GEYSIR
“Where the cauldron of the North
Spouts his boiling waters forth,
From the caverns far beneath,
Where they ever lie and seethe,
And with steam, and hiss, and boom,
Send a tremor through the gloom,
Till, above, the solid ground
Vibrates with a dull rebound,—
In that place I stood and saw
Things that filled my soul with awe.”
—_Miss Menzies._
Morning dawned with a gentle rain. Hour after hour it fell with no
promise of abatement until ten, when the clouds were rifted, the sun
shone through and the dripping plain glistened. We decided to set out for
the long ride to _Geysir_. The ponies had been in readiness for an hour
in anticipation of an earlier start.
We turned into the trail leading across the plain, along the border of
the lake towards _Hrafnagjá_, Johannes following with the train at some
distance. When we reached the rift we halted to examine it until Johannes
arrived. This chasm is longer than the _Almannagjá_ but not so deep
and surely not so impressive. It lacks the beautiful waterfall and the
historical associations of the latter. It extends along the side of the
mountain which we were about to climb. Many blocks of basalt have tumbled
into it in one place and over these a suitable and safe passage has been
constructed. As we crossed the chasm the rain began to fall, likewise the
temperature. Long before we had reached the summit of the mountain pass
the rain was pouring upon us and rolling off in rivulets from horse and
rider. This was a good test of our specially made waterproof clothing
and it stood the test. Never a drop penetrated save up the sleeve of the
bridle hand.
At the summit, the clouds scattered again; this time in earnest and we
experienced no more rain during the long trip. It was just one long and
glorious summer day and we wandered care-free in full enjoyment of the
wonderful country. Near the summit we passed a lonely little farmhouse
and the people being absent in the hayfield the lonesome dog came out to
make our acquaintance.
At this place the trail winds through an exceedingly rough area of
lava, tangled and twisted. It was my first experience with recent
volcanic products and it was with absorbing interest that I examined
this material, as the ponies climbed the steep gradient and threaded the
narrow path through the labyrinth of angular blocks. Above our heads
rose a line of peaked and jagged volcanoes, _Kálfstindar_, Calf-Peaks.
This place has been the center of considerable volcanic activity as
evidenced by the different forms of lava, i. e. lava of different periods
of eruption also by the weathering piles of tufa and conglomerate. Near
the trail there is a peculiar formation, a _tintron_. This is a volcanic
chimney, rising about nine feet out of the lava plain. The opening at the
top is in the form of an ellipse and the tube extends forty feet down
into the solid lava. The sides are blistered and it has the appearance
of having been a blow-hole from which thin lava was thrown upward in the
form of a fountain as water from the nozzle of a hose. There are several
of these unique formations in the north which will be discussed when we
reach _Mývatn_.
Soon after leaving the _tintron_, the trail wound downward along
the side of the mountain and under projecting cliffs of tufa and
brought us suddenly in view of the fair valley of _Laugardalr_,
Valley-of-the-Hot-Springs. An entrancing panorama was spread out at our
feet. The luxuriant green of the valley contrasted strangely with the
scorched and blistered barriers over which we had been climbing. In the
distance a smiling lake of no mean proportions cut a large space out
of the meadows. On the nearer and the farther shore of _Laugarvatn_,
Hot-Spring-Lake, rose columns of steam in slender spirals quivering in
the breeze and vanishing in the upper air. Numerous sheep and cattle
marked the valley with dots of white and brown. Besides the nearer hot
springs clustered a group of farm buildings and the distance caused their
turf roofs to appear like tiny hillocks. This lake and valley appear like
a monstrous chrysoprase in a grand setting. The valley is enclosed by the
needle spires of the volcanoes which are red, brown, yellow and gray and
streaked with a mixture of all these colors on their naked slopes where
the melting snows have swept down many an avalanche of ash and cinder.
