NewsArticleBody
Pingvellir National Park, where Suzanne camped on an ever-widening campsite due to continental drift...
Suzanne Greenwood, New World Tourist owner and Bike Touring Guide who hails from Homer, Alaska, sent us this latest postcard from the land of Bjork.......email her (Suzanne, not Bjork) on zangreenwood at yahoo dot com
Received Aug 18, 2003:
I'm back in Reykjavik, having completed my goal of circling the island (only the final reward of many I have reaped along the way!) I have many more future trips with Sabre (the name for my stealth black BF steed) planned in the future -- it rocks!
Received August 15, 2003
Goðan daginn once again from the land of big people, small horses and labrador tea-scented air! Six weeks have flown by and, so far, I have been blessed with favorable weather and no bugs! It has proven to be a magical mystery tour, as I absorb Iceland's powerful energy, both physical and metaphysical. Here are a few highlights, written sporadically at libraries along the way:
After surviving Independence Day in Reykjavik, I was ready to see some Icelandic countryside. The bikeﳳ drivetrain needed some serious lubrication and I carefully checked the headset, cables, brake pads and fittings. Thank you, Bruz and the gang back in Vermont, for teaching me "Zan and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance". I've met dozens of other cyclists here and, as usual, I have become the patron saint of spare bicycle parts, giving away cables, washers, links of chain and lots of assistance. Anything to help a stranger in need (and lighten my load!) In France I met 7 other keen Bike Friday owners, but none so far in Iceland, where everyone is riding mountain bikes. I was a little concerned, at first, that I should be riding one as well, but the Friday has tackled Iceland like a champ, and only one gravel pass had me pining for a bike of the mountain variety.
Exiting the city I received my first, and hopefully LAST, opportunity to cycle a major, multi-lane highway. I probably could have found some alternative -- a bus or begging a ride -- but I figured, for less than 15 kms I can handle anything. The weather was ideal -- surprisingly calm and overcast but dry. The superior intelligence of the Icelandic people soon became apparent as I noticed the majority of cars being driven are just like mine -- those terrific Toyota tercel and corolla wagon 4WDs manufactured in the late 80ﳳ, early 90's. For all my friends who have coveted mine and tried to find one, they are all here in Iceland in pristine condition.
As lanes merged and traffic got heavy, I thought, "What, in the name of Thor, am I doing here?" I focused on fear-dissolving deep belly breaths and actually found myself laughing out loud at the rediculousness of my situation. It was a bit hairy scooting past exit lanes, trying not to get sandwiched between big trucks, yet still agressively moving forward. "She who hesitates gets squashed".
Amazingly, no-one beeped at me, yelled or threw things, for which I was extremely grateful. As the lanes were narrowing and I could see quieter roads ahead, I felt that unmistakable squirrelly wobble of a rear tire going flat. There happened to be the gravel base of a light pole handy -- the only space off the highway -- and with the speed of a rally pit crew, I yanked out the punctured tube, carefully felt the tire for protruding glass, etc., inserted a new tube and had its 20" circumference inflated in no time. I felt as if Iﳤ done it a hundred times...then realized I HAVE done it (at least) a hundred times. I'll never forget guiding the first California tour with those nasty, thorn-spewing roadside bushes -- 10 clients with flat tires before lunch!
Anyway, taking comfort in the knowledge that some abilities come right back no matter how long it's been since you've used them (O God, let sex be the same!), I soon found myself spinning along on quiet, undulating roads through wide open (and I mean W-I-D-E open!) farm country. It would take some time, for sure, to get accustomed to the treeless, exposed landscape. How fortunate to have my first cycling day in Iceland be calm and 60ﮠwith sunny patches. No longer restricted by afternoon heat and once again in a land of endless daylight, I fell into a relaxed rhythm. The only thing slowing me down was having to stop at all the bridges to check for trolls...
I decided to camp at the geographically and historically interesting þingvellir National Park. As many of you know, Iceland is situated on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge -- an 18,000 km plate boundary running the entire length of the Atlantic ocean from pole to pole. Clearly cut into northwest and southeast halves, Iceland contains the world's youngest rocks along the rift zone, while along the coasts lie ancient rocks over 16 million years old. Nowhere on earth are the forces of nature more evident than here in Iceland.
