Unlike a stratovolcano that explodes and blows its top, Geldingadalir quietly oozed lava out onto the valley floor in a near-constant stream of fire, making headlines and drawing visitors to roast hot dogs on the cooling rocks.
We’d already planned on going through Iceland on our way to the UK in April 2020, but with COVID-19 shutting everything down we’d had to postpone and postpone, waiting for things to change. Our patient waiting was rewarded with a chance for seeing a real, live, in-action volcano that was attracting news agencies from around the world.
I did my research and figured out where it was, how you could get there, and what you could expect and instantly Andrew and I were down for it. We were in. We wanted to see the volcano and started to plan accordingly.
In fact, why stop there? Icelanders had jumped on the chance to make an easy krona and were offering helicopter rides to the site. I’d never been in a helicopter and we were thrilled by the idea of hovering over a pool of fire seeping from the earth below.
Then I started looking into things. A helicopter ride for two was going to cost us roughly $1000. And while it’s obvious that we’re talking about the opportunity of a lifetime to see something spectacular, there were a bunch of unknowns. What about the weather? Live web cams aimed at the eruption site showed pretty plainly the difference between seeing the volcano on a good day and seeing a volcano fogged in--which was not that unusual for Iceland.
In the end I decided it wasn’t worth it to risk putting up all that money only to travel so far and find we couldn’t see anything. We’d have to just walk it.
Of course, the volcano was “accessible” in the sense that it wasn’t in the middle of Antarctica, but it still wasn’t exactly easy to get to. Assuming you were able to get to Iceland in the first place, you had to drive out on the Reyknesfjarna peninsula, park at a designated area, then hike for several hours to get to the site. Judging from what I was reading online it appeared to be an all-day affair.
But we packed our hiking boots and wet-and-windy Alaskan gear and the morning of Friday September 3, 2021 we were driving along the peninsula toward the town of Grindavik to find the starting point of the trail to Fagradasfjall mountain and the eruption site.
I’d never seen an airport like Keflavik, with people shuffling along in confused lines, not knowing where they were going or if they were in the right line. It took an hour or more to get through customs and out of the airport, then finding the car rental place had proved trickier than expected and while our flight had arrived about 6am, it was 8 o’clock before we were finally on the road out of town.
We stopped at Sigursjonsbakari for some breakfast--which was apparently a good enough idea that half the town and the rest of the people from our flight were there to join us in the cramped little cafe where three confused women tried to manage incoming orders as quickly as possible, while customers lined out the door.
Once filled and back on the road evidence of Iceland’s volcanic origins was all around--to the left and right stretched out miles of chunky, volcanic rock, tucked in with a thick blanket of green grass and moss so that it gave the look of black rocks growing fur. Black and green, green and black, the only colors next to the gray of the distant sea and the gray of the low-hanging clouds that seemed right on top of us. Houses copied the earth tones and blended in with their flat, one-story roofs and understated architecture.
We ignored the turnoff for the man made Blue Lagoon, where tourists soak in the opaque cloudy blue water and congratulate themselves for how adventurous they are and instead stopped to take pictures at Standarkirjka, a 12th century church built by sailors who, when about to capsize in a storm off-shore, promised God that they’d build a church wherever they struck land. An angel appeared to guide them safely to shore, and true to their word they built the church on a hill overlooking a tiny graveyard and nearby black sand beach. A statue of a woman titled Landsyn had been added in 1950 to remember the angel that had led them to safety. All of the windows were lit up with the orange and friendly glow of candles, as if offering guidance to anyone still looking for shore.
Grindavik wasn’t far and at the turnoff we easily found the parking lot described online. The road was rutted enough to make me concerned about our rental agreement, but we pulled into a space and looked at each other.
“Here we go!” we said. And we opened the car doors.
The wind was a hurricane and whipped the doors viciously open. I stood next to the car, beaten by savage cold winds and water drops that seemed to be attacking horizontally.
I looked over the top of the car at Andrew.
“This isn’t good,” I said. He looked at me doubtfully.
We got back in the car and I closed the door (it took both hands).
“How committed are you to doing this?” I asked, embarrassed at exposing my softness and yet not embarrassed enough not to look for a way out. It was cold out there.
Neither one of us wanted to be the one to say, “You know, here we are, we’ve come 2000 miles across the world to see a natural wonder that few people will ever get to witness, truly a epic event of nature, and yet now that I’m here I’m really thinking about how cold it is out there and that I’m going to be cold for the next three or four hours, which means that it’s going to be absolutely miserable. Let’s forget that and go have warm fun instead.”
But I knew my husband well enough to take that chance. “You know, this is going to be it for today,” I said. “If we do this, this is pretty much all we’ll be able to do because it’s going to take a super long time to get out there and back. And then once we get there, it’s quite possible, make that likely, that we won’t even be able to see the volcano given these low hanging clouds and fog. I’ll go if you want to. Do you want to?”
He looked doubtful. Obviously, being the male, it was apparently even more critical that he show that a little hypothermia and exhaustion wouldn’t stop him so he said, “I don’t know . . . what do you want to do?”
I jumped all in, “You know, I’m really okay if we don’t go out there.”
He thought for a quick second and said, “Me too.” And he turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the spot.
We left and drove to Kerid Crater, Gulfoss, Geysir, and Thingvallir National Park and I didn’t regret any of it. When we got home three weeks later I was sharing with someone that we’d just got back from Iceland.
“Oh! Did you see the volcano?” she asked eagerly.
“Well, you know, it was really cold and windy that day. So we decided not to go.”
My friend was shocked. Appalled even. “You mean you didn’t go to see it?? But you were in Iceland!”
“Well it was really cold and windy.”
She wasn’t having any of it. “I can’t believe that. If I’d gone all the way to Iceland I would not have not gone!”
I tried to explain about the weather and the temperature and all of the details--even that I’d checked the weather once we’d got to our hotel room that night and the fog had been thick enough that if we had gone we wouldn’t have seen anything. We’d made the right call. But she wasn’t buying it.
“I would have gone out there,” she said again.
I rolled my eyes. Sure. Sure you would have.
The Bucket List. It controls us and our travels. If we don’t see what Instagram tells us to see we haven’t seen anything. Oh well.
As it is, I’m glad we opted for the route we took, the geysirs were especially fun. And we’d been so tired by the afternoon that we’d had to pull over to the side of the road and drop into unconsciousness for an hour before we could finish the day. How would that have been on the trail?
I’ve been to Rome and didn’t see the Sistine Chapel. I’ve been to India but skipped the Taj Mahal. I’ve been to the Grand Canyon but opted for the IMAX movie next door instead of doing a hike (it was snowing!) And yes, I’ve been to Iceland and didn’t see the volcano.
You can’t do everything, you have to make some kind of a decision, and that usually is where the really fun stuff starts to happen. I regret nothing.
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