Chapter 9Our Start. We Meet with Adventures by the Way

The weather was overcast but settled when we kicked off our crazy, risky journey. No sweltering heat or soaking rain - perfect tourist vibes, honestly.

Riding through a new place was seriously my jam, so the start of this whole thing was pretty awesome for me.

I was totally feeling the rush of traveling, like a life of pure fun, freedom, and getting what you want. My mood was soaring so fast, I started to not even care about what used to seem like a nightmare trip.

"Seriously," I told myself, "what’s the worst that could happen? Just a trip through a weird country, a climb up a crazy mountain, and if things go south, a descent into a dead volcano’s crater."

There was no way Saknussemm had done anything more than that. The idea of a secret gallery or underground tunnels into the Earth? Totally bonkers - just a fever dream. I’d do whatever was needed, no sweat.

I made up my mind right before we left Reykjavik.

Hans, our ridiculously good guide, led the way, walking with a steady, fast pace. Our two horses, carrying the gear, followed along on their own - no need for whips or spurs. My uncle and I brought up the rear, looking pretty good on our sturdy horses.

Iceland’s one of the biggest islands in Europe. It’s got thirty thousand square miles and around seventy thousand people. Geographers split it into four parts, and we had to cross the southwest quarter, which they call Sudvestr Fjordungr.

Hans, when he left Reykjavik, followed the coastline. We went through scraggly, bare meadows, trying their hardest each year to show a bit of green. They almost never pulled it off - mostly just a dull yellow.

The sharp peaks of the rocky hills were hazy on the horizon, through the thick fog. Every so often, a flurry of snow would pop out in the morning light, while some tall, pointy rocks would disappear into the grey clouds, their tops sticking out like broken reefs rising from rough water.

Now and then, a rocky outcrop jutted down, barely giving us room to pass. But our horses seemed totally familiar with the area, knowing exactly which way to go. My uncle didn’t even have to nudge his horse along - whipping, spurring, or talking didn't do a thing.

Showing any frustration was just pointless. I couldn't help but grin seeing him look so huge on his little horse; his long legs sometimes grazing the ground made him look like a six-legged centaur.

"Good beast, good beast," he’s saying.

"Seriously, I’m starting to think Icelandic horses are the smartest animals around. Snow, storms, impossible roads, rocks, icebergs - nothing stops ‘em. They’re brave, steady, and reliable; they never mess up, never slip."

I bet you anything that when we have to cross a river or fjord - and I’m sure we will - you’ll see him go right in without hesitation, like an animal that can live in water, and make it safely to the other side.

"But we can’t rush him; we gotta let him do his own thing, and I promise we’ll hit our ten leagues a day between us."

"Maybe," I replied, "but what about our awesome guide?"

"I’m not worried about him at all," she said. " Those kinds of people just push forward without even knowing what they’re doing. Look at Hans. He barely moves, so he can’t get tired. Plus, if he did complain about being tired, he could borrow my horse."

"I’d get a major cramp if I didn't get some exercise. My arms are good - but my legs are getting a little stiff."

We were moving pretty fast the whole time. The land we were in was basically a desert already. You'd see a lone farm here and there, a single shack, or an Icelandic house made of wood, dirt, and lava bits - looked like people begging on the side of the road.

Those sad little huts made us feel so bad, we almost wanted to give money to everyone. There aren't any roads here, paths are practically nonexistent, and even the little bit of plant life we saw just covered up any signs of people passing through.

But this part of the province, just a few miles from the capital, is considered one of the best and most populated in all of Iceland. So, what must the other, more remote parts of the island be like?

After traveling about half a Danish mile, we hadn’t seen a single farmer at his door, not even a shepherd with his crazy flock of sheep.

We only saw a few stray cows and sheep now and then. So, what should we expect when we get to the rough areas - the places all messed up from volcanoes and stuff happening underground?

We'd figure it all out eventually. But looking at the map, I noticed we were avoiding a lot of that rough terrain by sticking to the coastline - it was pretty winding and desolate.

Really, the whole volcanic thing happening on the island, and everything that went with it, was all concentrated inland. There, layers of rock stacked on top of each other, basalt eruptions, and lava flows had given the place a seriously weird reputation.

