HEKLA
“Irregularly huge, august, and high,
Mass piled on mass, and rock on ponderous rock,
In Alpine majesty,—its lofty brows
Sometimes dark frowning, and anon serene,
Wrapt now in clouds invisible and now
Glowing with golden sunshine.”
—_Anon._
Each day in Iceland brings new scenes. Each morning we found ourselves
asking,—“What will be the excitement to-day?” The surprises of the
landscape are innumerable. Though we were somewhat accustomed to the wild
and strange scenery, each ascent of a ridge, each turning of a mountain
angle presented surprising views. This is one of the charms of travel on
horseback through a roadless country. The variety of scenes that unfold
before the eye is as rich as the changes in New England weather. Day
after day in the saddle does not produce monotony, the unexpected lures
the traveller onward and when supper is over and he sits down upon some
commanding hillside of the farm to record the events of the day he is
prompted to write,—“This has been the best day of all.”
We turned southward from _Hruni_, forded the _Laxá_ and climbed the
sheep-pastured ridges that make a gridiron of the territory between the
_Laxá_ and the _Thjórsá_, Bull-River. The farms are widely scattered but
they have every appearance of rural prosperity. The grazing lands are
extensive, the grass abundant and such masses of flowers in bloom as we
trampled during these ten miles I have never seen beyond the influence
of cultivation. These pastures are rich in nutritious grass and thousands
of sheep and many ponies and cows are grazing on the hillsides. From
these slopes we look down upon the busy haying scenes in the _tún_,
strings of ponies laden with hay, a bundle on each side, guided by a
child from field to haystack, maidens with rakes turning the fragrant
grass, men and women swinging scythes to a merry tune which all are
singing,—these are the elements of the Arcadian picture.
At noon as we were working our way over a rough and deeply rutted plot of
meadow by the river, the pack horses, in disputing the right of priority
to one of the ditches, rubbed their packing cases together so vigorously
that the metal hangers of one of the saddles broke and it required an
hour of time and all the string and straps we could muster to enable us
to proceed. That night the farmer, in a little forge as primitive as that
of Tubal Cain, wrought new hangers. Nearly every farmer has one of these
little forges for repairing his instruments. When the shop is not in use
as a blacksmith’s shop it is often used for smoking meat and fish.
Soon after the accident we reached _Thjórsáholt_, Bull-Ridge. Here we had
our dinner upon the grass between the house and the river, the weather
being delightful. The _Thjórsá_ is broad and rapid and its waters are
icy cold. The farmer has a small boat and is required by the government
to act as ferryman. At the bank of the river, packing cases, saddles and
bridles were all piled in a heap into the shaky and leaking boat. We
drove the ponies into the water to swim to the other side. The two pack
horses fully understood what was expected of them and struck boldly into
the current. Some of the saddle ponies, after being swept down stream a
short distance, being chilled in the water, returned to the shore. We
drove them in again and this time they persevered. How I pitied them in
the cold water! The river is nearly a half mile wide, the current runs
so rapidly that it breaks into white water and it sweeps the ponies down
stream so rapidly that it seems impossible for their strength to endure
till they can reach the opposite shore. In the midstream the water swept
over their backs so that only their noses and ears were above the water.
When the last ones were half way over we followed in the boat, five of
us in number, and were swept rather than rowed in a diagonal line down
stream. When the ponies reached the opposite bank they rolled in the
sand, shook themselves dry and cut capers as if they were yet colts wild
and free in their mountain pastures with no experience of curb and strap.
Each day revealed some new accomplishment of these hardy beasts and this
day my admiration surpassed all previous experiences.
We were nearing _Hekla_, Hooded, so named from the hood of cloud that
nearly always caps the summit. Evidences of its ten centuries and more
of destruction were all around us in deserts of ash and sand, ruined
farms, once the finest in the land, fragments and masses of lava that
had been hurled fifteen and twenty miles in the many violent explosions
from the craters of the volcano and the changed water courses that had
been blocked by the flowing lava or choked by the drifting sand. In
single file the ponies waded through the fine red, yellow and black sand
and the dust kicked up by the troup literally obscured the leaders. The
wind sifted the fine, gritty material through every needle-hole in our
clothing; it filled our hair, blinded the eyes and produced miniature
mud-cakes in the mouth. An hour of this work satisfied us and we rejoiced
as we edged into a partly turfed section of the plain. Here the sheep
in scattered groups of three to fifteen marked the outskirts of the
grazing land and turning towards them we soon entered a long, narrow
strip of excellent grass land between two masses of the recent lava flow.
