digestif post-dinner beverage consisted of duty-free honey bourbon as a nightcap consumed in our sleeping bags to help us warm up from the inside as our tent flapped in the brisk wind.
After dinner, Isladur the hut master and his brother invited us two lowly campers to come inside the warm hut with the paying guests who were nestled in the warm bunks to listen to stories of how the hut came to be and the history of the surrounding Icelandic highlands. It was very kind of him to invite us in out of the wind and cold for a while and after removing our shoes, we collected around the table listening to Isladur’s hilarious stories of how they somewhat “legally” overcame the strict Icelandic laws of renovating houses to build the Fimmvorduhals hut. I guess in Iceland you can’t just build new houses or do renovations without some serious governmental deliberation and bureaucracy and all sorts of bullshit. The Icelandic government told the Utilivist hiking organization that it would be illegal for them to knock down the old decrepit hiking hut to build a new one, even though it would generate money for the economy and increase tourism in the remote area. Not ones to give up, the scrappy hiking bros started doing more research on the Icelandic legal system. One of their crafty friends found out that the Icelandic laws on house renovation allowed you to essentially rebuild the entire house as long as you kept at bare minimum one piece of the original structure in the renovations. So when you’re sitting in this essentially brand new cabin looking around, there is one long piece of jagged old wood from the original structure hung on the wall to meet the Icelandic renovation laws. Absolutely brilliant.
Isladur recalled hiking this same trail with his brother when they were younger and how an enormous glacier used to fill the entire valley that we had spent the better part of two hours descending and navigating across. Back in the day it used to take them thirty minutes or so to cross from ridge to hut because you just traversed the iceberg. He said the small glacier that Shannon and I drank from will disappear in two years or less and that all of the surrounding glaciers will recede, many melting completely within the next fifty years. Now whether or not you believe in climate change, from the pictures and local’s first-hand stories you have to acknowledge that something is changing up in the highlands of Iceland, something that is triggering the once mighty glaciers to melt faster than they are replaced.
Isladur’s brother had pictures posted in the hut of when the infamous volcano Eyjafjallajokull exploded in 2010 halting air traffic across Europe. Try saying “Eyjafjallajokull” 5 times fast! Here’s a video from an Icelander on the pronunciation of the volcano. To me it sounds like he’s casting a Hogwarts spell but I struggle with pronouncing some of the Icelandic language: https://youtu.be/hSo_ND41-6g. Or you could refer to it as what the non-Icelandic media dubbed “E15” because the volcano starts with the letter “E” and has 15 letters that come after the “E.” The photos were incredibly dramatic as they were taken from this hut which just so happens to be a mile or two across the ridges from the now-sleeping volcano. The Icelanders said this volcano is uniquely destructive as the caldera is actually buried deep under 700 meters (half a mile) of thick glacial ice. The scary thing is that when Eyjafjallajokull explodes again that the huge volume of the glacier ice water melting so quickly from the lava could potentially wipe out the entire seaside city of Vik in its path.
A couple of photos posted on the wall of the Fimmvorduhals huts from a few years back when two craters named Magni and Modi (named after two sons of the old Norse god Thor) started to spray lava nonstop after being quiet for a long time. And guess what? These not so silent craters were even closer to the hut than the E15 volcano! Tourists would come up to watch the lava spurt up at night as it glowed deep fiery reds against the dark black skies and from the photos, the craters truly looked like they were quite a spectacle. Tourists would arrive during the day, hike up to the craters in jeans and t-shirts and after sunset would “ooh-ahh” at the magma but then realize it was dark and cold and they were walking around lava pools and glaciers without ay way to see where they were going. Many of the tourists wouldn’t think things through and would be without flashlights or warm clothes. Isladur said that in those days the tourists kept the Icelandic Search-and-Rescue teams very busy with lots of rescues.
As the night wound on, the Icelandic brothers continued to regale us with their history and culture as we laughed and gasped and murmured in wonder at their stories. They spoke of the area surrounding us, their countrymen and the old Norse gods that were still worshipped. As over an hour had passed by now, the hut masters seamlessly dropped some business on us and kindly let us know that because of Icelandic law and the harsh lifeless environment up here in the highlands that all waste (especially human excrement) had to be carried out on their backs in a bucket to be dumped several kilometers downvalley. We were kindly asked not to piss in the hut’s bathroom bucket as it made the shit splash over the caretaker’s back when he was carrying the bucket down to the dumping grounds and it made a very unpleasant job much worse. Everyone went silent imagining the horrors of carrying frozen human shit in a soup of piss on your back and we all nodded vigorously and in slight shock of “Um sir, yes sir, we won’t piss in the bucket, kind sir.” Shannon and I started getting sleepy in the warmth of the hut listening to the brothers spin yarns and so we thanked them for letting us stay and for sharing their stories. We reluctantly left the cozy hut and trudged back into the cold to brush our teeth and pee on the far hillside where the hut master asked us to go (all the while imagining the horrors of carrying the piss and shit bucket). Under a cloudy sky we quickly jumped inside our cuban fiber shelter, snuggled deep into our sleeping bags and listened to the wicked winds tugging and pulling at our tent as we dreamt of volcanoes and glaciers.