We descended by a steep path to the lower level, passing many a towering
pile of conglomerate of soft texture and wading through many a talus of
ash and sand where the myriads of zeolites glistened. The masses of rock
protruding from the tufa cliffs give them the appearance of huge plum
puddings. Reaching the verdant plain we changed ponies and while waiting
for them to graze, we explored a small cavern in the base of the cinder
pile. This cave has long been used as a retreat for the sheep in times
of storm. It has since been cleaned, a turf dwelling erected before its
entrance and it now forms the home of a young Icelandic couple who have
set up their housekeeping here since our visit. Remounting we sped away
over the meadow, crossing many small brooks and arrived at the farm
by the hot springs. This place has many signs of prosperity, such as
the quality of the buildings, the numerous flocks around the lake, the
abundance of hay and the thrifty patch of potatoes in its special turfed
enclosure. We were cordially welcomed, taken to the guest room and served
with hot coffee, milk, pastry and delicious griddle cakes, large in
area and quite thin, buttered while hot, sprinkled with sugar and then
rolled tightly. We found these griddle cakes at many of the farms and
can cordially recommend them to a dainty appetite. At the close of the
lunch we repaired to the hot springs which always had for us an unfailing
interest. They are at the very edge of the lake and have formed small
mounds of silicious scinter mingled with lime and alum. Wherever the hot
water has fallen upon the land there is an incrustation of fantastic
form. Most of the water boils over into the cold water of the lake. The
spring furnishes hot water for all domestic purposes and is a great
conserver of fuel. The clothes are washed in tubs beside the springs and
then rinsed in the lake. Here the wool is cleansed before shipment. In
the hot ground the bread is baked, the dough being enclosed in earthen
jars. In a fuelless country it is a gift. It is a strange contrast this
pouring out of boiling water in the margin of the cold lake.
We hastened across the meadow along the border of the lake to regain
the trail leading to _Geysir_. Hasten is the correct word. No air was
stirring and the clouds of tiny _mý_, midges, that rose out of the long
grass as the ponies disturbed them, simply smothered us. They filled the
ears of the ponies, crowding in with the long hair and swarmed in patches
upon their flanks and legs. Instances are related where the midges so
tormented the ponies that they rushed into the water, in spite of the
protestations of the riders, that they might get rid of their tormenters.
No horse of my knowledge has his ears so completely filled with hair
as the Icelandic pony. Doubtless this is an adaptation for a special
purpose and I believe that purpose was to protect these delicate organs
from these stinging insects. We drew forth our fly veils and put them on
with some relief, but as we did it while at a full gallop they were not
securely fastened and some of the pests got under the netting. Here they
were happy, for we could not drive them away. In desperation I pulled
off my veil, for the express purpose of giving all the midges an equal
chance. It needed no urging to put the ponies to their best paces, for
they well understood that the insects would leave us when we had attained
an elevation above the meadow.
We entered a tract of scrubby willow and dwarf birch. Some of the birches
were as high as our shoulders while we were on horseback and thus we rode
with our heads protruding above the Icelandic forest and there was some
free advice given about getting lost in the woods. There are two or three
larger forests in the north which we shall visit later. We passed several
good farms and every one, men, women and children were busy with the hay
harvest. Two hours riding took us to _Miðdalr_, Middale, church, which is
close to the famous _Brúará_, Bridge-River. Many streams rush out of the
mountain gullies and unite up this side valley. Here the _Brúará_ comes
foaming down its shelving bed in a passion. Near the crossing it spreads
out in a wide sheet over the lava which is full of ugly crevasses. One
great rift, of unknown depth, and five feet wide extends through the
center of this lava and the river tumbles into it from both sides.
Tumbling into lava rifts is a characteristic of Icelandic rivers, some of
them entirely disappear. Until the coming of King Frederick in 1907 the
traveller rode his pony through the water for about one hundred feet,
carefully avoiding the cracks, with the water well up the flanks of the
pony. When the rift was reached it was crossed on planks bolted to the
rock and often with the water flowing over them. When safely across the
“bridge” another passage of one hundred feet through the water brought
the traveller once more upon dry ground. This is why it is called “bridge
river.” A suspension bridge now spans the stream and the view up the
river is excellent. In former days it required some steadiness of purpose
to thread this tangled maze of cracks beneath the white water and ride
the plank over the foaming stream, and yet, I am sure, I would prefer it
to the crossing of the _Ölfusà_ which we made two weeks later.