þingvellir (pronounced "Thinkveller") National Parkﳳ boundaries are two massive ravines, between which lies an expansive vegetated rift valley that has sunk due to activity from the continental drift, which means the park is getting larger over time. Serenaded by the familiar sound of snipes whoop-whoop-whooping in the air above my tent, I pretended it was dark outside and drifted off to sleep. At 2am I awoke to a blinding yellow sunset just ducking below the horizon, only to watch it rise again twenty minutes later from nearly the same spot. In the morning, amidst clear blue skies, I attended a free talk by one of the rangers. She took us past chasms, gorges, caves and waterfalls until we reached an impressive fissure above the surrounding plains. She explained how, in the year 930, descendents of Ingólfur Arnarson established the AlÞing (Althink) here -- Iceland's first parliament. The site was selected due to its fairly centralized location which could accommodate tens of thousands of attendants; also, the rift provided an ideal open-air podium for the representatives and legislators, who would arbitrate disputes and formulate laws for the young country.
Though there's little indication now of these long-ago meetings, I could easily picture the unique scene of nearly every Icelandic citizen migrating for weeks across rugged, exposed terrain, finally arriving at this impressive site, seeing friends and relatives for the first time since the previous year's meeting. During the 2-week council, legal disputes were settled, marriages arranged, business contracts drawn up, laws made and executions carried out. One man's duty was to memorize and recite all the laws of the land, which the people had to remember. The legislators built natural booths out of rock, mud and turf, some of which are presently being excavated by a group of archaeologists -- not an overly exciting assignment, I'm sure -- but their efforts added to the overall message of patriotism I was receiving. Although there hasn't been a parliamentary assembly at þingvellir for over 2 centuries, there is still a sacred atmosphere about the place. The ranger and staff passionately expressed the national pride and sense of respect Icelanders have for this ideal symbol of their fierce independence.
At the end of the talk, our guide explained a bit about Iceland's patronymic naming system. At birth, a person receives their first name chosen from a list of acceptable, solely Icelandic titles (i.e. Jón for a boy, Ólga for a girl). Their last name is constructed from their father's (or occasionally their mother's) first name, with "son" or "dottir" (daughter) added at the end. Therefore, Jón, son of Einar, becomes Jón Einarsson. His sister would be Ólga Einarsdottir. This means family members all have different surnames, so telephone directories are alphabetized by first names. It is forbidden to bestow any non-Icelandic or foreign-sounding names upon Icelandic children. Even foreign immigrants must take on Icelandic names before citizenship will be granted. It may seem a bit harsh, but throughout the many colonizations and a constant onslaught of foreign culture, the determined population has been able to retain their language and protect its purity.
Resuming my travels, I decided to cycle further inland to Geysir (GAY-seer), the place after which all the world's geysers are named. I passed deep blue lakes and watched several Barrow - goldeneyes and harlequin ducks showing off their impressive colors. Along the way I encountered my first "malbik endar" sign (pavement ends). Most of the time this isnﳴ necessarily a bad thing -- hard-packed dirt with a few rocks and potholes to dodge can be quite fun.
However, this particular section was being prepared for future paving, with construction crews dumping truckloads of deep gravel the size of moose pellets along the surface. I dismounted and struggled to push my beast of burden along the 8" deep obstacle. A smile and wave towards the men behind the steering wheels was greeted with icy indifference -- no reaction whatsoever (which is still preferable over reactions from construction workers elsewhere in the world...).
As soon as I was able to resume riding, the route turned north and the strong tailwind I had been enjoying became a gusty crosswind. I opted to ride on the left side of the road, allowing me recovery time when gusts blew me sideways (rather than heading straight into the ditch!). This maneuver also positioned me upwind from the occasional passing vehicle, avoiding the majority of flying dust and debris.
Once again I was impressed with the Bike Friday's low center of gravity and ease of handling in these challenging conditions (but where the hell is the motor they told me about?) When I finally reached pavement, the route turned yet again, this time presenting me with a formidable headwind for the final 30 kms.
As a distraction, I decided to visit a geothermal power plant where the surprised and amused staff offered me a personal tour. I must say, it was an impressive example of technological building expertise and I can now tell you everything you ever wanted to know about geothermal power but were afraid to ask. As I begrudgingly headed back into the wind, my impromptu tour guide yelled, "Don'r worry, Iceland is hard on everyone at first, but you get used to it".