On approaching a farm we noted how the farmer had constructed a series
of wind-breaks of stone to keep the sifting sand from encroaching too
vigorously upon the mowing land. There is very little good turf in this
section for fence building and the barbed wire has been substituted.
How out of place it is in Iceland! It is ugly enough when hidden in the
brush of a back pasture in New England but when it stands out bare and
threatening above the green turf of an Icelandic meadow and supplants the
grass-grown walls of ancient days, which add so much to the charm of the
landscape, it is incongruous. There are several farms in the neighborhood
of _Hekla_ which are mere fragments of their former size and to traverse
the sand and lava debris of this section is to realize a little of the
terrible havoc the volcano has spread around its base.
At four in the afternoon we reached _Galtalaekur_, Boar-Brook, a poor
little farm, just a remnant of grass between the black lava and the
ash heaps where once a myriad acres of the choicest grazing lands in
Iceland supported a large population. The buildings are very old and are
strictly of the ancient type, consisting of a series of six stone and
turfed walled huts built side by side. Each hut has a gable in front, no
two of the same height, but the roof is rounded down to the ground at
the back. The eaves of the adjacent roofs coalesce and in the gutters
the flowers attain an abnormal development. There is no regularity as to
the size of the different sections of the house. Each portion appears to
have been added in times of increasing prosperity as needed and built in
proportions according to the increment of need. They have been so long
constructed that age, even in an Icelandic house, is showing itself
and as the building grew from one end, so now, from this same end is
it crumbling. The family are retreating from house to house and unless
better times come to this farm in the way of grass for cattle and sheep,
a few generations more will drive the family to the last enclosure and
then,—abandonment.
Let us enter the house. To do so we must stoop beneath the lintel and
step down into the passage which has walls of turf, yellow and centuries
dry, and an earth floor packed and worn by the trampling of unnumbered
generations. There is no light in the passage save what comes through the
open door and as we turn to our right, at right angles, blackness faces
us. Groping a little further a gleam of light locates a door at the right
which we open to enter the guest room. Here there is also evidence of
age. The room is well finished with Norway spruce and innocent of paint.
Age has given to the wood a dark rich brown which no paint can imitate or
equal in richness of color. A triple window lets in a flood of light for
there are no such unsanitary things as blinds and curtains. The windows
are after the Danish plan, split through the middle, hinged at the sides
and open outwards like American blinds. This is an excellent innovation
of recent years and is often the only method of ventilation. Wood houses
admit an abundance of air through unnumbered cracks and chinks in the
joining, especially if built for speculation, but walls of turf two to
three feet thick are proof against the slightest drafts. Miss Oswald
in 1880 described the windows as being set solidly into the walls with
no way to open. She felt the oppression of the foul air so much that
she often broke out a light of glass and paid for “the accident” in the
morning with an added apology. The influence of the medical officers in
their fight to decrease tuberculosis has produced the desired change in
window construction. I never found a guest room where the windows did
not open as above described. The furniture of this room consisted of
a bed three feet wide and the customary scantiness of length, a table
and several chairs, numerous boxes in which clothing and valuables are
stored, photographs in albums and in wire racks on the walls, and an
organ made in Brattleboro, Vermont. We found these organs in every home
save one during our two summers of travelling among the farms, no matter
how humble the home.
