Chapter 8The Eider‐down Hunter. Off at Last

That evening I took a quick walk along the shore near Reykjavik, then crashed early on my bed of rough planks - seriously, I slept like a rock. When I woke up, I heard my uncle talking loud in the next room. I jumped out of bed and went to see what was up.

He was chatting in Danish with a really tall dude, like seriously built. This guy looked super strong. His eyes, which popped out from a huge head, had a simple, almost innocent face, but they seemed really quick and smart. He had long hair, like, shockingly red, falling over his athletic shoulders.

This Icelander looked agile, though he barely moved his arms - definitely not into all that hand-waving you see down south.

Everything about him gave off a chill, calm vibe. He wasn’t lazy, but he just seemed totally at peace. He was the type who didn't expect anything from anyone, worked when he felt like it, and nothing could shock or upset him.

I started to get a read on his character just by watching him listen to my uncle's wild, passionate ramblings. While my uncle was going off, sentence after sentence, he stood there with his arms crossed, totally still, not reacting to any of my uncle's gestures.

To say No, he’s just shake his head left to right; when he agreed, he's just give a tiny nod, so slight you could barely see his head move. He was stingy with his movements, seriously.

Looking at him, I would have never guessed he was a total beast of a hunter. His vibe wasn’t exactly intimidating to wildlife. So, how did he even catch anything?

My surprise dialed back a bit when I realized this chill, serious dude was just an eider duck hunter - the down's how Icelanders make most of their money, you know?

Early summer, the female eider - a cute duck, for real - builds her nest among the rocks of the fjords - those are narrow gulfs in Scandinavia - and Iceland’s got 'em everywhere. She lines the nest with the softest down from her chest right away.

Then the hunter or trader shows up, takes the nest, and the poor bird has to start all over. It’s like that until all the eider down’s gone.

If she can’t find any more, the male steps up to see what he can do. But his down isn’t as soft, so it’s got no value, and the hunter doesn’t bother taking his nest lining. The nest gets finished, eggs are laid, chicks hatch, and next year, it’s eider down harvest time again.

Eider ducks never pick steep, tricky spots for their nests - they go for sloping, low cliffs near the sea. So the Icelandic hunter can run his business pretty easily. It’s like a farmer who doesn’t have to plow, sow, or harrow - just collects the crop.

This serious, thoughtful, quiet guy - as calm as an Englishman in a French play - was named Hans Bjelke. He came to see us because M. Fridriksson recommended him. He was gonna be our guide.

It hit me that if I’d searched the whole world, I couldn't have found someone more opposite to my uncle, who’s always so extra.

They totally got each other, though. Neither of them even thought about money - one was down to take whatever came his way, and the other was ready to give anything asked. So, you can imagine they figured out an agreement pretty quickly.

The deal was, he's take us to the village of Stapi, which is on the southern side of the peninsula of Sneffels, right at the bottom of the volcano. Hans, our guide, said it was about twenty-two miles, and my uncle thought that would take about two days.

But when my uncle realized they were Danish miles - eight thousand yards each - he had to chill out a bit. Considering the rough roads we had to deal with, he figured it’s gonna take eight or ten days.

We got four horses ready for us. Two to carry the gear, and two to carry my uncle and me. Hans said there’s no way he’s riding on any animal. He knew every inch of that coastline and promised to take us the quickest route.

His deal with my uncle wasn't just about getting us to Stapi. He was gonna stay on for all the time needed for my uncle’s research, for a set salary of three rix-dollars a week - that's fourteen shillings and twopence, minus one farthing, in English money.

But the guide had one condition - he wanted the money every Saturday night, or his deal was off.

We set a departure date. My uncle wanted to give the eider-down hunter a little extra, but he shut him down with one word -

"Efter." Which, when you translate it from Icelandic to English, means - "After."

Once the treaty was done, our awesome guide bounced without another word.

"A seriously cool guy," said my uncle; "he just has no idea the huge role he’s about to play in world history."

"So, you’re saying he’s coming with us?" I asked, totally surprised.

"To the center of the earth, yeah," replied my uncle.

"Why not?" We had forty-eight hours left before we headed out.

Sadly, all our time was spent getting ready. We put everything we had into packing - instruments on one side, weapons on the other, tools here, food there. We had four main groups. The instruments were top-notch: one. A super accurate Eigel thermometer, going up to one hundred and fifty degrees.

Honestly, I thought that wasn't nearly enough - or too much. Way too hot if things got really intense - we’d be toast! But not enough if we needed to check the temperature of springs or molten metal. two. A manometer using compressed air, to measure the air pressure at sea level.