Here we encountered a large party of Icelanders with numerous pack ponies
laden with provisions, timber, and strangest of all, huge piles of fish
heads with attached vertebrae. The party had been down to the coast to
dispose of their wool and were returning with their supplies for the
summer. When the fish are dressed the heads and backbones are cut out and
hung upon the fences to dry. In the interior they are pulverized and used
for food whenever provisions are short. In the spring when hay becomes
scarce fish are often fed to the livestock.
Passing the farm, _Utlið_, the _out-folk_ or the people beyond, we wound
around the shingly side of _Bjarnafell_, Bear-Mountain,[2] and descended
to the plain which proved to be a bog saturated with the recent rain.
Lord Dufferin in his _Letters from High Latitudes_ calls this place
“an Irish bog.” The crossing was anything but pleasant for the ponies.
Many deeply worn trails crossed the plain towards _Geysir_. Under
ordinary conditions of dryness any one of these ditches would have been
satisfactory to the ponies, but partly filled with mud the ponies shied
at them and without any warning frequently jumped out of one and into
another before the rider was aware of what was about to happen. It is in
places of this character that the instinct and experience of the pony is
more serviceable than the judgment of his rider. It is in the bog, on
the rough mountain trail and in the foaming river that the true worth
and peculiar qualities of the Icelandic pony is revealed. The ponies
prefer the old ruts which often are worn so deeply that his flanks rub
the turfed edges and the rider must pay special attention to his own
feet if he would not have them jammed into the turf at the angles of the
intersecting trails. Attempt to get the pony out of the rut and on to
what the rider assumes is a better path, the turf, and the mettle of the
steed is immediately aroused. It requires a strong pull upon the rein and
a dig of the heel into the ribs of the pony to get him out of the path he
has chosen. As soon as this is accomplished to the satisfaction of the
rider and he settles down in the saddle conscious of his superior wisdom
over the brute creation, without the least warning the pony takes a side
step which lands him in the bottom of the forbidden trail. After a few
of these unexpected rebuffs the rider is content to let the pony have
the choice of trails providing it leads in the general direction of the
rider’s choice.
In the distance we saw columns of steam rising from a large area and
Johannes assured us that it was from the geysers. It was here that we
met an acquaintance from the _Laura_, Mr. A. V. Manneling, a banker
from Helsingfors in Finland, whose company had been very agreeable on
the voyage from Leith to _Reykjavik_. He informed us that _Geysir_,
(pronounced gáy-sir,) had erupted that noon and would probably give
another exhibition that evening. We bade him good-bye and hastened on in
order to be present during the eruption. A century ago _Geysir_ was quite
constant in the periods of its eruption but owing to recent earthquakes
which have changed the conditions below it is not at all regular and
it is frequently eight days between the displays. We forded several
tributaries of the _Túngufljót_,[3] Tongue-River, rounded the base of
_Laugarfell_, Hot-Mountain, and rode into the midst of the steaming
acres, the site of great _Geysir_ and his satellites, a place of awful
magnificence, where the water,—
“… hot, through scorching cliffs is seen to rise
With exhalations steaming to the skies!”
—_Iliad._
We dismounted at the little inn, which is located in the midst of the
boiling and spouting caldrons, glad to leave the saddle after a ride of
thirty-five miles across a diversified country. It had been our second
day in the saddle but we had become accustomed to the ponies and they had
discovered that the riders were their masters. We had had an exceedingly
pleasant journey with no discomforts except those attendant upon
horseback riding through a rough and roadless country.
This little inn was another creation for the benefit of the King and
again we rejoiced that his visit to Iceland preceded ours. There are
four rooms on the ground floor, one for dining and the other three for
bedrooms. The cooking is done in a little house slightly removed towards
the mountain. Formerly all travellers to _Geysir_ took tents with them
for use at this place or hired them of the farmer at _Haukadalr_,
Hawk-dale. The Inn was crowded. There was a large company of Icelanders
out for a holiday besides several Danes, Germans and those lovers of the
_Laura_, the Swede and the Icelandic maiden. We encountered them several
times during the summer and they were having a happy time. It appeared to
be a honeymoon preceding the bridal. There was a prolonged conversation
between Johannes and the keeper of the Inn in which Johannes expressed
himself quite forcibly if we could judge by the determination in his
voice. He appeared to be the victor, for he came to us with a beaming
face and showed us into one of the corner rooms next to _Geysir_. Our
luggage was brought in, a steaming supper of boiled mutton, potatoes,
milk, coffee and black bread was set before us. That Icelandic coffee!
