GULLFOSS
A mighty rift within the rock
Rent ages since by earthquake shock,
Where Hvitá’s frenzied stream
Down plunges with the thunder’s roar
Upon the canyon’s basalt floor
’Twixt walls of golden sheen,
With rainbows arching over all,—
It wins the name of _Golden Fall_.
—_R._
It requires an effort of the will to leave _Geysir_. There is a
fascination in this heated area that is like the sirens in Ulysses’ tale.
We mounted in the wind-driven spray of the little geyser and turned
towards the _Túngufljót_, several tributaries of which had to be forded.
The quicksands are frequent in these streams and must be avoided. Many
ponies have foundered in them and brought their riders to grief. The
grass plains are freely sprinkled with flowers and as we left the geyser
region behind, the cottongrass, _Eriophorum angustifolium_, reappeared.
This plant waves its white tassel in all the Icelandic meadows, sometimes
so abundantly as to make the distant area appear like a patch of snow. It
is entirely absent in soil that is under the influence of any of the hot
springs. The meadows through which we passed are excellent grass lands
and the hay harvest was in progress. The men were swinging the short
scythe, the women raking and the boys and ponies carrying the bundles of
hay to the stacks.
_Gullfoss_, Golden-Fall, is distant ten miles from _Geysir_. The trail
leads over a very boggy country, especially after the crossing of the
_Túngufljót_. A good bridge now spans the main river. It was a large and
merry cavalcade that spread out upon the rising ground in the bog above
the river. All the guests at _Geysir_, satisfied with having seen the
eruptions, were bent upon improving the opportunity to visit the famous
falls. The section of bog, to which we have referred, is on an upland
slope and it is filled with ruts, hummocks and moss sponges. The hummocks
are crowned with several species of _Juncus_, the cotton-grass points
out the moss sponges and the slimy algae locate the wettest spaces. The
older ponies with eyes and nose alert always avoid the sloughs. If there
is evidence of the recent passage of a pony, another will confidently
follow. It is interesting to watch these little fellows sniffing the
ground and testing it with the fore feet when no foot marks point a
sure way. Leave the rein loose upon the neck, curb your impatience and
trust the pony to keep out of a bog; urge him to take a short cut or to
increase his chosen pace, and horse and rider are sure to become stuck in
the bog, a bad predicament. Some English writers describe this passage
as most difficult and dangerous. Take a local guide from _Haukadalr_
and let no traveller who reaches _Geysir_ forbear a visit to _Gullfoss_
on account of the bog. The passage is not so very bad and the falls are
worth much more than the effort.
At the summit of the hill, across the muddy area, we paused to view
the scene below. The _Túngufljót_ drains the southern slopes of _Láng
Jökull_, its three great arms thrust downward through the alluvial
plains, a mighty trident of hydraulic power, forced by the melting
glaciers during the continuous shine of the summer sun. It is a
delightful view,—the luxuriant green below crossed by the silver threads
of the rivers, the whiteness of the glaciers across the valley and the
steam clouds hovering over the heated area.
We turned to the north where the thunders of the falls boomed from
beyond the cliffs and the mists glistened high in the air. No falls,
not even the river is visible, they are embedded in the canyon a mile
beyond. The crashing roar of the water increased and turning an angle of
the cliffs the steeds paused upon the brink of the _Hvitá_ canyon. The
full glory of the falls burst upon us radiant in its sheaf of rainbows.
Leaving the ponies to graze upon the brink, we descended the crumbling
wall to the level of the triangular area within the canyon. This grassy,
mist-washed mass of rock is on a level with the top of the lower falls,
the real plunge of the _Hvitá_ into the lava abyss. As far as the mass of
water is concerned this fall is the largest, not only in Iceland but in
all Europe. Its rival, the _Dettifoss_, Drop-Falls, has a deeper canyon,
a higher fall but there is not so great a mass of water. This waterfall
is on the _Jökulsá_, Ice-Mountain-River, in the northeast of Iceland.
The canyon of the _Hvitá_ is V-shaped, about fifty feet wide at the top
and not more than a dozen feet at the bottom. Most of the waterfalls in
Iceland are formed, like the _Öxerá_, by a river falling into a _Gjá_,
rift, from the side of the canyon. In the case of the _Gullfoss_ the
water falls into the end of the canyon, for this great rift begins at
the falls. Just above the main falls the water rushes over a series of
ledges, columnar basalt bluffs, fifteen hundred feet wide and fifty feet
high. The space between these falls and the main plunge is short. Here
the water runs wide and deep with a troubled surface, fretted with foam
and impatient for the approaching plunge into the unfathomed depth.