To take my mind off the relentless wind, I began counting the minutes between spoutings of the impressive geyser I could see miles away in the treeless distance. Every 5-8 minutes a 20 meter high plume of white spray would shoot skyward from the ground, then be blown to smithereens by the wind. With tired legs and sore shoulders, I finally arrived at my destination and gratefully made camp 50 meters from the spewing spectacle.
I awoke from the deepest of sleeps to continued blue skies and an even stronger wind -- which suited me just fine, as now I would have it at my back! Photographing the geyser turned out to be trickier than I thought. Luckily, a German professional photographer was the only other spectator and he told me when to get ready for the burst. I cringed when I thought of how many hapless tourists manage to get themselved burned or worse by slipping into geysers or falling over cliffs into waterfalls every season. Similar to New Zealand, Iceland takes an attitude of "pay attention and look after yourself" when it comes to sightseeing nature, rather than roping everything off to the point of inaccessibility.
Ahh, Day 3 was the stuff dreams are made of (well, my dreams anyway). Picture a tailwind so strong that, while spinning your highest gear as fast as you can, your hair is still blowing into your face from behind. A wind so strong that 18-wheelers pass in the opposite direction and you don't feel the slightest wake. During the easy but arse-numbing 140 km day, I was constantly scolded by territorial arctic terns, yellowlegs and skuas protecting their nearby nests. The scoldings are a daily occurrence I've learned to ignore and, amazingly, I've yet to be shat upon (touch wood).
I've had an extremely high number of triastralsqueezations here in Iceland (this is a word I invented about 10 years ago to describe that bizarre phenomenon of cycling along a quiet road and seeing a vehicle approaching in the distance. At the same time, you hear another vehicle coming from behind, and, before you have time to think "what are the odds...", you suddenly find yourself hugging the shoulder, trying not to somersault into the ditch, neither car slowing to avoid a tight squeeze. Here in Iceland, where you can sometimes see 20 kms in either direction and have only a dozen cars pass in a day, a triastralsqueezation is obnoxiously apparent! Headed towards the south coast, it became clear that the main economic activity is agriculture -- sheep and cattle raising as well as extensive geothermal greenhouse farming. This area also serves as the main Icelandic horse-breeding center, and each farm had at least 80 of the beauties, with dozens of adorable new foals romping around. These horses are so curious and friendly, they actually come galloping towards me as I cycle past. I've stopped numerous times to rub their noses and bury my face in their thick manes.
Along the south coast the wind lessened and a light drizzle became the norm. Between the mountains and coastline is one continous flatland, with sand, glacial outwash and lava covered in soft green moss --perfect for afternoon siestas. I passed the notorious volcano Katla, which has erupted 20 times in the last century. The volcano lies beneath a glacier and when an eruption occurs, the ice melts, causing a glacial burst (known as a jökulaup), when tremendous amounts of water, glacial outwash, icebergs and volcanic materials rush over the land to the sea. Cycling for endless miles through these vast, desolate areas, I was thankful for the light wind and damp weather, which ensured there would be no sandstorms.
The world's heartiest farmers live here, somehow able to grow and harvest hay in between the rock and ice. The cycling was fascinating and defeating at the same time. So flat, rugged and unique, yet I found myself anxious to get through it and on to some hillier terrain. One windy night, hunkered down in my tent and listening to some music on my headphones I noticed a whirring sound like a generator, a nearby shack the probable source. Still annoyingly loud and seeming to vibrate the ground near my head at 11:30, I resorted to ear plugs in order to get some sleep. Around 1am it finally stopped and I breathed a sigh of relief. The next morning as I proceeded to brush my teeth, I was surprised to find my battery-powered vibrating toothbrush completely dead. You guessed it -- self-sabotage -- I must have jostled the on-button in the pannier from the tent vestibule near my head. I am still laughing over that one! What a wing-nut!