The berries are freshly roasted every morning, they are of prime
quality, the brewing is expertly done, the cream is real and,—well, it
is delicious. Throughout the country it is the same. Halt at a farmhouse
at any time in the day and you are invited to _Coffee_. It is coffee
with every meal and frequent potations between meals. In that land the
coffee ghost has never risen to be cried down with a score of cereal
concoctions. Prepare it here freshly and expertly as they do and there is
no reason why conscience should peer over the brim of the steaming cup to
bid us beware of the snare of its fragrance.
We were hungry but our curiosity concerning the locality made short work
of the supper. We then learned that the discussion in which Johannes
became so energetic was precipitated by his stipulation that no one was
to use the room except ourselves. In it there were three single beds,
bunks built against the wall, and provisions for several more in the
middle of the room when occasion required them. We did not know the
Icelandic custom, that several men, women and children, whether known to
each other or not, sleep in the same room without any inconvenience.
The inn-keeper did not understand why this custom should be broken to
the inconvenience of the many people who desired shelter that night. We
learned more of this custom as our experiences multiplied and we will
give the reader a full account in a later chapter.
This place is marked on the map of Iceland as _Geysir_. The word is from
the verb _geysa_, “to rush forth furiously, to burst out with violence.”
It is not applied to all the spouting springs of boiling water as is
_geyser_, the geological term, but is the name of the king of all the
spouting springs in Iceland. Scores of these springs are located in this
place but each has a special name which is appropriate to some physical
peculiarity, such as _Strokr_, the churn, the tube where the water rises,
falls and boils vigorously as the cream rose and fell with a frothy
splutter in the ancient dash churn. When we think of the geysers of
New Zealand, the Yellowstone National Park or any place in Iceland we
must remember that they took this name from _Geysir_. There is only one
_Geysir_.
The area dominated by the springs is directly at the foot of
_Laugarfell_, indeed the south side of this mountain once formed a
portion of the hot section. This portion of the mountain is void of every
trace of vegetation, it is marked by ruined geyser mounds, smeared with
sticky clay of many colors, punctured with tiny fumaroles whence issue
wavering wands of steam, while in many places rivulets of hot water break
through the pasty crust. The area of real activity is about 3,000 feet
by 1,800 feet. The place is strewn with fragments of geyserite and bits
of wood, straw and metal, thinly encrusted with the mineral deposit from
the springs. Cast a stick, a straw or a bit of paper where the spray will
fall on it and in a day it will have become petrified and cemented to
the rock beneath. The entire substratum is intensely heated, the ground
is in a constant tremor which often accelerates to a gentle quake. Far
down below these hissing, silicious tubes there is unknown latent heat.
For ages the thermal capacity of this place has been sufficient to eject
untold millions of tons of superheated water, at frequent intervals, in
large installments from these stupendous safety valves.
We roamed over the section several times with our attention always fixed
on _Geysir_ and ready at the slightest warning to dash madly towards it
should it condescend to favor us with a manifestation of its power. In
the meantime we plugged the tube of a little geyser with turf and then
stood aside to listen to the heavy gurgle of reproach which rattled in
its throat and to witness the vomiting of boiling water to a height of
twenty-five feet. As soon as it got relief we plugged it up again and
as often as we administered the turf so often did it eject it. It was
midnight and Mrs. Russell had long since retired, but the weirdness of
the place held sleep aloof from my eyes. In company with a German I
wandered over the area again, stood on the rim of _Geysir_ to watch our
shadows in its depths hoping for the occasion to arise for us to chase
those shadows headlong up the mountain slope. We returned to the little
spouter and played like a couple of boys. As a parting shot we decided
to give it an extra amount of turf and to ram it down the barrel with
a pole. We did this with so much success that we waited long for the
discharge but there was none. We had loaded it too well. The tube of
our gun was too strong to burst, the wadding was packed too tightly for
the powder to blow it out. Silently we sat by it for an hour when my
companion said,—
“Geyser schlaft.”