The music most in evidence is sacred with numerous selections from the
German and Italian masters and much of the minor lyrical music of the
Icelandic school. The people are fond of music and most of them are fine
singers, a few of them excellent. We will never forget the quartett and
the congregational singing in the Cathedral at _Reykjavik_ which we
heard a year later. There are numerous composers, the best known being
Sveinbjórn Sveinbjónsson, well known in the musical circles of Europe,
who now resides in Edinburgh, Scotland. A large amount of the music has
been composed for the love-songs, idyls and pastoral hymns written by
the local poets. The themes of the song writers are mostly pastoral, or,
they are an appreciation of the charming scenery which inspired such
writers as Jonas Hallgrimson and Matthias Jochumsson. The subtlety of the
Icelandic language does not permit of accurate translation of the fine
meaning into English. To illustrate one of these appreciations combined
with ardent love of country, I have rendered into English, without any
attempt at alliteration, one stanza from Jonas Hallgrimson,—
You know the land with smiling face
Which many blue-ridged mountains grace,
The song of swan on quiet stream
Where meads with joyous flowers teem,
The glacier’s broad and shining wall,
The glint of sea, the roar of fall,—
God’s blessing rest on thee, I pray,
Throughout the everlasting day.
There are songs of the meadow and the sheep-tending, of fishing and of
the hay-harvest, of returning spring and dying summer, of the happiness
of home-life, of sorrow and joy and love and the whole scale of human
emotions. In the midst of their poverty and toil they are a cheerful and
happy race, singing at their occupations or writing songs in the saddle
or at the sheep-tending. The children are taught to appreciate poetry
and to write it and the result is that nearly every one makes verses and
out of the many attempts there is much that is excellent. Much of the
poetry is spontaneous as in the _Saga_ days. The _Sagas_ are replete with
impromptu verses witty, ironical, boastful and descriptive. Thus _Kari_,
when _Skapti_ accuses him of “sneaking out of this atonement” after the
famous trial of 1112 at the _Althing_ for the burning of _Njal_, retorts,
in part,—
“Men who skim the main on sea stag
Well in this ye showed your sense,
Making game about the Burning,
Mocking Helgi, Grim and Njal;
Now the moor round rocky Swinestye,[4]
As men run and shake their shields,
With another grunt shall rattle
When this _Thing_ is past and gone.”
The great Icelandic poets have translated into the Icelandic many of
Shakespeare’s plays, the Iliad, _Odyssey_, Paradise Lost and scores
of the minor pieces of English and American poetry as well as the
masterpieces of German, French and Scandinavian literature. When we
learn that the rules for Icelandic poetry are strict, that not only rhyme
and rhythm but a complicated alliteration must be incorporated in the
verses, we can understand what a task these translators have had. There
are many variations of the alliteration. In the following is noted not
only simple alliteration but also that the _second hemistich begins with
the penultimate syllable of the first_. To illustrate note the following:—
_H_rein-tiörnum gledr _horna_
_Horn_ nair litt at thorna
Miöðr hegnir _b_ol _bargna_
_Brag_ningr scipa Fagnir.
Folk hömlo gefr _fram_la
_Fram_lyndr vidum gamla
Sas helldr fyrir skot _Skiölld_um.
_Skiölld_ungr hunangs ölldur.
“The king refreshes his warriors with the pure mead,—mead which
soothes the sorrows of man. The horns are seldom empty. The
aged and magnanimous monarch, who wields off the darts with his
shield, divides the honey-drink among his warriors.”
_Henderson._
The organ in this humble home suggested this digression. Supper over, let
us return to the farm. Down by the stream there is a diminutive grist
mill with hand-hewn stones fifteen inches in diameter and turned by a
most primitive water wheel. The mill never stops. The rye or barley,
imported from Europe, is placed in the hopper and ground whole. There is
no differentiation of the botanical parts as in America, where the live
stock get the nutritious portions and bread is made out of the remainder
because it is “white.” When the meal bucket at the house is empty the
maid goes down to the brook, removes the flour, refills the hopper and
thus in rotation for years, or until the mill must be repaired. To
appreciate this mill in all its simplicity one must see it. The stones
are placed on the upper end of a vertical shaft. At the lower end of
the shaft there are simply two paddle blades attached to turn the shaft
under the pressure of the water. Simple, but effective, always at work
and producing nutritious flour as long as the grains are added to the
miniature hopper.
