August 06, 2005

Iceland by any other name would smell as sweet...

Internet time has not been as commonplace as I had expected on this European tour. I find myself on the last full day in Germany sitting in front of a screen trying to catch up to all but the first days of the last three weeks.

Johanna and I left Reykjavic in a whirlwind, barely catching the once-a-day bus that would get us to our destination with enough time to do this 55km hike that is said to be one of the most diverse stretches of land in Iceland: Landmannalaugar to Porsmork (there are some weird phoentic letter things on that last place name — suffice to say it is pronounced, I think, as “THORS-murk”).

We thought Landmannalaugar was a small village in the mountains, but it turned out to be either the name of the region or just of the summer-season tourist hut and natural hot-spring that keeps folks naked enough to feed the hordes of small black flies. We didn’t dawdle at the compound (several cabins with cots, a camping ground, a parking lot and the hot pool) and instead struck out on the hike so we could eat our lunch of german flat bread, cheese and tuna fly-free.

Landmannalaugar is on the edge of a kind of glacial run-off delta. It was in a pretty flat valley that looked like it would be much more full of water when snow is melting. We hiked out of this valley and onto a plateau of lava-rocks that were old and wet enough to have a thick layer of moss growing on them. It was a cool sight, as though a thick green batter had been dribbled along the tops of this lava flow. But as soon as we had enjoyed this scenery it was gone, we had reached the edge of the lava flow and it was replaced by softly rolling sandy hills (glacier-carved? there were many times this trip where we both wished we had payed more attention to our geology teachers) with sulphur-spitting steam vents. There were several large vents, like a hole maybe 10 meters across that you could not get that close to for the smell and the heat of the steam. But the whole area was littered with small vents. When we finally found a spot at the top of a little hill with enough wind to keep those damn bugs from flying into my hair and getting stuck in the little jewcurls, the ridgerest that we put down heated like the seat of a luxury SUV, without noticing we had placed it on several mini steam vents. It was cozy. And for the rest of the day, it was more of this pattern: 100 to 200 meters of craggy black lava flow, sandy rolling hills with small hot-water streambeds building some texture, vents identified over the next hill by wisps of steam. We kept on imagining a hobbit at the base of each of these plumes, working his whisper-lite to give him some hot water for a proper cup of tea.

After crossing a lava field dotted with beautiful mirror-quality chunks of obsidian, we climbed up a snow-covered hill where a memorial to a 24-year-old man who had died in a late-June blizzard in 2004 sobered our approach to the first of several strategically placed huts (this one 12km from Lmnlgr.). We pitched our tent, made a tasty dinner (Johanna, I think on a tip from Taus, had brought along some kale and potatoes — it was a welcome addition to add some durable greens to our cooking mix. We ate and fell asleep early.

Despite this whole ‘always light’ thing, we didn’t take much advantage of the extra daylight until the last day of hiking, when we pulled into base camp at 10PM or so. But I’m getting ahead of myself here…

The next day started with a long and frustrating hike across these soft gravelly hills which, every 50 meters or so would dive into a 10 meter high stream-bed that had been carved out by snow runoff. our elevation did not change significantly in our first hour or two of hiking, but we went up and down countless times. Big time frustrating. We were soon rewarded with a nice uphill climb and one of the best views of the trip. We could see that we were headed towards a greener valley, away from the blacks and greys, the oranges and sulphuric reds of the lava fields and soft hills and into a lush valley bordered by two huge glaciers. Seeing steam vents and lava fields next to glaciers made us wonder who would win if lava flow met a glacier…what would happen? A good argument for an anything-anything-anything match (akin to a roshambo match, just without the rock, paper or scissors), if nothing else.

We had reached the highest point of the trip (about 1200 meters, I think) and could almost see our destination, now a mere 40km away. On our slow descent into the green valley (few trees, mostly just grass and sheep keeping it short), we forded a frigid glacial river (knee-deep, rushing), tried to go swimming in a gorgeous mountain lake (knee-deep, placid), chatted up a German couple whom we leap-frogged with on the trail a bit as we each stopped for snack breaks and a few other small river fordings. The second night was spent in a campsite that was divided into loose sites by old stone farmhouse ruins.

Our last day of hiking was a the longest, about 25km total. We started out across more rocky valley terrain (lava rocks and small lava sand/pebbles? again, no technical terms here) and wound our way between some mountains that jutted up out of the valley. In some places it was like southwestern desert landscapes, small flowering plants and larger-sized rocks dotting the black-sand expanses between the mountains evenly, as if planted or laid there on purpose. Apparantly on foggy days this area is dangerous because it is really easy to lose your way without any clear landmarks around. The weather was gorgeous throughout the whole trip, though. We lucked out on that front. In the afternoon, we walked along and over (thank you, footbridge) some deep canyons with fast-moving glacial run-off, a nice reminder that the glaciers in front of us and to the left (south and east, respectively) were getting closer. Finally, we crossed a riverbed that was probably 100 meters wide but only had shin-deep water rivulets coursing through it now. On the other side was a birch and poplar forest, thick with tall grasses and small versions of these beautiful trees (stunted growth from the cold climes?). We stopped and had dinner next to a small brook and found our way to the Porsmork camping ground and bus pick-up at 7AM the next morning.