To which I replied,—“Ich will schlafen.”
The day after the following it burst out with a fine jet of water at six
in the morning and spouted without interruption till nine when we rode
away. As we passed over the ridge we looked back and the last sight we
had of this place was the top of a column of water pouring from this
tube. The extra charge of turf was well worth the trouble.
Morning came but _Geysir_ had not erupted. Its surface betrayed no
signs of past disturbances and gave no promise for the future. From the
neighboring farms we collected seventy pounds of bar soap which we cast
into the center of the basin, where it immediately sank. We were told
that during the day there would certainly be an eruption. The soap is
kept here expressly for sale for this work. Ask an Icelander what the
agency of the soap is and he will reply,—
“I do not know, it always does it and does it thoroughly.” I venture the
following explanation. Recalling that the accepted idea of the interior
of a geyser is that of a large chamber of heated rock nearly filled with
water and that below the water line there is a tube which bends down
then upward into a chamber in the rock. The water becomes superheated.
The steam and other gases in the dome of the chamber are under terrific
pressure on account of the great heat and the weight of the column of
water above, (if one thinks of the geyser tube connecting the underground
basin with the surface as the letter J). When the pressure in the dome
over the water becomes greater than the downward force of the water in
the long arm of the tube then there is an upward movement through the
tube. The expanding steam throws out some of the water. This reduces the
pressure on the superheated water in the basin and some of the water
bursts into steam to continue the action. This process goes on till
basin, tube, underground chamber and connecting tubes are empty. Distant
and cooler underground waters now rush in freely to refill the system
and time produces a repetition. It is easy to construct glass apparatus
in the laboratory to demonstrate this phenomenon. But what of the soap?
This substance is composed of materials which quickly break down into
hydrocarbon gases and increase the pressure in the chamber, just like oil
spurted into the superheater of a water gas machine.
Many of the boiling springs, spurting jets and fumaroles are alike in
this locality but three of them deserve special notice.
_Blesi_, Blaze, as the white stripe in a horse’s face, is a charming
grotto. It is a double basin connected with a tunnel just beneath a
narrow bridge near the surface. These basins are about thirty feet deep.
One is eighteen by twelve and the other thirty by twenty feet in the
longest and shortest diameters respectively. The water is wonderfully
transparent and the white silicious lining of the grottoes reflects from
the sky the delicate shade of blue transforming it into a huge cavity of
lapis lazuli. _Blesi_ is the traveler’s friend. It provides hot water for
the bath, cooks his food, warms his couch through the medium of the hot
water bag and prepares his coffee. Many a leg of mutton, many a brace of
birds and innumerable are the eggs that have been faithfully prepared
with its friendly heat. It is an easy method of cooking. Fill a pail
with eggs and submerge it till they are soft, medium or hard, the time
required is the same as in the kitchen. Place the meat in a cloth bag
and do the same. Dip up the water and pour it upon the freshly ground
berries, lo! the coffee is prepared and your meal is ready. This spring
never erupts but pours out a steady stream which flows down the slope to
join the runway from _Geysir_.
_Strokr_ is another hot spring with a tube ten feet in diameter and
over forty feet deep. In former days it was most accommodating and
would always give an exhibition of its powers if a couple of bushels of
turf were thrown into the tube. The response came in from five to forty
minutes. It usually threw out the turf and ejected a column of water
upwards of a hundred feet. Again and again would it hurl out the boiling
water until its underground system was exhausted. Some years since a
party of gentlemen, French I believe, desirous of obtaining an extra high
spout threw many stones into the tube on top of the turf. The geyser
siphon was doubtless broken or at least fractured so that superheated
steam can not be stored, for _Strokr_ spouts no more. It boils furiously
all the time with dense clouds of steam and the water rises and falls
in the tube in the most violent manner. In looking into the tube one
is impressed with the idea that there are safer places, as it seems if
_Strokr_ were about to mount into the sky to challenge _Geysir_ which has
so long held the palm.
