The Lonely Planet kindly describes Egilsstadir as "charmless." The author, being a Lonely Planet writer, was likely turned off by Egilsstadir's general lack of humid, poorly lit cafes peddling thick, heady soups made of the precious mountain lambs that I have grown to love (alive, not in a stinky soup). Instead, Egilsstadir is home to a Bonus supermarket, a Netto store, and a Subway, among other luxuries, all of which are decidedly "charmless."
We loved Egilsstadir. After traversing 15 countries with Lonely Planet as the guide, Christopher and I have decided that the brand's main weakness is exclusively hiring young, probably single, party types that infiltrate cities around the world and seek out the one hostel in town where your stuff is most likely to be rifled through by a drunken male Aussie while you try to sleep through the 24/7 blaring of Florence + the Machine at the dingy bar below the bunk beds. Thus, when Christopher and I follow the Lonely Planet's glowing recommendations, we tend to find ourselves scowling at 3 am while listening to people play Never-Have-I-Ever in varying levels of English proficiency. The same would have happened had we listened to Lonely Planet Iceland, but after London's Dead Mouse Hostel (name invented by me, based on a deceased resident that went unnoticed by staff for our entire stay) and countless other examples of college sophomores having fun at our introverted expense, we have wizened up considerably. Hence our preference for Egilsstadir. True, the Bonus supermarket has a drunk pink piggy bank as its mascot, but you can also buy edible food there that will last you a whole week for the same amount of Kronas that you would otherwise spend on a bowl of congealed precious baby lamb parts from a "cafe" stuffed with wet European teenagers and their iPhone chargers. Egilsstadir offered none of that - only Estes Park style mountains, a massive lake (with accompanying story of a mythological monster), and three normal food sources. Charmless indeed.
We loved Egilsstadir. After traversing 15 countries with Lonely Planet as the guide, Christopher and I have decided that the brand's main weakness is exclusively hiring young, probably single, party types that infiltrate cities around the world and seek out the one hostel in town where your stuff is most likely to be rifled through by a drunken male Aussie while you try to sleep through the 24/7 blaring of Florence + the Machine at the dingy bar below the bunk beds. Thus, when Christopher and I follow the Lonely Planet's glowing recommendations, we tend to find ourselves scowling at 3 am while listening to people play Never-Have-I-Ever in varying levels of English proficiency. The same would have happened had we listened to Lonely Planet Iceland, but after London's Dead Mouse Hostel (name invented by me, based on a deceased resident that went unnoticed by staff for our entire stay) and countless other examples of college sophomores having fun at our introverted expense, we have wizened up considerably. Hence our preference for Egilsstadir. True, the Bonus supermarket has a drunk pink piggy bank as its mascot, but you can also buy edible food there that will last you a whole week for the same amount of Kronas that you would otherwise spend on a bowl of congealed precious baby lamb parts from a "cafe" stuffed with wet European teenagers and their iPhone chargers. Egilsstadir offered none of that - only Estes Park style mountains, a massive lake (with accompanying story of a mythological monster), and three normal food sources. Charmless indeed.
You would certainly be surprised, then, if I told you that Christopher was not in Egilsstadir to have a break from all things Iceland, perhaps resting our limbs and eating Subway to our heart's content. If you can possibly believe it, PhotoMan had more in mind that spending time in a typical town, which is how we found ourselves cycling mountain roads into the highland, Christopher regaling me the whole way about the wonder and might of the great and terrible...Hengifoss.
Foss means waterfall. Remember?
PhotoMan tricked me with promises of hunting for a giant lake monster that many the Icelander claims to have seen wriggling inexplicably about through icy waters. It's name in English, Wyrm Monster, gives you an idea of what it might look like, reinforced by this video taken quite recently by an Icelandic farmer from his lakeside residence (explanation for the phenom still nonexistent). I, however, am much more charmed by local gas station maps of Iceland that draw out a Loch Ness type sea monster chatting congenially with an Icelandic girl in blonde braids and detailed apron, its many green parabolic snake humps dipping in and out of the water cartoonishly throughout the presumably fantastic conversation. Regardless, we pedaled up and down hill after mountain forested hill, feeling quite as if we had suddenly gone for a pleasant, thigh-burning ride in Colorado, instead of another Icelandic waterfall mission. I dutifully scanned the silvery lake, which we rode by for several up and down stretches, and spotted many mossy rocks that I concluded were chunks of sea monster flesh. Christopher, meanwhile, was harboring secret dreams of capturing a unique angle of the lower falls below Hengi.