As I hit the fiords of the east coast I suddenly found myself confronting 16% to 20% grades on knarly gravel roads. The trip became "Zanﳳ walking tour of Iceland". Harder than anything I had encountered in France, I even had to stop numerous times on the descents to allow my rims and brakes to cool (I met two Dutch boys who spent a week getting to Iceland on a ferry, only to have a rear tire blow out from overheated rims on the same passes). The weather changed from drizzly to decidedly snotty and, while camped at a decision-making point of whether to continue through the fiords or head inland, I chose the latter. In fact, I chose to do the latter by bus!
I had been told there was some major road construction enroute and was all smiles as the bus plunged through deep, muddy gravel amidst heavy rain and wind -- a 150 kilometer leap-frog to begin tackling the northeast coast. Though the bus had plenty of space, it was still convenient having a folding bike. The next day I was enjoying yet another KATW (kickass tailwind) when I noticed one of my front panniers was barely clipped on -- a real hazard, especially on downhills.
When I stopped to correct it, I realized that I'd just ridden 50 kms without having quick-released the join on my bicycle together properly (sorry BF folks, I know you're cringing right now!) Shocked by my own carelessness, and grateful for the accident-free wake-up call, I vowed to be more careful in the future.
All along the north coast, beside the arctic ocean, I had mostly favorable winds and fantastic bird viewing. Loons called out from lakes, trumpeter swans provided picturesque reflections; puffins, cormorants, shags -- all pleasant reminders of home. Each village, no matter how small, offered a free place to pitch a tent with toilets nearby. When I felt like cleaning up, I simply walked to the local swimming pool, and for about $4 could spend hours crawling from one geothermally-heated jacuzzi to another, depending on whether I wanted lukewarm, hot or steaming. They have been a real highlight of the trip. The best way to enjoy Iceland, if possible, is to have no agenda.
When the weather is bad, it's really bad, but it seldom stays that way for very long. With enough time and patience, you can seize the best the island has to offer, then hang out in the hot pools the rest of the time!
Of the many interesting and inspiring fellow-travelers I've met, one couple from Calgary was especially fun to share stories with. Bruce is an adventure travel writer, scoring freebies and deals on airfare and gear to go galavanting around the world and then writing about it. His and his partner, Christine, are hiking and skiing across Iceland, then going sea-kayaking in Greenland. Before they knew I was cycling or that I love to cook, Christine said I remind her of a friend who cycled around the world cooking with locals, then wrote a book about it, including recipes, called "A Fork in the Road". Now THERE's an idea!
After one particularly fun day of cycling big rolling hills along a sunshiny coast, I arrived in the village of Húsavík. Here I decided to go horseback riding for the first time in my life. The instructor was this feisty little dark-haired woman named who was born in England to a Spanish mother and Icelandic father. I could tell right away she was a fellow gypsy, thus Suzanne Marie met Maria Susanna. We hit it off right away, able to communicate, it seemed, without words.
For the horse trek, there was only one other rider, Erik, a friend of Maria's from Reykjavik. After a thorough talk on the do's and dont's of horseback riding, we were issued crash helmets and they loaned me some riding boots. Excitedly, for the first time in my life, I mounted my designated steed --this action did not lift me any great distance from the ground. I have to admit, I was a little nervous -- so many things to remember; pelvis up, hips back, thighs firm -- Maria had to constantly remind me not to lean forward. Finally, when I remembered the key to everything in life is just to breath and not THINK so much, I began riding like a pro.
Even my instructor said she didn't believe this was my first time. The 3 hour trek was full of laughter and memorable scenery, as we crossed meadows full of wildflowers and descended to the sea beside a fairly exclusive salmon fishing river (by the way, in Iceland, a one day salmon fishing license can cost anywhere from $200 to $2000, so don't forget your platinum hooks and 24k gold sinkers!) I decided riding a horse is a lot like dealing with men -- one minute you feel like stroking and kissing their neck, the next you need to give them a swift kick, all the while holding the reins tightly or else they...well, they stop to eat grass when you don't want them to. Poor Erik, however, couldn't seem to tune into the rhythm of his steed and bounced around quite hysterically. At the end of the ride I didn't have the nerve to ask him when he might expect his testicles to come back down, but it did give me some insight as to why Iceland has always been sparsely populated!