_Geysir_ is the main attraction. The first mention of this phenomenon
in literature is in the History of Norway written by _Saxo Gramaticus_,
who lived between 1150 and 1206, so that it has been active for over
seven centuries. It has built for itself a mound of geyserite many feet
above the level of the plain and has the appearance of an inverted
oyster shell in its series of terraces. This mound increases with each
eruption by the addition of a film of salts held in solution in the
boiling water. The spring is in the form of a saucer with the inward
sloping side at an angle of thirty degrees. The diameter of this saucer
is nearly seventy feet and the saucer is a true circle. Within a saucer
there is a depression at the bottom, a ring to hold the cup. Within the
center of _Geysir’s_ saucer there is an opening, ten feet in diameter,
which extends straight down to the depth of eighty-four feet. Beyond
this the plumb will not go. Whether there are deeper ramifications of
tubes or not is a matter of conjecture unless the explanation of geyser
action above offered is correct. Again, the shape of _Geysir_ is that of
a funnel, i. e. a tube running downward from a flaring reservoir at the
top. During the irregular periods between the eruptions, the water wells
upwards in the center and overflows the rim of the basin through a foot
square opening in the side. This opening has been shaped by the farmer of
_Haukadalr_ to confine the escaping hot water to one channel. The water
is heavily charged with minerals in solution. An English analysis of a
gallon of the water yielded the following:—
Sodium carbonate, 5.56 grains
Aluminum oxid, 2.80 ”
Silica, 31.38 ”
Sodium chlorid, 14.42 ”
Sodium sulfate, 8.57 ”
-----
Total solids, 62.73 ”
During eruptions large volumes of carbon dioxid and some hydrogen sulfid
and a little free hydrogen are emitted. In 1909 my maximum recording
thermometer was lowered to a depth of eighty feet and the temperature was
110C., or 230 degrees on the Fahrenheit scale.
Words convey but a meager idea of the magnificence of this geyser
during eruption, or the awe with which it inspires the witness of its
extraordinary display of power. It was six-thirty in the evening, eight
hours after we had administered the emetic of soap. Not a cloud dimmed
the blueness of the sky and no air was stirring. The glaciers of _Láng
Jökull_, the long ice-covered mountain, loomed beyond the plain of the
_Hvitá_, White-River, the dome of _Hekla_, Hooded, had momentarily lost
its cloud mantle, all the little geysers and fumaroles were boiling
merrily and steaming furiously. Even quiet _Blesi_ was sending up showers
of carbon dioxid bubbles. The signs were favorable for an exhibition
and the people were gathered close about the Inn in expectation. What
the condition of the air has to do with the eruption, I do not suggest.
Icelanders familiar with _Geysir_ state that “when the wind is from the
north there is never an eruption.” I can only add that during our first
eighteen hours at this place we had a strong wind from the north and no
eruption.
We were at supper. The ground trembled, the building vibrated and a dull
rumbling reached the ears.
“_Geysir! Geysir!_” rose the cry from within and without the building.
The supper was never finished. Johannes, who had been watching for
these first signs ever since we had administered the emetic, met us as
we sprang to the doorway. Everyone rushed to the elevation across from
_Geysir’s_ runway. Again the rumble, heavier than before. The water is
agitated in the basin, it boils up suddenly, subsides, the earth beneath
our feet trembles and a mass of steaming water rises in the center of
the basin to an elevation of fifteen feet and overflows the rim with a
noisy splash. Then all is quiet. Is this what we had travelled forty
miles out of our way to see? Truly a great fuss for nothing. Is this the
wonderful _Geysir_ whose manifestation of power had caused the devout
Henderson to fall upon his knees and to pour out his “soul in solemn
adoration of the Almighty Author of nature, ‘who looketh on the earth,
and it trembled; who toucheth the hills, and they smoke?’” Does _Geysir_
demand more tribute in soap? A few moments of quiet expectation followed.
