Chapter 10Traveling in Iceland

It should'a been night, seriously, even way up there at the sixty-fifth parallel. But honestly, the constant daylight didn't even faze me. It's Iceland, right? June and July, the sun just doesn't go down.

The temp, though? Way colder than I thought. I was freezing, but even that wasn’t as bad as being totally famished. So, a hut opening its doors was seriously a lifesaver.

It was just a regular peasant's place, but the hospitality? Top-tier, like a king's palace. As soon as we showed up, the owner came out, shook our hands, and basically told us to follow him.

We did. It was impossible not to. A long, dark, kinda creepy passage led into the house - built with rough-hewn beams. It gave access to every room.

There were four: the kitchen, a workshop where they did the weaving, the family’s sleeping room, and the best room, where they especially welcomed guests. My uncle, who’s super tall, kept bumping his head on the ceiling beams - ouch.

We got shown into our room - a big space with a hard dirt floor and a window with sheep intestine "glass" - not exactly see-through.

The beds were just piles of dry hay stuffed into two long red wooden boxes, decorated with Icelandic writing. I was not expecting to be so comfy. There was one downside: the smell. Dried fish, rotting meat, and sour milk all mixed together? Not a vibe for my nose.

As soon as we ditched our bulky travel outfits, our host's voice called us to the kitchen - the only place Icelanders ever make a fire, no matter how freezing it is.

My uncle, totally down, rushed to accept this super welcoming invite. I followed.

The kitchen chimney was old-school. A big stone in the middle of the room was the fireplace, and there was a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape. It was basically the kitchen, living room, and dining room all rolled into one.

When we walked in, our awesome host acted like he hadn’t seen us, came over formally, said something that means "be happy," and kissed both our cheeks.

His wife followed, said the same thing with the same formality, then the couple, putting their hands on their hearts, bowed deeply.

This amazing Icelandic woman was the mom of nineteen kids, who were rolling, crawling, and walking around in a ton of smoke coming from the fireplace in the middle of the room. I’d spot a fresh, white head and a kinda sad look peeking at me through the haze.

My uncle and I were totally vibing with everyone, and before we knew it, there were three or four little ones on our shoulders, some on our boxes, and the rest hanging around our legs. The ones who could talk kept yelling "saellvertu" in every possible way.

The ones who couldn't just made a bunch of noise.

The concert got cut short - supper was announced. Our guide, the eider-duck hunter, strolled in after making sure the horses were fed and settled. He just let them wander and graze on the sparse, green stuff in the Icelandic plains.

Not much to eat, really - just moss and some super dry, not-so-nutritious grass. Next day, they were ready and waiting outside the door, way before we were. "Welcome," said Hans.

Then, totally chill, like a robot, he hugged the host and hostess and all nineteen of their kids, without a whole lot of feeling.

Once that was done and everyone was happy, we all squeezed around the table - twenty-four of us, pretty crowded. The lucky ones just had two little ones on their laps.

But as soon as the soup hit the table, everyone got quiet, even the Icelandic babies. Our host piled our plates with lichen soup made from Icelandic moss - not bad, actually. A huge piece of fish floated in sour butter. Then came some skyr, like curds and whey, with biscuits and juniper-berry juice.

We drank blanda, skimmed milk mixed with water. I was starving, seriously hungry, so for dessert I polished off a big bowl of thick oat porridge.

Once the meal was over, the kids vanished, and the grown-ups sat around the fireplace. It had turf, heather, cow dung, and dried fish bones on it. Once everyone was warm enough, everyone scattered, heading to their own spots.

Our hostess offered to take off our socks and pants, that’s just how they do things in Iceland. But we politely said no, so she left us to our bed of dry hay.

The next morning, at five AM, we said goodbye to those super-hospitable farmers. My uncle totally struggled to give them enough cash. Hans gave the signal to roll.

We barely got a hundred yards from Gardar when the landscape changed. The ground started getting swampy and boggy, making it tough to move. To our right, the mountains stretched on forever, like a massive, natural fortress - we were basically hugging the edge.

We kept running into streams and little rivers, and we had to ford them without getting our stuff wet. As we went further, it felt more deserted, but sometimes we’d catch glimpses of people in the distance.

Once, a sharp turn brought us close to one of those figures, and I instantly felt grossed out by this huge, shiny, hairless head with nasty, revolting wounds showing through their clothes. These poor folks never asked for anything; they just bolted.

But Hans was quick enough to give them a friendly "saellvertu." "Spetelsk," he said.

"A leper," my uncle explained.

Just hearing that word felt icky. Leprosy, this awful disease that’s almost disappeared thanks to modern medicine, is still common in Iceland. It’s not contagious - it's hereditary - so these folks can’t get married.

These lepers really didn’t make our trip any more fun, and the whole scene was just incredibly sad and lonely. The last bits of grass seemed to be dying right under our feet. Not a tree in sight, except for a few tiny willows, about the size of blackberry bushes.

Now and then, we’d see a falcon soaring in the grey, misty air, heading towards warmer, sunnier places. I couldn't help but feel super bummed out. I sighed for my own homeland and wished I was back with Gretchen.

We had to cross a bunch of little fjords, and finally got to a real gulf. The tide was high, so we could just go across and reach the village of Alftanes, about a mile further.

That evening, after crossing the Alfa and the Heta rivers - packed with trout and pike - we had to spend the night in a deserted house, the kind you’d expect to be haunted by all the fays from Scandinavian stories. The King of Cold had totally moved in and made his presence known all night.

The next day was just...nothing special. Always the same damp, swampy ground; the same boring, even look; the same sad, repetitive scenery. That evening, having reached halfway through our trip, we slept at the Annexia of Krosolbt.

For a whole mile, we were walking on nothing but lava. They call this kind of ground hraun. The crumbled lava on the surface looked like huge ship cables stretched out flat, or sometimes piled up in heaps.

It was like an endless field of lava flowing from the nearby mountains - all extinct volcanoes, but you could still see what they used to be. Here and there, you could see steam rising from hot water springs.

We didn't have time to really check things out, though. We had to keep moving, ASAP. Soon, the soft, swampy ground was back under our horses’ hooves, and we kept running into little lakes every hundred yards or so.

We were heading west now; we’d basically circled Faxa Bay, and the twin white peaks of Sneffels were rising into the clouds, less than five miles away.

The horses were really picking up speed. The tricky ground wasn’t slowing them down anymore. I’m not gonna lie, I was starting to feel it - major fatigue. But my uncle? He was solid, like he’s been since day one.

I gotta say, I was impressed with both the Professor and our guide; they treated this whole rough trip like a casual stroll!

Saturday, June twentieth, around six in the evening, we finally made it to Budir, a cute little town right on the coast. And that’s when the guide asked for his payment. My uncle settled up right away. It was Hans’s family - his uncles, his cousins - all German, who offered us a place to stay.

We were super welcomed, and I really would’ve loved to chill with them after all that travel, without overstaying our welcome. But my uncle wasn’t feeling tired at all, so there was no chance. Even though it was Sunday, I was back in the saddle.

The ground was weird again, like the mountains were messing with it. Granite was popping out of the earth, looking like the roots of an old oak. We were hugging the base of the huge volcano.

My uncle’s eyes never left it; he was gesturing, staring at it with this kinda intense, challenging look - like he was saying, "That’s the giant I’m gonna take down."

After four hours on the road, the horses just stopped right in front of the Stapi presbytery.