That evening, Maria invited me along with some friends to bathe in a secret lava cave hot pool. We swam to a spectacular little alcove full of rocks that looked like faces. As the therapeutic waters began to take effect, Maria, floating on her back, started some exquisite chanting, mostly in Spanish. I was mesmorized by the beauty of the words when, suddenly, she sat bolt upright, looked me squarely in the eye, and stated, "You're one of us, aren't you?" I was too dumbfounded to reply and she continued with "I must call The Others, especially Olga".
We later discovered that about this same time, Olga was calling her and left a message on her cell phone. Whoa! Which just goes to show, be careful what you hitch the potent words "I Am" onto -- the thing you are "claiming" has a way of reaching back and claiming you!
I spent a fun-filled week on the farm helping out in exchange for riding lessons. One of Maria's many male admirers, whom she refers to as "Stallions", is a fishing guide and provided us with fresh haddock, salmon and halibut, most of which I eagerly offered to cook for them. Olga came for a visit and the three of us had a grand time dancing flamenco, galavanting around the countryside until the wee hours of the morning and getting up to all sorts of wonderfully secret witchy mischief.
It was hard to leave, but Maria had a business to run and I still had half the island to tour. I soon realized that horseriding muscles don't jive very well with cycling muscles and had some stiff legs those first few days back on the bike! The riding and weather along the north coast has been incredible -- 70ﮠand sunny with light or favorable winds.
I've enjoyed historic villages tucked between steep mountains and the sea and cycling beside babbling brooks before entering creepy, dank tunnels, sometimes 4 kilometers long -- b-r-r-r! The bike is holding up extremely well, though I have worn through one rear tire -- glad I brought the spare. Well, I am presently headed to Iceland's oldest and most rugged area, the Westfiords. Hoping to savor this final month of life on the road, I will be riding some wet and wild country with few facilties but will try to write one last time from Reykjavik. Enjoy August eating blueberries and watching the last of summer's flowers blooming. Drop me a line -- it is always a thrill to hear from you on the road.
Congratulations for making it to the end of this latest missive! Zan
+++
Received June 25, 2003
"God only knows why you came here, but you did, so you might as well make the best of it", and with that encouraging greeting, Óskar handed me a cup of brennivín, a.k.a. "black death". A traditional Icelandic brew made from potatoes and flavored with caraway, the concoction was actually delicious (and quite apropo for a witch, don't ya think?) I was standing shoulder to shoulder with a few thousand revelers in downtown Reykjavik celebrating Iceland's biggest annual holiday -- Independence Day. A handsomely-dressed public figure was making a passionate speech, the words to which I couldn't begin to understand, so I used the time to envision the rich and lively history of this weather-beaten, rainy rock, which goes something like this:
Around the year 870, political strife and overpopulation on the Scandinavian mainland inspired many Norwegians to seek out greener pastures abroad. A few rather dubious characters took to raiding and pillaging other settlements along their way. The Norwegian word for bay or cove, in which these barbarians often anchored, is "Vik", and they eventually became known as, you guessed it, Vikings.
Though already inhabited by a few Irish monks as a sort of hermitage, Iceland was officially given its name by Norwegian Flóki Vilgerðarson (ð is pronounced "th"). Flóki (who, by the way, navigated with ravens!), was so enthralled with the place that, after spending the winter, watching his sheep die and his crops wither, left and decided never to come here again!
Heartier Ingólfur Arnarson, a true Viking who, along with his brother had been forced to flee Norway after encountering some "social difficulties" (these days this type generally heads straight to Alaska...), receives historical credit for the first official settlement. He called the place Reykjavik, meaning Smoky Bay, after the thermal springs there. (Kachemak Bay in Homer also means Smoky Bay, but unfortunately not for the same reasons...)
Other settlers arrived, the population grew, and, in time, the people began to feel the need for some sort of government (uh-oh...). Rejecting their home countryﳳ oppressive monarchy, they set up a parliamentary system. At first strained by corruption, the government eventually became established and Iceland enjoyed 200 years of relative peace. By the early 13th Century, however, competition between politicians and pilfering Viking armies led to an ensuing mayhem (hmm, history continues to repeat itself.) The Norwegian king took advantage of the situation and quickly absorbed Iceland under his rule. Not only did the islanders lose their independence, they also faced violent volcanic eruptions which caused death and destruction throughout.
