Careen down the mountain with me and the wild horses here.
In which I cross the halfway mark, find some necropants, and stream live radio from a hot tub on the tundra.
Continuing my 'stream of consciousness' travel log by rewriting my daily wanderlust journals from the road here on Steemit to share with all of you; some day to be turned into full posts with my "real" photography from the places I describe. For now, they are less what happened and more illumination of what runs through my head at any given moment while I run through the world. I've held the goal of completing the ring road in Iceland selfishly close to my heart for years, and now that I'm pulling threads of it together and strengthening the rope that makes me me, these journals serve both to loosen my grip and pull it deeper into my soul all at once.
Day Three of the Iceland Ring Road Mission by the numbers.
Around 7 hours of driving.
About 600 kilometres traveled.
- Kilometres hiked: approximately 10
- Sorcerous sigils learned: 4
- Hours spent driving switchbacks: approximately 3.5
- Hours spent in a hot tub: 3
- DOGS PETTED FINALLY: 2
- Waterfalls climbed in: 1
- Arctic Fox bums seen disappearing into dens: 1
- Vikings found: 0
Outrunning the clouds through the Northeastern Valley and my first sight of the lights
It's amazing what fresh, white paint can do. Ísafjörður and the apartment feel like home after only two days — something about these perfect pine planks in a pristine alabaster that feels so Scandinavian and bright and welcoming. All the accents scattered around the house are teal and I can't help but notice that they match the hints of the ice field visible across the water. How can anyone want to come here in the summer? How can so many never even try to make it here? Let me light all the candles in glacial glass holders, sip from turquoise tumblers, and dream wrapped in aqua surrounded by light, opening my eyes to shards of stained glass ice every day.
Before I drive right out of town, I stop to watch the Icelandic Horses (capitalized because they are a stubborn, special breed that live nowhere else) running back and forth at random across the pastures in the driving rain. Every now and again, one lifts its head slightly and whickers some secretive signal, and the group will fly for twenty feet streaming water and hot breath behind them. And then... they settle again, to munch at scrubby stalks contentedly while leaning into the wind, just waiting for the next instant it takes them a little further along. I feel a bit like they do. I love that here they don't need fences; they go where they will, and end up where they need to be.
On the furthest edge of the town limits, I see a grass-roofed cottage, and climb down an embankment to take a closer look. I'll admit, my heart races a bit. There are bones in the windows. Every window. I creep along to the front of the shack: on a table out front there is a neat array of shells, more long, nondescript bones, and the perfectly stripped carcass of a gull — new enough for the joints to still be supple. I stand perfectly still, weighing the fact that I just climbed down a hill and snooped around someone's back windows against all appearances that this someone is an Icelandic sociopathic murdery type. The waves pick up, racing towards the grim altar and soaking my feet as I consider the scene. Foam and bones again.
I walk up a path I didn't notice at first, and it takes me to a small parking lot I also didn't notice. Even more unnoticed details jump out at me, like a fuck off huge sign explaining this is a recreation of a viking hut from ages gone, and a large additional sign saying it is now closed and unmanned for the winter. I cringe at both my stunning powers of observation and my sordid thoughts of murder under the midnight sun, and slink back to the car to drive the hellish switchbacks I've been avoiding. As I get up to speed, I see an Arctic Fox on the side of the road scurry into a den before I can even put my blinker on. I chalk it up as a win to re-inflate my pride, just a tiny bit.
Some four hours later, I'm standing in front of the Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft museum, because I've heard they have something called necropants. Based on this, and this alone, I enter a short cabin in the middle of town, crudely painted with sigils of power and proudly fronted by a bedraggled altar made of whalebone cradling a wilted, still-in-the-plastic grocery bouquet. When I re-emerge blinking a short time later (it really is a two room cabin) in the now brilliant sunlight, I am changed. I have seen the pants.
They are covered in hair and have a desiccated gentleman's area hanging off them and everything. They're supposed to bring you endless money, which collects in the... sack... and if you die with them on you get infested with grave lice, or something. Listen; I stopped reading some of the more in-depth explanations of the spell requirements once I realized just how much nipple blood seems to be a common viking casting ingredient. After a short chat with the jovial caretaker in a drooping slightly-sorcerous-maybe-witchy-but-really-more-like-hippie knit cap, I am convinced I must do research when I get home. I think he may have taken some creative license and filled in some of the more provocative blanks to keep these thousands of year old rituals fresh and fun. I'm certain he's definitely into nipples, anyways.
The rest of the drive (and a short hike) goes well and generally uneventfully, with the wind at my back — er, bumper. I spend almost the entire time marveling at how quickly the landscape and weather change in unending combinations; a natural kaleidoscope pairing blue skies with icy rocks, sleet with verdant green grass, gray mist with rolling ocher hills, billowing clouds gently hovering around the tops of purplish peaks. Some unseen hands spin the world as I accelerate through a long curve, and the vista changes again. Puffs of ivory roll through the valley as night falls, tumbling in behind me as though the ridges I pass by are collapsing in on themselves. I've seen what there is to see there and it dissolves back into the ether to await being pulled into the creation of a new scene ahead. Keep going.
I'm here now, at a small farm cabin on the tundra, about fifteen kilometres outside of Dalvik. I've just taken my first shots of the night sky and am trying to catch my breath (while eating soup) as I see the aurora has made an appearance without my knowing. My heart is light as I crank up some metal in preparation for my radio show tonight. I'm going to sit in a hot tub in Iceland, under the stars and northern lights, and live stream viking music to my friends around the world deep into the night. Halfway 'round the island, and I don't know that my soul can feel much better than this.
All of these photos, stories, and words are my own original work, inspired by my travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them. 🌶️
Follow this journey: DAY 1 | DAY 2 | DAY 3 | DAY 4 | DAY 5 | DAY 6 | DAY 7