Basically, there was never a dull moment on this entire hike. The landscape changed every few kilometers (if not more often) to something completely new and different than before. There were beautiful wilderness extremes (craggy mountaintops, boiling hot water coming out of the ground, ice caps sulking in the distance, desert flats) and more civilized wilderness (sheep bleating from soft grassy knolls, farmhouse ruins, the quaint huts and their facilities — each one had a person or a family, in one case, who lived there and looked after the hut and the campground). We lucked out with weather, didn’t take good advantage of being able to hike at 1AM without a flashlight, appreciated not having to worry about bears snatching our food away, and loved the fact that the bussed allow for nice long one-way trips (even if they are damn expensive).

Our last day in Reykjavic we enjoyed the public baths one more time, ate some real food (non-re-hydrated bean mixes) and watched a local youth soccer game at a field near the campground. Early the next morning, Sunday July 25th, we hopped on a plane for Munich.

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July 28, 2005

Reykjavic rustica

A few days have passed since Johanna and I left Iceland bound for Germany, but I wanted to capture some of the time there before it faded in memory.

We arrived on a red-eye from Boston early on the morning of the 19th, and made our groggy way first to the main Reykjavik bus terminal (BSI) and then to the city’s public campground and HIYA youth hostel. We paid about 600ISK or $10/person for a our one night stay, pitched our new MEC tent on a lush patch of grass and promptly took a nice nap in the blazing 9AM sun. We discovered all too soon (15 minutes into our nap) that desipte only having a few months of sunlight, warmth and therefore green grass, the blond-haired, shirtless and brawny Icelandic teenagers have created a summer industry around grass mowing. A large ride-on mower carved a nice swath around our tent, some clippings gently landing on our rainfly while I had nightmares of a cord getting caught in the blade and the whole tent getting sucked into the mower. As we later discovered, these mowers were everywhere.

Mid-afternoon found us lounging at the public hot baths that were next door to the campground (entry 250ISK or $4/person). Along with the campground which felt very public (basically just one long grassy knoll with tents dotting the grass close together, every ten feet or so), the baths were another nice example of a nice European public facility. The locker rooms were packed with unabashed naked people taking showers under huge (6 inches in diameter, easy) and wonderful showerheads. The water was naturally warm (it still smelled faintly like sulphur) and it felt as though you were standing under a gentle and warm waterfall. The baths consisted of two large swimming pools (one for laps, one for goofing off), a large water slide (Johanna and I be friended a few Icelandic kids who kept on wanting to slide down with us, despite that fact that our large surface area and extra mass slowed them all way down — we also saw a probably 75-year-old man getting his slide on), a succession of four small pools that felt increasingly more like a lobster-boil by the last one (113-115 degrees Fahrenheit, i think yow!), and one mid-sized warm pool that looked to be the adult singles scene and the teenage hangout. The whole place was packed with Icelanders and it was clearly a great summer hangout, perfect for those cool (50-60 degree) summer evenings.

We grabbed a half-empty bottle of butane/propane mix from the campground’s pile of leftover-gas-that-cannot-be-taken-on-planes-so-we-might-as-well-leave-it-here-for-the-next-person pile and cooked a nice mac and cheese dinner.

The next morning, thanks to a slow watch battery, we almost missed our bus to Landmanallaugar for our big trek. Luckily we were tipped off by the morning lawnmowing shift, as we didn’t quite believe that, despite the sun being up and shining brightly early in the morning as usual, the teenage mowers would start at 6AM.

Next edition: the hike…

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May 24, 2005

On the road for respect

I’d been hearing rumblings about this trip for almost a year now, but this massive roadtrip now looks like it’s really taking shape. The basic idea: hit a U.S. state capitol every day for 50 days (starting on July 4th) and each day “offer a free acoustic concert on the capitol building grounds”.

The mission is both artisitic and political, a familiar chord with the anize crowd.
How can you call a place home if you are a stranger to its names? Especially today, in a media age, when names have newfound power, when until you have been to Alabama it will remain an immaculate myth, subjecting you to its celebrity, estranging you from the union to which it � undeniably - belongs. But it is our union; this is not a matter of choice or opinion; we have been born into it and bear its name. We will not be estranged from it; we will not be homeless; we will take ownership.
There’s a raw boldness here, a willingness to go out and experience the state of the union (our country is in fragments, they say); a set of familiar liberal values (Free performances. Outdoors, at sites open to everyone, on ground dedicated to the public trust) coupled with the admirable and ambitious goal of seeking a common language and a middle-ground. A New American Language a la Dan Bern — we can only hope that more travellers hear his cutting advice as a similar call to action:
Tourist towns can be a drag sometimes But in non-tourist towns, you can get beat up
Just for looking a little different
I guess the thing to do, is just stay at home.
-Bern, in NAL

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May 12, 2005

MUD

For those of you not checking main anize site who might have missed the post (or as a reminder for those who haven’t had the time), here’s a link to Volker’s pictures from JazzFest in New Orleans two weekends ago.

It was pretty damn glorious. Some of the mud shots begin to capture the madness. The music was great and I’ve been trying to recreate some of that cajun spicin’ to no avail since getting back.
Black pepper, lots of it. Cayenne. White pepper.
What’s the secret? recipes.anize.org, anyone?

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