A huge mass of rock divides the main falls at the top with about one
hundred feet in width of water on each side. It is from this point that
H. Rider Haggard in _Eric Brighteyes_ causes the hero to descend into the
canyon of the _Hvitá_ to swim to the lower end in order to win the hand
of Gudruðr, the Fair. Of all the strange and imaginative tales which this
writer has related this is the most improbable. The water upon the brink
of the two arms of the falls is eighty feet deep and the plunge into the
canyon is not less than two hundred. What a water power and no syndicate
to control it!
The true falls can not be photographed. The triangular plot upon which we
have been standing is within the canyon and the walls rise above us to
the height of about two hundred feet. Above us the palisaded buttresses,
drenched with spray, glisten in the morning sun and hanging over the
chasm frown upon the river below as if threatening to prevent its escape.
The imprisoned waters boil and foam in their mad contention with the
walls ragingly impatient of their restriction, anxious to escape to the
rural calmness of the southern plains. So mighty is the mass of water, so
narrow are the depths into which it hurls itself that one must believe
that subterranean passages exist or the lava rift would fill and quickly
choke itself to overflowing. It is possible that these hidden rifts,
results of earthquakes, supply the water for the hot springs far away.
Perhaps the ramifications of great _Geysir’s_ underground system reach
even to the foot of this canyon, even as one end of the drinking horn,
out of which _Thor_ drank in the halls of _Utgard-Loki_, was placed in
the sea, so that _Thor_ lost his wager by being unable to empty the horn
at a single draught.
Grim, grand and glorious is the Foss, surpassing Niagara in scenic
environment. Under suitable conditions Niagara has its well-known
rainbow, but _Gullfoss_ has several of them arching the waters one above
the other in the dense volume of spray that is hurled two hundred and
fifty feet above the surface of the stream. If the fabled pot of gold
at the foot of the rainbow arch is to be obtained anywhere, it must be
sought for in this place, for within the walls of the upper canyon the
rainbows end. One may pass through them and even stand at the springing
of the prismatic arch if he is willing to take the drenching of the
down-pouring floods of spray, like sheets of water in a New England
thunder storm. Grand as is the _Gullfoss_, its setting is even more
impressive. Above the plain _Láng Jökull_ stretches forty miles across
the horizon, lifting its unexplored surface of adamantine ice high in
air, a perpetual challenge to him who would search the unknown. At its
base and near at hand _Hvitávatn_, White-River-Lake, the source of
the river, carries a fleet of icebergs upon its sun-lit surface. In
the perpetual sunlight of Iceland’s summer months this vast icefield
discharges constant floods down its cliffs. Hence the _Hvitá_ starts upon
its turbulent course to the sea a full-grown river laden with glacial
clay. Towards the east the peaks of _Kerlingafjáll_, Old-Woman-Peaks,
arrest the eye, around whose skirts hot springs are scattered sending up
a mass of vapor like incense to the heroic gods of Scandinavian mythology.
The thunders of _Gullfoss_ diminished as we followed the brink of its
canyon southward and descended into the stony waste of _Biskuptúngur_,
Bishop’s-Tongue, a tongue-shaped mass of fertile land in the valley of
the _Túngufljót_ formerly belonging to a bishop. Here the foaming of
its silt-laden stream was the only evidence of the recent travail of
the _Hvitá_. Of the twenty travellers in the party from _Geysir_ all
had returned except one, a German who stayed with us till we reached
_Skipholt_, Ship-Ridge. On the way he told us of an amusing experience
he had had with the Icelandic pony. During the first hour of his ride
he wished to stop and repeatedly shouted “Whoa!” The pony only went the
faster and finally ran away with him. He stated that he had ridden
horseback in many lands and no matter what language was spoken this was
the first country where “whoa!” did not mean “stop.” _Hót_ or _hoa_ is
the Icelandic word at which a pony starts quickly into a trot or gallop
and the sound so much resembles “whoa” that the pony was doing his best
to be obedient.
