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Iceland
Iceland
Caught cold
If you enjoy encountering winter in summer, driving your enduro through rainy deserts or marveling at volcanoes and glaciers at the same time, you will not get away from Iceland.
Joachim Deleker
07/31/1997
Rugged, snow-capped mountains dip their tops into the deep blue sky. The barely traveled road tastes the landscape to the full, curves into each of the long fjords and out again on the other bank. Every now and then Birgit, Andreas and I pass abandoned farms, only rarely does a small fishing village interrupt the loneliness. An old, blue cutter chugs through the fjord, returning heavily laden from its night catch. The East Fjords are one of the extremely sparsely populated areas of Iceland. A few days later we land in the middle of a landscape that couldn’t be more typical of Iceland: Iceland means ice land – and nowhere does this name get more fair than at the Jokulsárlón glacier lagoon at the foot of the largest Europe’s glacier, Vatnajokull. Thousands of icebergs bob in the water, some small and crystal clear, others more than ten meters high, bizarre fissured or spherical. It is absolutely quiet, only now and then the icebergs talk, crack and crackle and tell stories from their long life up in the glacier. The sunset conjures orange-red reflections on the steel-gray water and shines with the blue icebergs. Freezing and fascinated, we marvel at the dream world. The cold creeps over from the glacier and pushes the temperature below freezing point. The only thing that helps is hot tea, as the sunset changes almost seamlessly into the dawn. The night is short, much too early the sun forces us out of the warm sleeping bags in the heated tents. But there is no time to sweat too quickly. Before breakfast we still have to hunt icebergs. Our water canisters are empty and the sea water is salty. So only the icebergs remain as a source of fresh water. Equipped with swimming trunks and lashing straps, Andreas ventures into the icy water. The targeted iceberg is quickly found. But he defends himself, clings to the ground and cannot be moved. The morning coffee threatens to fail. Reason enough for Birgit to help Andreas. The two quickly surrounded the iceberg, which finally surrendered. They laboriously roll our coffee water ashore. We knock off a couple of handy pieces and melt them over the cooker. Breakfast is saved; the strong June sun helps melt the ice. But Iceland’s weather gods are among the fastest of their kind. Gray clouds drift against the mountains from the Atlantic. As soon as we have packed the motorcycles, the first big drops splash into the sand. On the way to Skaftafell National Park, a strong south-westerly wind blows towards us. A huge campsite with a cafe and supermarket awaits us at our destination. Not without reason, because the national park has a lot to offer: huge glaciers, picturesque waterfalls and even small forests, a rarity on the windy island. Too bad that heavy rain clouds drown out any desire to explore the landscape. Instead, we hear of an outdoor swimming pool very close by. Outdoor pool? At eight degrees, six wind speeds and continuous rain? Of course, let’s go there. Change your clothes, shower and head to the steaming hot pool. We slowly thaw in the water that is almost 40 degrees Celsius, and the tingling heat rushes through us. A brilliant idea to use the geothermal energy already available for the hot pools. The sky will cry for two more days. Then it’s time for the first tour into the uninhabited highlands. Halfway between Þykkvabæjarklaustur and Kirkjubæjarklaustur – Icelandic names mean acute risk of knots for the tongue – the F 22 branches off from the ring road. We rumble over a brown gravel road through the desolate, gray-green landscape. Drizzle obscures the view. But then – within a few minutes – the program changes. The first of 14 fords creates excitement, black-green mountains with lots of snow spots replace the flat land, and a cautious ray of sun bores its way through the clouds. The scenario becomes dramatic. Here a pitch-black steep slope in which wind and water have cut bizarre gullies, there a snow-covered ridge and in front of it an ensemble of rounded hills covered by poison green mosses. The ash track winds between mountains and rivers, which have little water because of the lack of snow in winter. Euphoria arises, driving in this fantastic scenery inspires. But the climax is still ahead of us. Landmannalaugar, the “warm springs of the people from the country”. Rugged mountains in all shades from light brown to rusty red dominate the fairy tale world, traversed by black lava flows, from which white steam licks here and there. We stay here for almost a week, hike through the colorful Liparit Mountains, let the unusual landscape inspire us and bob for hours in natural hot pools. Then it gets exciting. We want to drive from Landmannalaugar over an old jeep track to the valley of the Þorsmork. With difficulty we find the lane that immediately leads steeply into the mountains. Deep gullies make the ascent a balancing act. Two streams are looking forward to this year’s first run. The slope and excitement increase with every meter. How far do we get What surprise is waiting around the next bend? First a bizarre lava field provides variety, then the enduros dig their way through an old snow field, and a little later our sparse tracks are lost in the vastness of an ash-black high valley. Hekla, one of the most dangerous volcanoes in Iceland, looms in front of us. But we’re heading in the right direction, south-southwest. The strange landscape has long since reduced its colors to black and white and shows no trace of vegetation. The