I wasn’t expecting what we found when we got to the Sneffels peninsula, though. It was like a total mess of nature’s leftovers, a seriously chaotic scene.

About two hours after we left Reykjavik, we arrived at this small town called Aoalkirkja, which basically meant "principal church." It was just a few houses - not even a village, really, like you’d find in England or Germany.

Hans stopped for about half an hour. He shared our simple breakfast, said "yes" and "no" to my uncle’s questions about the road, and when my uncle asked where we’d spend the night, he was as short with his answers as always. "Gardar!" he just said.

I looked at the map to see where Gardar was. After a close look, I found a small town with that name on the edge of the Hvalfjord, about four miles from Reykjavik. I showed it to my uncle, and he made a really dramatic face.

"Just four miles out of twenty-two? It’s basically a quick walk."

He was about to say something to the guide, but Hans just walked ahead of the horses, totally unfazed, like he always was.

We’d been riding across those endless, sandy prairies for three hours. We had to go around Kollafjord - it was an easier, shorter route than trying to cross the gulfs. Not long after, we rolled into Ejulberg, a place with community rules.

The clock would've struck twelve if any Icelandic church could afford a clock, though. Those churches are pretty much like the people here - they do without watches and don’t even miss ‘em.

Here, the horses could finally chill and grab a snack. Then, we followed a skinny strip of shore between tall rocks and the sea, getting us to Aoalkirkja of Brantar without stopping. After another mile, we hit Saurboer Annexia, a little chapel on the southern side of Hvalfjord.

It was four in the afternoon, and we’d covered about twenty English miles - that's four Danish miles.

The fjord was about half a mile wide. Waves were crashing against the pointed rocks. The gulf was surrounded by these massive, rocky walls - a huge cliff, three thousand feet tall, with layers of brown rock, mixed with reddish tufa.

I wasn't trusting those horses to get us across a choppy stretch of water. Riding over saltwater on a tiny horse just seemed crazy.

"If they’re actually smart," I thought, "they won’t even try."

"Either way, I’m trusting my own brain more than theirs."

But my uncle was not in the mood to wait. He spurred his horse forward, heading for the shore. His horse went right to the water’s edge, sniffed the incoming wave, and backed off.

My uncle, who was, honestly, just as stubborn as the horse he was riding, insisted on him making the move he wanted. This attempt was met with another refusal from the horse, who just shook his head.

Then came a bunch of yelling and a good whack with the whip, followed by kicks from the horse, who tossed his head and heels and tried to buck his rider off.

Finally, the little pony, splayed out his legs in a stiff and ridiculous pose, slipped out from under the Professor’s legs, leaving him standing with both feet on separate stones, like the Colossus of Rhodes.

"You awful animal!" my uncle yelled, suddenly a pedestrian - and as mad and embarrassed as a cavalry officer who’s been thrown from his horse.

"Farja," said the guide, giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder. "What, a ferry boat?"

"Der," answered Hans, pointing to the boat - "there."

"Well," I said, totally stoked about the info; "so it is."

"Why didn’t you say so earlier?"

my uncle snapped; "why don’t we just go?" "Tidvatten," said the guide.

"What’s he saying?" I asked, super confused by the delay and the back-and-forth.

"He says tide," my uncle translated for my benefit.

"Oh, duh, I get it - we gotta wait for the tide." "For bida?" asked my uncle. "Ja," replied Hans.

My uncle scowled, stomped his feet, and then followed the horses to where the boat was.

I totally understood and was on board with needing to wait before crossing the fjord, for that moment when the sea is at its highest point and the water’s calm. When neither the tide’s coming in or going out, the ferry boat isn't in danger of drifting out to sea or crashing on the rocks.

It wasn't until six in the evening that things finally clicked. My uncle, me, and our guide, plus two boatmen and four horses, all piled into this super weird, flat-bottomed boat.

I'd gotten used to the steam ferries on the Elbe, so these boatmen and their long oars felt like a seriously slow way to get around.

We were in the fjord for over an hour, but eventually, we made it across without any drama.

About half an hour later, we rolled into Gardar.