About noon we regained the trail that leads from _Geysir_ across the
_Hvitá_ towards _Hekla_. And again we found pleasure in the earlier visit
of the King, for a good bridge has been constructed across the _Hvitá_
at this place. This is one of the worst of the Icelandic rivers to ford
and many people have been drowned in the attempt. A few miles through
a delightful country brought us to _Skipholt_ which we found to be a
model farm. It is one of the best in Iceland. During the visit of the
King in 1907 he was so well pleased with the conditions at this farm
that he presented the owner with a medal in the form of a cross for the
excellence of his work and the skill he had displayed in the construction
of the buildings and in the management of his flocks and herds. It was
the wish of the King that it might prove an incentive to the neighboring
farmers to do their best to imitate their more prosperous neighbor.
It was Sunday and no work was in progress. We left the ponies in the
lane and went up to the house where we received a cordial welcome and
the farmer’s wife set before us an excellent dinner. With a mixture of
English, German and French we conversed for an hour over the dinner with
our German companion who proved to be a professor at Berlin but spoke
no English. The landlady beamed upon us, all the while conscious of our
difficulties and had it not been for the Icelandic reserve I have no
doubt that she would have proved a good interpreter. It was not till
later that we discovered that many of these people can speak several
languages. The biscuit, pastry, griddlecakes, mutton and coffee were
excellent as well as the butter, cheese and milk and it did seem, by
other standards, as if we had eaten more than the value of twenty-five
cents each, which was the charge.
At _Skipholt_ there is an excellent set of buildings mostly made of wood,
the turf walls are in prime repair, the fields free from stones and
smooth, smoothness being a rare condition of Icelandic mowing fields,
the flocks are large and the cattle numerous. It is the only farm in
the country where I have seen running water supplied to the stables. I
must add that there are other farms in the north which the King did not
visit that are as prosperous as _Skipholt_. This was the best one that he
visited. If he had gone to _Skútustaðir_, _Kalmungstúnga_ or _Miklibaer_
he would also have found praiseworthy conditions and no doubt would have
rewarded, at least with a word of praise, the industrious farmers at
these steads.
Bidding the _bondé_ and the good-wife at _Skipholt_ good bye and
receiving in return their hearty _góðr á daginn_ we turned towards
_Hruni_. Our German companion continued southward to _Skálholt_ and we
left the road to climb the series of ridges between the valleys of the
_Hvitá_ and the _Laxá_, Salmon-River. The ponies picked their way over
ridge after ridge of lava crags with alternate ascent and descent. In
some places the declivities were so steep that it was difficult to retain
our seat in the pommelless saddles. The surcingles were old and cracked
and we put little trust in them. However, they held, else we would have
experienced a very undignified descent. I have seen hundreds of saddles
and bridles in Iceland and never have I seen a new one. I often wondered
if they were ever new. It is remarkable that they seldom break. As we
climbed the last ridge we met a barebacked rider, a tall, sun-browned
shepherd carrying a lost lamb in his bosom with its head protruding
above the rider’s arm and the well known words of Elizabeth Clephane’s
hymn came to our lips,—
“But all thro’ the mountains thunder riven
And up from the rocky steep,
There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,
‘Rejoice! I have found my sheep.’”
It was five in the evening when we mounted the last ridge and looked down
upon _Hruni_. It was one of the fairest sights I have ever witnessed,—the
basin-shaped valley of verdure surrounded by lofty ridges, the thousand
sheep scattered upon the hillsides and through the meadow, the group of
houses which constitute the farm buildings, and the little church across
the yard, the steam rising from some hot springs near the dwellings, the
hundreds of haycocks waiting for the morrow to be taken to the stacks,
the songs of the maidens driving the cows home from the pasture,—a
picture of prosperity and of peace. Surely this is not Iceland or else
the name is a misnomer.
It cost us an hour to pick our way across the hassocky bog, luxuriant
with rushes, sedges, and cotton-grass. No frog croaks in the Iceland
marshes and no reptile ever glides through the sheltering grass, they
are unknown. It seemed as if we might reach the house in ten minutes but
it took an hour. We learned that to approach an Icelandic farmhouse it
is usually necessary to ride around it in a wide detour. Bogs, streams,
fences or hot areas seem ever to lie between the house and the place
where the traveller first sees it. During our circuit we saw a flaxen
haired, barefooted lad seated upon a hummock with a book and a bundle of
plants by his side. A dog was with him and two others watched the sheep
from distant points, reclining with noses between their feet with eyes
alert for any change in the direction of the feeding sheep. If a group
of them started towards the mowing land the dog spoke once or twice and
if the sheep did not turn he trotted nearer and spoke again in a more
determined tone. The sheep obeyed and the dog returned to his vantage
point. I dismounted when the boy saluted us and shook hands with him and
returned the Icelandic salutation. I examined the handful of flowers and
noticed that some of them were partially dissected. Reaching for the worn
and faded book I discovered that it was a Manual of the Icelandic Flora
and that it was written entirely in Latin. A lad of twelve or thirteen
years of age; his task, the keeping of a thousand sheep with no fences
beyond the immediate farm enclosure; his recreation, the study of botany
through the medium of Latin. Of such boys are the Icelandic scholars
made, not through the medium of costly buildings, fine equipment,
luxurious homes, indulgent parents, theaters, parties and secret
societies, but through the wiser agencies of paternal love that sternly
upholds usefulness, interest in study for the love of knowledge. Though
barefoot and clad in vaðmal, the Icelandic lad will obtain an education
that surpasses the products of the endowed institutions of other lands.