snow fields are piling up, seem to mean the end of our tour every time, but we always find old lanes that we can follow. Then we discover two tiny mountain huts. Done! A marked slope begins there, but the joy doesn’t last long. The Markarfljot blocks our way. The ford is loosely 30 meters wide, 60 centimeters deep and garnished with slippery, head-sized wackers that make driving impossible. We walk along the bank and look for a suitable place to cross. Unsuccessful. There is only one chance – slide it. So we unload the luggage and drag everything through the river. Finally the mopeds. The three of us heave the unwieldy machines through the Markarfljot, fight against the current and stones and break a sweat despite the water cooling. The feet, swollen and frozen in light blue in the ice-cold stream, have long since become numb. But what the heck, we’ve made it, and that’s the only thing that counts for the moment. The next morning begins with light exercises to cool off in the Bratthálskvisl, an easy ford that doesn’t even require the use of our cviselettes – that’s how we christened the waist-high waders, the we have with us to explore the numerous »Kvisl« (fords). The gravel road curves between green ridges and soon plunges into the next Kvisl. Except for one unavoidable hole, the Kaldaklofskvisl ford appears to be problem-free. My Honda Dominator is allowed to bathe first. First gear, let go of the clutch and accelerate properly. The Honda dips deep into the hole. Full throttle, the surge resistance is enormous. The rear wheel shovels through the soft gravel. Suddenly the engine roars, the Honda drops anchor and stands still. The river does not miss this chance, it carefully fills my cross boots to the brim. The three of us push the heavy load ashore and discover that the chain has come off. My mistake. This morning I was just too lazy to tension the chain, which was now simply pushed off the pinion by the tremendous force of the current. The next one is Andreas venturing into the Kvisl. But his Tenere also refuses to work in the deepest hole and does not even see that it should move under water. After all, their creators in distant Japan thought more of the use in the sandy seas of the Sahara. If they had wanted it to cross rivers, they would not have named it Tenere, but Yamaha Kvisl. So push again. Does an evil troll live in this river? Does he feel disturbed, do we annoy him, or does he just not like Japanese motorcycles? We can soon reject our third thesis. Birgit also parks her BMW G / S in the enchanted hole. What a defeat! The Kvisltroll knocked us off 3-0, and things got worse. Finally brought ashore, when you press the BMW starter, you only hear a dry click. The kick starter is also blocked. Three terrified pairs of eyes stare at the G / S. Is the engine stuck? Anxious minutes pass. Birgit unscrews the spark plugs and presses the starter button again. Fountains of water shoot out of the cylinders immediately. Pig, the engine is turning. We carefully dry the BMW, change the engine oil, dismantle the carburettor, which is full to the brim, and roast the dripping air filter over the gasoline stove. An hour later, the boxer reluctantly goes to work. He shakes and steams from all cooling fins. Birgit stands beaming with joy in front of the rumbling rubber cow, which has narrowly escaped death by drowning. In the meantime, the troll has calmed down and persuaded the gods to send us the sun for consolation. They make every effort to put the spectacular scenery in the right light. The Eyjafjallajokull builds up in front of us, pushing its jagged glacier tongues into the green valley of the Markarfljot. We take our time and enjoy the vast landscape. It wasn’t until midnight that we reached the Ringstrasse and with it civilization, but the transmission didn’t have much time to finally let fourth and fifth gears rotate again. Past the famous geyser, we will soon be back in the highlands and want to cross the Kjolur desert. The Kjolur is no longer the adventurous slope it once was. In recent years it has been expanded, the fords have been drained, and so we are not surprised at the fat Ami sledge that swings towards us. Nevertheless, we enjoy the television-viewing weather. The deep blue sky arches over the almost endless brown gravel plain. The huge Hofsjokull and Langjokull glaciers accompany us on the horizon. In the middle of the desolate desert we reach the beautiful spring area Hveravellir. Pink mud bubbles in a hole, a few meters further a boiling water source has created beautiful sintered terraces, and in the middle of it a mini volcano hisses its steam incessantly into the crystal clear air. A few days later we are at the most powerful waterfall in Europe, the Dettifoss. The light brown water masses of Jokulsá á Fjollum plunge 44 meters into a narrow gorge and ignite an inferno of flying spray and deafening noise. We sit there for hours, feeling infinitely tiny and amazed like children. The Dettifoss dominated the mind for a long time. The gravel road that runs through the lonely northeast offers nothing spectacular. Barren, gray plains that sink into the equally gray Atlantic, a measly lighthouse on the North Cape and small towns like Raufarhofn or Þorshofn. Places that have been forgotten before they disappeared in the rearview mirror. Cold wind drives us further south. A few more ridges with still snow at the end of July and the dark belly of the ferry swallows us in Seyðisfjorður. Endlessly slowly, as only ships can, the Norrona turns her white hull from the quay and slowly picks up speed. We stand on the quarterdeck and look wistfully back at the rugged mountains. The Norrona lets out her loud ship’s horn three times to say goodbye.