In 1397, the Kalmar Union of Norway, Sweden and Denmark brought Iceland under Danish rule, which imposed Lutheranism upon the people and caused much religious strife. More natural disasters, a series of severe winters, unfair trading rights and piracy of Iceland-bound trading ships took its toll on the oppressed and suffering people.
By the early 1800's slowly but surely, Iceland began to regain a sense of nationalism. After some persistent lobbying, free trade was restored and the country began to handle their own domestic matters without interference from the mainland. In 1940, when Denmark became occupied by Germany, Iceland was able to take control of its own foreign relations. On June 17th, 1944, in a stunning natural amphitheater of volcanic rock and amidst pouring rain and beating wind, the Republic of Iceland was formally established! Since then, tradition dictates that it always rains on this date, and June 17th, 2003 was no exception. I stood with the other soggy participants, remembering the sacrifices their forefathers made so that they may be rained on as a free and independent people.
"Yeah", Óskar said, reading my mind, "In Iceland, if you donﳴ like the weather, wait a few minutes, it'll get WORSE".
I observed the people around me and, I have to admit, they certainly fit the image one tends to conjure up when thinking "Icelander". Lots of platinum-blond hair and sky blue eyes, strong square jaws and statuesque bodies. There are also plenty of people with thick, coarse brown hair and the youth are in their rebellious best with piercings, tattoos and spiked hair dyed all colors of the spectrum.
I asked Óskar's girlfriend, Anna (a 5'10" impossibly beautiful blond bombshell) to help me understand Iceland's reputed favorite pasttime of getting completely smashed out of their minds on the weekends.
"Yes, it is true", she stated matter of factly. "It is what our forefathers did, it is what our grandparents did when they were young, and this is how we still like to do it. Icelanders don't grow up with a wine and dine culture, so there has never been a point in drinking for the taste, but only to get drunk."
"Working hard during the week is considered very important", Óskar contributed. "If you get drunk in the middle of the week, people are going to think youﳲe an alcoholic and, besides, who wants to go to work with a hangover?"
So all this holding back during the week results in a lot of stored drinking energy, released on Friday and Saturday nights like the burst of a jökulhlaup (to be explained later for any non-geo nerds out there).
Well, Independence Day was a Tuesday night, but a national holiday nonetheless. Although the afternoon was filled with parades, street music, outdoor theater, colorful costumes, kiddie rides and cotton candy, the evening began to take on a decidedly different flavor. Some of the country's best rock and punk bands gave ear-splitting, high-energy performances and I boogied with the best of ﳥm! However, I didnﳴ stick around until 3 or 4 am to see the youth at their inebriated best, and retreated to my cozy tent just as a heavy rain set in.
Of Iceland's 270,000 inhabitants, 62% (172,000) live in Reykjavik. The city was built in an unconsolidated haste, without an overall city plan and is experiencing some rapid growth with nearly constant construction (hey Homeroids, remind you of any place?)
Continuing my year of contrasting travel destinations, I've just gone from a country that imports next to nothing (maybe coffee and bananas), to a relatively isolated island that produces few of its own consumer goods and has to import groceries and grains from all over the world. In France, the euro gained in value against the dollar for 7 or the 8 weeks I was there. Here in Iceland, where a half dozen eggs are $3, a block of tofu $6, $4 for a hot chocolate and, brace yourselves -- $7 for a glass of beer, I am feeling extra grateful to have a job and housesitting gig to return to. I take some solace in knowing that Iceland's main attractions -- the fresh air, wilderness, wildlife and much of the camping -- is FREE. Tempertures have been mild, about 40-45 degrees at night and 50-68 degrees during the daytime.
After 2 nights in the city I was ready to head out. In the next email I can tell you some tales of what it's like to cycle on 6-lane highways sandwiched between BIG trucks (and getting my first flat tire there!), spending endless hours slowly spinning 2nd gear on the flats hardly making headway in the winds from hell, camping a stone's throw from spouting geysers, sunshine, tailwinds, getting bombarded by territorial birds, crossing vast lava deserts prone to sandstorms and immersing myself in some of the richest wilderness I have ever known. I'll be out in the wop-wops along the edges of fiords for the next wee while but you'll get to hear all about it sometime in July. Happy 4th to ya'll!
Z
Read the earlier part of this journey here.