At six in the afternoon we were welcomed in the guest room of the
pastor’s home. Kjartan Helgason, farmer and minister, labors six days
upon his large farm and on the seventh preaches in two different
churches, riding several miles to meet his distant parishioners. He came
soon after our arrival and welcomed us with a cordial, honest welcome.
That Icelandic welcome! It comes from the heart and the handshake conveys
more than words can express. Hospitality was a sacred word in ancient
Scandinavia and though but a filmy covering for hypocrisy in many more
favored lands, in Iceland the essence is maintained. Welcome! How often
we say it and hear it and do not know the meaning. We welcome some long
absent loved one. Is it the same when we welcome a neighbor or a frequent
visitor? What about the welcome accorded to a total stranger who brings
us nothing but extra work, who calls us from our necessary task, who eats
our choicest viands, who uses our guest chamber, consumes our time with
questions that pry into our very secrets? Would you know the meaning of
this ancient word you must see it exemplified as a dependent stranger in
a strange land. _Vel-kominn_, well-come, it is good that you have come.
Unless this meaning rings in the sound and bristles in our every act
it is better that we drop from our vocabulary this word which we have
borrowed from an ancient race. Not alone at _Hruni_ did we hear and feel
_Vel-kominn_ but in every household from the humblest peasant on the
borders of the desert to the homes of the highest in the land, even the
professors at the University, the venerable poet of the north and the
Prime Minister in his mansion.
The Icelandic Sunday ends at six in the afternoon. When we came from the
house after supper we were astonished to see the farm maids going to the
fields with their ropes and rakes, the mowers sharpening their scythes
and the general bustle of a work day. Inquiry of the pastor revealed
to us the custom. The method of sharpening the scythe is unique. The
Icelandic boy does not have to turn the stone while a strong man leans
his weight upon the scythe and slides it back and forth across the
revolving stone. As a boy I always regarded the turning of the stone as
a man’s job and I still think so. Many disagreeable tasks on the farm
are given to the boy just because he is a boy. In Iceland the blade is
placed on a flat piece of steel and the edge slips under a presser-foot
like that on a sewing machine. A rod of steel with a square end and a
half inch in diameter is placed perpendicularly upon the blade between
the claws of the presser-foot and is struck a smart blow with a hammer.
The blade is slowly advanced under the repeated blows. The blade is thus
hammered into an edge rather than ground. I noticed the custom throughout
the country. At _Hruni_ there was a machine worked with a treadle and
cam that did the pounding while the operator slowly advanced the blade.
Two days later I met a gentleman from Worcester, Massachusetts, to whom
I mentioned this method. He had not seen it and was doubtful of the
accuracy of my observations. While we were discussing it there came from
the back of the buildings the sharp clink-clink-clink of the steel and he
was soon convinced by observation that I was not joking. The whetstone
is used in the same way as with the American farmer. It was interesting
to note that all the scythestones in the country were made in New
Hampshire, U. S. A. These stones are shipped to Denmark, resold by the
Danish merchant and shipped to Iceland; the Icelandic trader sells them
to the farmer. The farmer then pays a price that is just half of what
the New England farmer pays for the same stone. It is evident that the
scythestone industry does not need any tariff protection.
In front of the house an excellent patch of potatoes was in full bloom
unravished by the Colorado beetle. A flowering rose bush climbed the
house-wall by the door, which was flanked by several species of the
old-fashioned flowers that bloom so persistently around the dilapidated
dwellings of New England’s abandoned farms. A herd of cows were yielding
their milk within a turf enclosure at one end of the house and the newly
painted church across the lane added to the peacefulness and thriftiness
of the scene.
