Man Down and Other Stories

From the foggy shores of Vestmannaeyger, it is with great regret that I telegraph home news of a casualty in our midst. Though fighting valiantly to remain a fully formed member of this expedition, Team Member Three, Last Name Marmot, First Name Orange, has succumbed to wind-induced injuries and will no longer be capable of fulfilling its assigned tent duties without immediate and improvised intervention by Team Members One and Two. To ward off further injury until it can be retired safely to US shores, Team Member Three has been treated with a combination of extra staking mechanisms, a laundry line, and strategically placed duct tape. Though Team Members One and Two are both trained in the worn-out-gear healing arts, they worry that their skills may be outmatched, leaving Team Member One vulnerable to the gale-force winds and horizontal rain that this unseasonably awful Icelandic summer has produced thus far. We fear for the worst - With nothing else to be done, Team Member One is expected to succumb to its grave injuries. Its final adventure is at hand. Stop.

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A view from the medical ward - Severe internal injuries caused by a sea storm that raged all night and eventually flattened Team Member One's bone structure into a pancake that wetly folded over the top of Team Members Two and Three.

For the record, our Marmot was built to stand strong. It's a Marmot, for pity's sake. Sea storms boiled up in the netherworld by Nordic gods with rage issues, though, proved sodden and deadly, even for a Marmot. Up all night, using hands and feet to hold up the remains of our wind battered tent, it crossed our minds to inhabit a nearby thatch roof hut instead...but then everything we owned would have blown away. Braving the elements, we patched up our little guy as best we could and were able to ride out the rest of the storm in the improvised mess, but our gear is largely soaked now and the tent is really in shambles. So, we're leaving tonight to try our luck at the mainland again. Bad weather is expected to follow. I am not in the proper frame of mind to recommend cycling Iceland today, so I'll speak of other things.

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Above, you can see the steep narrowness of the trail we followed for puffin hunting. This is also the cliff that sea winds blow over to create a reverse vacuum that murders your high-end outdoor gear and makes you look like an idiot...in case you were wondering.

Sheep, as far as I can tell, are the only members of the Trail Construction Corps in Iceland. Being sure-footed and lacking soundness of mind, sheep do not make the best park rangers, but they do scream very loudly, usually unprovoked, and this adds excitement to any walk. Also, they are precious and look/walk/sound/think just like Zoe, which makes me want to go home.

I am going to quickly round off our time in Vestmannaeyger and share next steps, as we have to get going and pack up our soggy stuff to catch the ferry. I can't think of anything clever to say, anyway, as my brain is muddled by sleeplessness and scenes from "The Perfect Storm", with cutaways from "Castaway." So...


Best part? We held a puffin. A two-year-old, sleepy, silky baby puffin. Almost makes up for the storm.

Vestmannaeyger hosts a tiny, rather dilapidated aquarium attached to the fire station. A single room houses eight tanks filled with the most hideous, ill-formed sea life we have ever seen, representing the rich aquatic history of Iceland. These were the most disgusting animals we have ever seen - gray, gelatinous fish with pointy teeth, all glopped together in a pile of gigantic, rotty fish mess; flat somethings with two eyes of the top of their sand colored heads and mouths that gaped open sideways, revealing internal bone structures; black, spiny crabs the size of my bicycle clawing at lumps of dead squid. It was like M. Night Shyamalan became the director of Sea World. Our skin crawled.

But then we held the baby puffin and everything was alright.

Sensing my recent visit underneath the surface of the River Styx (mixing mythologies, I know), my little friend jovially nipped at my fingers and blinked his eyes contentedly while I stroked his velvety feathers, clearly trying to make me feel better for having just witnessed the many countenances of Satan in person. It was a much affirming reintroduction to the glorious aspects of nature, which we had briefly forgotten existed (we forgot again around 2:30 am when the ocean tried to swallow us up, but tea is bringing us around again).

With that...there isn't much more to say. We are tired and vaguely downtrodden, so we are going to pack up and try for Seljalandsfoss, another waterfall that Christopher tells me differs from the other waterfalls we have seen and will see. It will be a short cycle from the ferry port if we estimated correctly and the weather is on our side (both tenuous, at best). After the light has cooperated enough to suit Christopher's undeniable genius (even I can't be sarcastic about that), we will cycle on to Skogar, a town whose one building is a gas station, to see Skogarfoss. In case you haven't gathered, 'foss' is Icelandic for 'waterfall'. Then, we'll haul on to Vik.

I can't remember, but I'm guessing that there is a waterfall there. Couldn't tell you why.

I'll leave you with a photo of a lava field, sharp and blackened leftovers of the eruption that pulverized houses and created two extra kilometers of land on Heimaey, our current island, in 1973. You know. To end on a happy note.

For the record, nobody died...and my hair looks really good.