We wake the next morning, well-rested. It is 7 AM, and outside our ground-level studio, it is Wednesday, and the capital city is alive. Chatting pedestrians pass by our window on their morning walking commute; from the nearby streets are the occasional whir-and-hum of car engines coming to life, the rare honk of a horn. Reykjavík, the world's northernmost capital, is a lovely seaside town. The cod fishermen work off of the marina in the far northwest of the city; west of us is the business district with its posh hotels, department stores, and government buildings, abutting a central pond popular with waterfowl. We are staying in the center of town, where restaurants and boutique shops selling local crafts and souvenirs predominate. The sidewalks are meticulously clean and heated from below by geothermal energy. The city and its surrounding suburbs are charmingly small in feel; certainly no bigger than Baltimore. Even now, at the tail end of winter, it is a delightful place to wake up.
We walk up the street to the guesthouse proper, where we eat toast with jam and butter, fruit, and coffee with milk. In a bag, we take hard-boiled eggs and cheese for the road. Today's plan is for a half-day trip in a new direction - an hour and a half north from Reykjavík, to a trailhead leading to Glymur, long regarded as Iceland's tallest waterfall until it was overtaken in 2011 by the discovery of a rogue beast in a highland glacier. We get in the car and drive out of the city the way we came yesterday. Near the eastern suburb of Mosfellsbær, we turn north with the Ring Road, skirting the bay to the north of the city. As we curve around the headlands, following the water, the wind gusts down from the mountainsides, thundering against our windows. We soon reach Hvalfjörður ("Whale's Fjord"), a long glacial bay named for its frequent cetacean visitors. Here, grateful to leave the morning shipping route, we turn east off the Ring Road before it descends into a tunnel underneath the fjord. Our goal here is the mountain pass at the head of the fjord, where the highland rivers drop swiftly to the sea. After another half hour cruising beside the fjord, up and down its steep mountain walls, we pull off onto a narrow track that soon becomes a fairly passable gravel road. Two miles in, we stop at the trailhead.
There are two paths to Glymur. An upper trail ascends the hillsides to the north of the pass, arriving above and upriver from the waterfall; we have ruled this trail out, as it would necessitate fording the river on foot in order to properly view the waterfall and come back down the lower trail. I have seen photos of hikers up to their shins in the height of summer, and I shudder to think of the river now flush with snowmelt, freezing our bones and sweeping us away and down the 2nd highest cascade in the country. The lower trail, meanwhile, creeps up the pass, down into the river valley below the falls, and, after crossing the stream in the valley, ascends towards the falls on a loose gravel scree. We have doubts about this latter trail as well. Gazing out at the muddy, ice-covered landscape, and reflecting on our difficulties approaching Svartisfoss two days earlier, I have a lurking suspicion (which turns out to be quite prescient) that the stream crossing will not be easy. In any event, we figure that the trail will be three miles up and three miles down; we have the entire day ahead of us (it is 9 AM); all available indications are that the weather will hold up (though it will snow later in the afternoon in the capital region); and now that we are here, we might as well see how far we can safely go.
We ascend the icy path up the mountain pass, heading northeast, Jane in front. As we gain altitude, I look back and see the fjord in the distance, a flat face of dark blue water on the horizon. Surrounding us are cliffs and mountain ranges covered in white. In front of us, the sun is shrouded behind a thin layer of cloud peeling off the mountains, covering the land in a pale, hazy glow. The trail is actually quite pleasurable and, for the most part, in good condition. We pass little streams completely frozen, the ice crunching like autumn foliage beneath our steps. We wind our way through stands of barren trees that grow short and thick with low branches, humbled by the harsh Icelandic winter wind. There are a few larger streams; we find series of stone steps to make our crossing, carefully tiptoeing along; I film Jane at one of these crossings and am barely able to stifle a laugh as she toddles off the stream bank and plunges an entire ankle into the water. "I'm good!" she yells downstream, giving me a totally undeserved thumbs-up.
Nearly two miles in, the path ascends a hillside and comes very suddenly to a cliff edge. Here the trail descends via a steep wooden stairstep - straight down the cliff face toward the valley below. We lower ourselves carefully down, putting our hands on the dirt wall and gripping at tree branches wherever we can find them. Jane is still in front, and she disappears around a corner on a ledge; I round the bend and see her standing in the opening of a cave, admiring the well-formed icicles overhanging the entrance (photo above). The wind howls through the cave, and we make our way towards the other end of the passage, groping against the boulders in the dark. Jane lowers herself down another ledge and disappears again; "Whoa!" I hear. "You okay?" "It's like a Minecraft cave!" she exclaims. I jump down and turn the corner; the cave wall terminates abruptly in a corner pillar flanked by two archways. We are standing in a skull that cuts through the cliffside; we have tunneled through its auditory canal and are now staring out of two empty eye sockets, at a desolate river valley below. It does look, indeed, like a voxel-crafted home that, by scenic design, is missing two of its walls, its roof miraculously suspended by a single stone column. Jane descends into the river valley as I admire the scene.
After taking my photos, I follow Jane down the hillside and through the trees. Up ahead, Jane has stopped, and I quickly see that we have a problem. The footpath disappears into the icy river, its waters swarming at the bank and swollen with melting snow. In later months (certainly in May; I'm unsure about April), a wooden plank and crossing cable would be placed to guide walkers across the river. I stand on the bank and glance up and downriver for any signs of a safe crossing. "Nope," Jane pre-determines. "Nope," I say with a sigh. We are barely over a mile from Glymur, and it is clear we will not be climbing any higher this morning. This trip has already proven that Jane and I have a fairly conservative calculus that pervades our decisions about adventure and risk; today will be no different. Disappointed but happy, we climb back out of the valley, turning back in the skull cave for one last view. Beyond the cave and out of the valley, we retrace the path down the mountain pass, winding down towards the carpark at the head of the fjord. We play a game as we walk, coming up with names for inanimate objects on the path - lumpy boulders, pretty pebbles, particularly stout trees. We arrive safely back at our car, and I drive us back to our guesthouse in Reykjavík.
It is just early afternoon when we return to the city; we drop our belongings off at the studio and walk the neighborhood looking for a fitting lunch to follow a wintry walk. We settle on two bowls of Asian-inspired noodle soups at Núðluskálin ("Noodle Station") - a tasty but bizarre amalgam of Thai and East Asian flavors that leaves us feeling almost as foreign and confused as Jane's smoked lamb sandwich. Back outside, we wander the street, looking in bookstores and coffee shops. On the north side of town near the beautiful Harpa concert house, the weather decides to flip a switch, and flurries of snow come pouring out of the sky. We run back across the street, back to the safety of the shopping district and its broad sidewalk awnings. Re-visiting the nearby Bónus supermarket, we acquire one last stock of juices and sandwiches, and retire to our studio for the evening by 5 PM. Jane falls into a deep hibernation, as is her wont. I grill myself another hot dog and settle in beside the windowsill.