Then, without further warning, a column of superheated water, ten feet
in diameter, shot like a rocket into the air to the height of one hundred
and twenty-five feet and the abysmal forces maintained that column for
nine minutes. What a flood of water poured down the sloping cone! What
a fountain! Mark Twain said that they “have real fountains in Europe
but in America they only leak.” What would he have said could he have
witnessed this display? The roar of falling water filled the air to the
exclusion of all voices and flowed in hissing cascades down the slope,
into the ravine and across the meadow to the river. The sheep fled before
the advancing column of steam and from a distance gazed with a foolish
stare at a spectacle that they had often witnessed. Volume upon volume
of steam, like the cauliflower-shaped clouds of active Vesuvius, belched
into the air expanding under the reduced pressure and filled the air
to the shutting out of the sun. Fountains of foam well over the brink.
Explosion follows explosion and still that lofty tower of boiling water
stands erect and masses of water fall to earth with a terrific crash. The
column wavers, totters, falls. The eruption is over, the steam clouds
lift and we rush up the dripping slope of geyserite, step over the rim
into the hot basin and peer down into these depths whence came those
rivers of water. The heat penetrates the thick soles of the riding boots
but we walk to the edge of the tube and gaze down into the sizzling
throat of the monster. A mass of foam is over the bottom, eighty feet
below. It rises, we watch its ascent of the tube with the pace of a fly
up a wall. It reaches the junction of the tube with the bottom of the
basin and we photograph it, just a mass of foam with ascending steam.
It wells over into the basin and we retreat. Soon the basin is full and
overflows normally and the only evidence of the change that has taken
place is the dripping cone and the steam rising from the brook as it
rushes to cool itself in the icy river.
[Illustration: _Bridge River, Brúará, near Geysir._
_The Tube of Geysir Filling, Photographed from within the rim of the
Basin._]
During the eruption I caught a glimpse of a dark object in the steam
which fell with a thud upon the grass. After the display and the basin
had filled I sought that spot and found a mass of geyserite twelve inches
square and two inches thick. It was still hot. It is perforated with
steam tubes in every direction. I stowed it in the packing case and it is
now in the Science Museum at Springfield, Mass.
At nine thirty that evening we were again treated to the same phenomenon
by _Geysir_ and again at six the following morning. Three magnificent
ejections at a cost of only ten dollars worth of soap. It was worth
much more. The final display was the finest of the three and lasted ten
minutes. We were dressing when the cry of “_Geysir!_” again reached the
Inn. What did it matter that the toilet was not finished! Travellers from
Denmark, Sweden, Norway, America, Germany and distant parts of Iceland
were there to see _Geysir_ spout and not to be fastidious about coiffure
and raiment. We all assembled hastily at the brink, each unconscious of
the others’ presence until the display was over. Then! What a startled
and confused company! Several were clad only in sleeping costumes, some
had put on one stocking and were holding a shoe and a stocking in the
hand, some dragged a skirt by the band and still others trailed their
pantaloons by the suspenders. One man held his shirt by the sleeve and
had one leg in his trousers while the other was innocent of all clothing.
There were Icelandic matrons and maidens barefooted, some with a skirt
wrapped around them and others with a sheet. Rows of discarded garments
marked the way from the Inn to the mound and during the retreat, which
was a blushing and precipitous one, each caught from the grass the
clothes that had fallen during the advance. Ludicrous describes it well,
but every one was happy and during the breakfast which followed the
confusion was forgotten.
Standing upon the rim of the great basin and gazing at the azure surface
the peacefulness of the scene belies the turbulence of the hour before.
In the distance _Láng Jökull_ glistens in the brilliant sunshine. Yonder,
across the _Hvitá_, cloud-capped and snowy-mantled _Hekla_ rises grand
and lonely above its lava-wasted plain. Around us the numerous springs
and fumaroles emit their endless columns of vapor and _Strokr_ moans and
groans. The little geyser which we packed with turf two nights ago has
been spouting without interruption for two hours. What a contrast! Arctic
ice and Plutonic fire battling for supremacy as they have done for ages
in this land of strange confusion,—and still the conflict wages. Loth
are we to turn from this manifestation of power and imposing grandeur
of _Geysir_, even in his hours of rest, but _Gullfoss_ lies beyond the
_Túngufljót_, the _Thjorsá_ and the _Ölfusá_ must be forded, _Hekla_
challenges from the midst of his desolation, the peaceful pastoral
plains of the south are calling, the weird and frightful solfataras of
_Krisuvik_ entice,—and we must saddle and away.