The hot spring on the farm furnishes the heat for the cooking and the
hot clay is used for baking. Rye bread is baked by digging a hole in the
clay and inserting a stone jar. This bread reminded us strongly of the
fine products of the old brick ovens of our grandmothers. In the evening,
pastor Helgason invited us into his study and in a mixture of Icelandic,
English and Latin we conversed till midnight. This library contains many
volumes of choice literature, theological works, and history. He also
showed us a large herbarium in which the plants were mounted accordingly
to Linnaeus and named. We then learned more about the favorite occupation
of the lad who tends the sheep and studies botany at the same time.
Through the labor of father and son several new species of plants have
been added to the flora of the country, some of them unknown elsewhere.
It was my pleasure on my return to send to these botanists a copy of the
last edition of _Gray’s Manual_ and I count among my choicest letters
from Iceland a reply from Kjartan Helgason to which was attached a rare
and beautiful gentian, _Gentiana campestris, L. var. Íslandica_.
The bedrooms to which we were assigned were models of neatness and
comfort. The eiderdown coverlets, everpresent, were encased in dainty
slips and the sheets were artistically embroidered. Embroidery is a
pastime on the farms and the industry of girls as well as the women has
produced many beautiful pieces that would be given places of honor in
the American guest room. Spinning, weaving, knitting are thriving arts
in Icelandic homes. The mill and dry goods stores have not driven these
delightful occupations from the homes. Delightful? Yes. When labor is
performed because of the joy it affords the laborer, then the product
is not only useful but it becomes a work of art. William Morris said,
“Art is the expression of a man’s joy in his work.” These Icelandic
works of art are made for the use of generations. They are not items
of common occurrence in the dry goods store, purchased to-day, worn out
to-morrow or thrown aside because your neighbor has found a different
pattern. Being individual work, no two are alike. Each works into the
fabric her own design and with the stitches go thought, care, accuracy
and the result is _art_. No better attraction could be placed in the show
window of our linen merchants than some of these tastefully embroidered
pillowslips, table covers or other fancy work.
The quality of the hospitality in these Icelandic homes is such as to
make the stranger feel as if he were at home and it is all done so
quietly and without any display. It is simply natural. Every where there
is perfect safety, on the long trail, in the village or on the lonely
farm. All one has he may leave exposed in the sheds for days without fear
of its being disturbed. Honesty is bred in the race. It is refreshing to
have no use for locks and to know that one can not lose anything unless
he deliberately casts it into a rift. Whatever one leaves behind him will
be forwarded and as Ólafur once said,—
“It is a matter of great pride if an Icelander finds anything to be able
to return it to the owner and he will make every effort to do this.”
The people deal honestly with each other and with the stranger. In former
days it was customary to entertain the traveller over night and accept
no payment. It is not so now and it is better as it is. Supplies must
be carried many days over mountains, across the rivers and always on
the backs of the ponies so that they are expensive. The Icelanders are
not rich, though many of them are quite comfortably situated, as is the
farmer at _Hruni_. Still, it is not right to take of their substance
simply because they feel it in their hearts to give it. In spite of the
payment for the lodging and the food, the traveller will always depart
knowing that he has received kindness, comfort and thoughtfulness for
which he can not pay.
The people are quiet in demeanor, often reserved before strangers, but
they are not morose and despondent as some writers have stated. They
thoroughly enjoy a good time, laugh and joke with the wittiest of people,
are fond of singing and have excellent voices. The tone of the voice is
soft, refined and pleasant to the ear. There are no dialects. They speak
as did their ancestors of twelve centuries ago and the accounts of these
people in their ancient Sagas in the main are true to day. Bad manners
in children I have never seen: in politeness they are models of a high
order. They are the children we have read about, those “that are seen and
not heard.” It is worth a cake of chocolate at any time just to see the
face of the child light up and have him shyly present his hand to the
giver in genuine gratitude. They are affectionate, obedient and watchful
for the welfare of the parents in their childish way. Often have I seen
a girl of ten or twelve wait upon the table, while the remainder of the
family were eating, quietly attending to all the duties at the right time
without a word of direction and doing it as well as a maid trained in the
service.
Outside of _Reykjavik_, throughout the country the women do not sit down
to eat with the men unless a woman is the guest. In all the homes where
we stayed, we never had the hostess sit at the table with us but once,
but the men often ate with us. This is an ancient custom of the race.
When the meal is over the guest rises and shakes hands with the host or
hostess and says “thanks for the meal” and the response is, “may it do
you good.”