A regular barometer might not cut it - the pressure would probably increase as we went deeper. three. A Boissonnas chronometer from Geneva, set to the Hamburg meridian. That's what Germans use, like the English use Greenwich and the French use Paris. four.

Two compasses: one for direction, the other to measure the angle. five. Binoculars. six. Two Ruhmkorff coils. They’d give us a really good, portable, and reliable way to get light using electricity. seven. A brand-new voltaic battery.

A thermometer (thermos, and metron, measure); it’s a tool to check the air’s temperature. A manometer (manos, and metron, measure); shows how dense or thin gases are. A chronometer (chronos, time, and metros, measure); a fancy way to say a really good watch.

Then there’s Ruhmkorff’s coil - it makes super-strong electric currents. It's a copper wire coil covered in silk, wrapped around another wire coil. A quick jolt of current from a battery makes it glow with bright light. The battery and wire are in a leather bag you strap to your shoulders.

The lantern’s up front, so you can see even when it’s pitch black. You could even wander into flammable gases or underwater - it’s safe! H. D. Ruhmkorff, a smart chemist, came up with the induction coil. He snagged the French prize of two pounds,zero in eighteen sixty-four for his awesome electric invention.

A voltaic battery, named after Volta, uses metal plates and salty liquids to make electricity flow.

We had two rifles and two six-shooters. I couldn’t figure out why we needed them. I didn’t think we’d run into any wild animals or unfriendly locals.

My uncle was just as obsessed with his weapons as he was with his instruments, and he was super careful about his supply of fulminating or gun cotton - guaranteed to work in any weather, and way more powerful than regular gunpowder.

We had two pickaxes, two crowbars, a silken ladder, three iron-shod Alpine poles, a hatchet, a hammer, a dozen wedges, some pointed pieces of iron, and a bunch of strong rope. Seriously, the whole thing was a lot, especially when you realize the ladder was three hundred feet long!

Then we had to figure out food. The hamper wasn't huge, but it was decent. I knew that with concentrated meat and biscuits, we’d have enough to last six months. My uncle only brought Schiedam for drinks. No water at all.

Luckily, we had a ton of gourds, and he figured we’d find water and fill them up as we headed down. My worries about the heat, the water quality, and even if we'd find any water, didn't really register with him.

To give you the full list of what we brought - for anyone else thinking of doing this - we also had a medical kit with everything you’d need for cuts, breaks, and bruises. Lint, scissors, lancets - basically, a collection of seriously creepy tools.

Plus, a bunch of vials with ammonia, alcohol, ether, Goulard water, aromatic vinegar, you name it - every possible drug you could think of. And, of course, all the stuff for the Ruhmkorff coil!

My uncle also stocked up on a bunch of tobacco, a few flasks of really good gunpowder, boxes of tinder, and a belt stuffed with notes and gold. There were six pairs of waterproof boots in the toolbox.

"My boy, with gear like this, boots like these, and this kind of setup," my uncle said, totally stoked, "we can definitely go far."

It took a whole day to get everything sorted. That evening, we had dinner with Baron Trampe, plus the Mayor of Reykjavik and Doctor Hyaltalin, Iceland's top doc. M. Fridriksson wasn't there, and I later learned he and the governor were clashing over some island admin stuff.

Basically, I didn’t understand a single thing anyone said at dinner - it was like a semi-official thing. My uncle just wouldn't stop talking, though.

The next day, we were done. Our awesome host totally made my uncle, Professor Hardwigg, happy by giving him a killer map of Iceland - super important for a mineralogist.

Our last night was a long chat with M. Fridriksson, who I really liked - especially since I didn't think I'd ever see him or anyone else again. After that chill hour, I tried to sleep. No luck. I tossed and turned all night, only catching a few cat naps.

At five AM, I woke up from the only decent stretch of sleep I’d had by the loud neighing of horses under my window. I quickly got dressed and headed outside. Hans was putting the final touches on our stuff, doing it quietly and efficiently - seriously impressive.

My uncle was giving him a ton of directions, but Hans totally ignored him.

By six o'clock, everything was ready. M. Fridriksson gave us a really warm handshake. My uncle thanked him from the heart, speaking Icelandic.

I threw in a few of my best Latin phrases and gave him all the compliments I could think of. With that friendly duty done, we headed out and hopped on our horses.

As soon as we were totally ready, M. Fridriksson stepped forward. For a farewell, he called after me, quoting Virgil - words that felt seriously made for us, travelers heading off to an unknown place:

"Et quacunque viam dederit fortuna sequamur."

("And whichsoever way thou goest, may fortune follow!")