In true Christopher fashion, our sweaty arrival at Hengifoss was immediately transformed into a sweaty hike up a steep trail on the opposite side of the river from where the groomed trail takes all the nice normal people up to enjoy the sights. As we doggedly walked up, scattering the flocks, I was still wondering at the bridge we cycled to cross the lake. The point of crossing was quite wide, and ten feet in, I was shocked to feel the air temperature suddenly drop at least 15 degrees. I looked left and saw an opening between two sections of mountain, where a glacier or some other giant ice formation was visible. The temperature on the bridge stayed cold for as long as the ice was in view. Getting ten feet from shore on the other side, though, the air began to warm, and by the time we met the road, we were once again encased in the relative warmth of the grass and hills. In Iceland, the temperature can be completely different ten feet from where you are standing, which baffled me as much as when we looked at a Skaftafell weather map for headwinds and saw our next stretch overtaken by a wind pattern that literally went in a circle, like a tornado, but apparently...not. Mulling over these meteorological mysteries in my head, I did not immediately notice Christopher darting about on crumbling rock ledges trying to capture this:
In true Christopher fashion, our sweaty arrival at Hengifoss was immediately transformed into a sweaty hike up a steep trail on the opposite side of the river from where the groomed trail takes all the nice normal people up to enjoy the sights. As we doggedly walked up, scattering the flocks, I was still wondering at the bridge we cycled to cross the lake. The point of crossing was quite wide, and ten feet in, I was shocked to feel the air temperature suddenly drop at least 15 degrees. I looked left and saw an opening between two sections of mountain, where a glacier or some other giant ice formation was visible. The temperature on the bridge stayed cold for as long as the ice was in view. Getting ten feet from shore on the other side, though, the air began to warm, and by the time we met the road, we were once again encased in the relative warmth of the grass and hills. In Iceland, the temperature can be completely different ten feet from where you are standing, which baffled me as much as when we looked at a Skaftafell weather map for headwinds and saw our next stretch overtaken by a wind pattern that literally went in a circle, like a tornado, but apparently...not. Mulling over these meteorological mysteries in my head, I did not immediately notice Christopher darting about on crumbling rock ledges trying to capture this:
Mercifully, I was able to scream and holler over the roar of wind and water to call off my soon-to-be-dead-almost-not-future-husband. Tail between his truth withholding legs, Christopher proceeded to describe the NatGeo photograph that he had secret intentions of recreating, which explained our use of a sheep trail on the opposite side of the river and his harebrained rock scrambling. I swear, you look away for one second... Fortunately, my egregious inattention allowed him to determine the water to be too high for his needs, making it unnecessary for him to set up his camera gear on top of a tenuous rock column and take pictures over the side of a cliff (as if I would have allowed such ridiculous behaviors to take place). What is truly amazing to me, though, is that his iPhone snapshots, shared above, are incredible on their own. We musn't tell him that, though, or we'll be back with the DSLR and filters and whatnot, and Christopher will be swept away by a river.
By the way, Hengifoss is the second tallest waterfoss in Iceland...but Christopher only wanted to photograph the lower falls. Something about rock columns, unique geologic something somethings. (Sometimes NatGeo photographers make my life very confusing and difficult. If only they knew how much their choices impact my day-to-day.) We didn't even go to the actual Hengifoss part. We went back down the sheep trail, had some supper, during which I was attacked by a huge spider, and got back on the bikes to go to camp. So "Hengifoss and the Wyrm Monster" is a misnomer. It should be "Scary, Cliff Side, Unique Geologic Something Somethings and the Wyrm Monster, Sort Of."
Here is camp. Being rather far into the highland, it wasn't a tourist destination. As far as we could tell, these gypsy set-ups were enjoyed entirely by Icelandic citizens on weekend/summer holidays. This little path was just the tip of the RV iceberg. There were people in droves, and they had camping situations that would suggest they were permanent residents. Our little Marmot, so terribly battered by overuse, looked...well...stupid.
As we cycled up for the night, I can only imagine how many iPads were on us. Sometimes, I suspect that people think we are homeless...
As we cycled up for the night, I can only imagine how many iPads were on us. Sometimes, I suspect that people think we are homeless...
I can't imagine why, though. I think we look great.
But That's Not All!
Cycling 500 Miles: Iceland Coast-to-Coast
To Bus or Not to Bus: How We Got to Reykjavik
Godafoss, Akureyri, and the Humpback of Husavik
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