It is confusing to sleep in tent the opposite way. All things are on the wrong side.
The
little rain of the night has dried from the tent by morning. Patterned
mountains have been wrapped in milk foam. As if Iceland was trying to
make a good last impression. Say they what they may but like most small
nations are Icelanders also secretly anxious about what others think
about them.
Into morning hustle fits an adventure with poop. After first visit outside a piece of poop has appeared in the vestibule of my tent. Probably still stepped on it when stomping around yesterday evening and it let go of the boot in the night. But it feels like the pooping animal was telling me 'come on man, you're camping in my toilet!'
After some level ground the trail marks suggest that I climb down to river canyon and later back up again. There's something bright green in the canyon. In addition to the river. Climb down goes partly along steep snow wall. Getting there. The green thing appears to be three people. Boots off, through the river, feet dry, boots on again. The three people start ascent from canyon. French. I take my time to give them some head-start. They can't make it. So I continue in my own pace and the French are soon lost from view. Either kidnapped by the trolls or swallowed by the Earth. What else could happen.
It seems like a plateau but it goes consistently upwards. The French have been released but transformed into the size of a trail marker and that's the reason why they are difficult to spot.
I've decided to go the last day through the mountains not around. First it's good weather and views here must be nice. Secondly, this way the trail goes through Hveradalir. And third, I still prefer a marked trail. Just in case. So I skip the chance to pass by Kerling or the mountain of the old lady which has given name for this whole group of mountains.
Steady rise, not steep but still strenuous. Headwind. It's not cold. Weather forecast promised 9 and 11 degrees. Not bad. In a furrow dug by water is nice to rest and have a snack. Here all picnic and pee stops come with a magnificent view. In this case a mountain full on lines, curls, patterns and eyes. Can mountains see me? And trolls that have been turned into stones, can they still see and hear?
Endless plains below and on the edge of the plain new mountains. Stillness.
Long way down along snow and stone mason's garbage bin. Crossroad with way pointers. Information overflow. In one side of the valley steam orange mountains. Hveradalir. The other way promises shower and food after 9,7 kilometers. I take the latter.
Long gentle rise, long gentle descent, orange snow. Why is snow orange? Clouds arrive but it doesn't matter anymore. And I seem to have a special deal with the weather gods.
GPS claims that there's an i-point ahead. Not much of a point but there are a lot of people. Going to Hveradalir over snow and mountain and 2,1 kilometers. I turn towards base camp. Familiar twisted mountain, canyon, glaciers on two sides and then below houses and a white Hyundai. After a while it's possible to see me walking past the web-camera.
Before half past three I stand in the reception with my sleeping bag, tablet and new book, "Estonian Hiking Union" written on my forehead. As if I was someone important. They know me by name here.
Get my old bed but postpone shower for a while. Go and have a look at this Hveradalir. How long could it take. The booklet says it's 15-20 minutes from car park. Some gravel, car park. And then I just stand in awe. This place does not exist. Or it is painted. Steam, murmur, yellow, orange, grey, green, shapes, colors. People move in the painting. I drag myself from the ground and take pictures, a lot of pictures. Hoping that at least some of them will be sharp. After two and half hours I remember that I actually wanted to go to shower and am terribly hungry and have hopelessly lost the battle for seats in the dining room.
On my way back take along an Ukrainian hitchhiker and answer thoroughly his questions about Hornstrandir and the Westfjords. Then finally hard earned beer, fish, chocolate cake and coffee. There's the same woman sitting in dining room who was here also three days ago, looking out of the window, with a beer on the table and book on her lap.
Into morning hustle fits an adventure with poop. After first visit outside a piece of poop has appeared in the vestibule of my tent. Probably still stepped on it when stomping around yesterday evening and it let go of the boot in the night. But it feels like the pooping animal was telling me 'come on man, you're camping in my toilet!'
After some level ground the trail marks suggest that I climb down to river canyon and later back up again. There's something bright green in the canyon. In addition to the river. Climb down goes partly along steep snow wall. Getting there. The green thing appears to be three people. Boots off, through the river, feet dry, boots on again. The three people start ascent from canyon. French. I take my time to give them some head-start. They can't make it. So I continue in my own pace and the French are soon lost from view. Either kidnapped by the trolls or swallowed by the Earth. What else could happen.
It seems like a plateau but it goes consistently upwards. The French have been released but transformed into the size of a trail marker and that's the reason why they are difficult to spot.
I've decided to go the last day through the mountains not around. First it's good weather and views here must be nice. Secondly, this way the trail goes through Hveradalir. And third, I still prefer a marked trail. Just in case. So I skip the chance to pass by Kerling or the mountain of the old lady which has given name for this whole group of mountains.
Steady rise, not steep but still strenuous. Headwind. It's not cold. Weather forecast promised 9 and 11 degrees. Not bad. In a furrow dug by water is nice to rest and have a snack. Here all picnic and pee stops come with a magnificent view. In this case a mountain full on lines, curls, patterns and eyes. Can mountains see me? And trolls that have been turned into stones, can they still see and hear?
Endless plains below and on the edge of the plain new mountains. Stillness.
Long way down along snow and stone mason's garbage bin. Crossroad with way pointers. Information overflow. In one side of the valley steam orange mountains. Hveradalir. The other way promises shower and food after 9,7 kilometers. I take the latter.
Long gentle rise, long gentle descent, orange snow. Why is snow orange? Clouds arrive but it doesn't matter anymore. And I seem to have a special deal with the weather gods.
GPS claims that there's an i-point ahead. Not much of a point but there are a lot of people. Going to Hveradalir over snow and mountain and 2,1 kilometers. I turn towards base camp. Familiar twisted mountain, canyon, glaciers on two sides and then below houses and a white Hyundai. After a while it's possible to see me walking past the web-camera.
Before half past three I stand in the reception with my sleeping bag, tablet and new book, "Estonian Hiking Union" written on my forehead. As if I was someone important. They know me by name here.
Get my old bed but postpone shower for a while. Go and have a look at this Hveradalir. How long could it take. The booklet says it's 15-20 minutes from car park. Some gravel, car park. And then I just stand in awe. This place does not exist. Or it is painted. Steam, murmur, yellow, orange, grey, green, shapes, colors. People move in the painting. I drag myself from the ground and take pictures, a lot of pictures. Hoping that at least some of them will be sharp. After two and half hours I remember that I actually wanted to go to shower and am terribly hungry and have hopelessly lost the battle for seats in the dining room.
On my way back take along an Ukrainian hitchhiker and answer thoroughly his questions about Hornstrandir and the Westfjords. Then finally hard earned beer, fish, chocolate cake and coffee. There's the same woman sitting in dining room who was here also three days ago, looking out of the window, with a beer on the table and book on her lap.
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