info
Iceland spoils the weatherproof enduro rider with adventurous slopes and spectacular volcanic and glacier landscapes – the variety of the landscape forms is almost unique and offers plenty of space for great tours away from civilization.
Arrival: The most stylish way to get there is by ship with the MS Norrona of the Smyril Line. Every Saturday from the end of May to the end of August, the ferry leaves Esbjerg, Denmark, and sails to Torshavn, the capital of the Faroe Islands, in 36 hours. Two days later we continue until we reach Seyðisfjorður on Iceland’s east coast. The return journey to Denmark is direct in 54 hours. In the summer of 1997 the return ticket for one person with a motorcycle costs from 1,408 marks. Information in good travel agencies or at Smyril Line, J.A. Reinecke, Jersbecker Strabe 12, 22941 Bargteheide, phone 04532/6519, fax 24143. For less seaworthy bikers, the shipping company Eimskip offers motorcycle transport by cargo ship from Hamburg to Reykjavik while the driver is flying. The cost of a motorbike there and back is 726 marks, flight tickets are available in summer from 780 marks. Information from Eimskip, Raboisen 5, 20095 Hamburg, Telephone 040/323 3300, Fax 323 33 060 Travel time: Only the summer months from mid-May to September are suitable for motorcycle tours in Iceland. In summer the daytime temperature rises to 10 to 20 degrees, but night frost is also possible in the highlands. There are summer snowfalls, as well as “hot spells” with more than 20 degrees. In June and July it doesn’t get dark, the sun only disappears behind the horizon for a few hours. The worst opponent for the biker can be the almost constantly blowing wind, which often reaches storm strength. Iceland’s weather places high demands on equipment. Wind and rain resistance are a must. OVERNIGHT: There are around 100 simple tent sites. Wild camping is (still) allowed except in national parks and on private property. A storm-proof and waterproof tent is the best insurance for peaceful nights. But: Driving off-piste is strictly forbidden, even in the highlands, for nature conservation reasons, and is punished drastically. But it is not necessary at all: the slopes already offer all levels of difficulty and thus a lot of “off-road feeling”. There are many hotels and pensions, but at the typically high price level in Iceland, often fully booked in summer. You can find cheaper accommodation in the Edda Hotels. These are boarding schools that are being converted for tourists during the summer holidays. There is also cheap sleeping bag accommodation here. Iceland also has around 20 youth hostels that are open to everyone. Further information is available from the Icelandic Foreign Traffic Office, Carl Ulrich Strabe 11, 63263 Neu Isenburg, phone 06102/254 484, fax 254 570. or the Iceland Tourist Board, Lækjargata 3, IS-101 Reykjavik, phone 00354/5527488, fax 562 4749. MOTORBIKE RENTAL: GS-Sportreisen (Nordendstrabe 55, 80801 Munich, phone 089/27818484, fax 27818481) mediates rental enduro bikes in Reykjavik. A Suzuki DR 350 costs 980 marks a week in summer, a Yamaha XT 600 or BMW F 650 costs 1,120 marks. LITERATURE There are now over 20 travel guides and as many books on the shelves of booksellers. A recommendable selection: Iwanowski’s travel guide, 39.80 marks. Peter Meier travel guide, 39.80 marks. DuMont travel guide, 19.80 marks. APA Guide, 44.80 marks. adventure & Travel guide 29.80 marks. HB-Bildatlas, 14.80 Mark. In addition, four photo book recommendations: Encounter with the horizon – Iceland, Bucher Verlag, 39.80 marks. Iceland, Peter Gebhardt, Artcolor-Verlag, 44 Marks. Iceland, Max Schmid, Ellert&Richter Verlag, 68 marks. Aerial photos from Iceland, K.D. Francke, Edition Stemmle, 128 Marks (fantastic!). The very good map Ferðakort Iceland, Landmælingar Islands, scale 1: 500000, 29.80 Marks is recommended. Those who love more detail will find nine sheets in the scale 1: 250000 at the same publisher, each price 29.80 marks. All cards are a little cheaper in Iceland. Distance covered 3000 kilometers, time required six weeks
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