After an inspection of the mill, the same as found on many farms, I
visited the mowers. They were at work with vigor, swinging the scythe
with a powerful stroke. This a mower does for about an hour when he
suddenly drops it in the swath, goes to the house for a bowl of _Skyr_,
curds, a cup of coffee or lounges on the ground to smoke or take snuff
with a companion in a similar degree of exhaustion. After an hour of
rest he returns to his scythe and thus from early morning till midnight
does he labor during the haying season. There are always some men and a
few women mowing but one can usually find two or three scythes deserted
by their users in the swath. I had an introduction to the crooked,
hand-blistering, ache-producing instrument of America in my tender years
which ripened into an acquaintance of great familiarity, which, true to
the proverb, bred contempt. I examined this Icelandic turf-parer not
without misgivings as to what I could do with so strange an implement.
The scythe is twenty inches long, straight and two and a half inches
wide. The blade is extremely thin and buckles and bends in contact with
the turf. The snath is the peculiar feature. It is made like a rake
handle and is six feet long, perfectly straight and attached to the
scythe at right angles. The nebs are unlike; that for the right hand is
like ours and similarly placed, that for the left is a straight strip
about eighteen inches long and is placed on the snath at right angles
and just below the shoulder, reaching down to the palm of the left hand.
At the end of this strip is a cross piece to fit the palm much like the
end of a canoe paddle. The end of the long snath protrudes over the left
shoulder.
The men quit their work and watched me with a quizzical expression as I
picked up one of these abandoned implements and swung it in the air once
or twice before venturing to set it into the grass, after the fashion of
a golfer before the drive. When the faces of the mowers had broken into
a smile, I knew that I must try it and into the grass it went with the
long steady swing of the old habit. After a few strokes I was cutting a
wide clean swath and paring to the turf so that the soil showed in the
approved Icelandic style. A middle aged man, who had been whetting his
scythe, struck in behind me close to my heels while the others stood to
watch the race. May I modestly state that my New Hampshire training had
not been in vain? I had counted upon the Icelandic custom of slashing
vigorously for a distance of about two rods and then stopping to use the
whetstone. If I could hold out that distance I knew that my honor would
be safe. I did. In his anxiety to mow me out he ran the whole length
of the blade into the tough turf and in pulling it out lost several
strokes, whereupon he decided to use the stone and I dropped the scythe
in the swath and stepped aside. The onlookers burst into a roar of
chaffing at their companion and rushed to shake my hand and pat me on
the back. On smooth ground I afterwards found that I could hold my own
with them but on the rough and hummocky land, which constitutes by far
the larger portion of the mowing, I could not cut over as much ground
as they. Seeing the thousands of adjacent hummocks the size of a wash
tub, covering acres of the best mowing land and caused by the heaving
of the turf under the influence of the frost, I understood the reason
for the shape of the Icelandic scythe snath. In this kind of mowing the
Icelander does not try to cut a straight swath. He mounts a hummock,
slashes the grass and a part of the turf from the hummocks around him,
mounts the decapitated hummocks and deftly shaves the sides and pares
the hollows. There are no stones in the mowing lands; scarcity of hay,
the necessity for getting all the short grass during the thousand years
of mowing has removed every trace of lava fragments. Whenever we arrived
at a farm I worked an hour or more with the haymakers in order to get
acquainted with the people and study their methods of work. After a half
day in one field the farmer told Johannes that I ought to stay in their
country, as I would make a good Icelander. This was after I had had
considerable experience with the scythe, the fine-toothed rake and the
_reipe_, rope, for binding hay for transportation.
Evidently no one had occupied the guest room at _Galtalaekur_ for some
time. When Icelanders arrive at a farm to stay over night they, according
to ancient custom, go to the _baðstofa_, sitting and sleeping room, where
all the people sleep. In early days _baðstofa_ signified “bathroom,”
but it has lost that meaning. Mrs. Russell had retired early in
anticipation of a hard day on _Hekla_. When I came in from the hayfield
she was sitting up in bed and laughing. On being asked the cause of the
merriment, she replied,—
“As soon as I had retired, three women came into the room on tip toe,
whispering and pointing to me. I feigned to be asleep and after some
hesitation two of them approached the bed and gazed at me a long time.
Then one of them quietly drew from between the coverlets several skirts
and other articles of wearing apparel. They went out and I heard them
giggling in the passage way. In a short time they came in again and this
time pulled out from under the bed enough dishes to set a table, and
several packages. Then they, thinking I was sound asleep, lifted up the
eider-down at the foot of the bed and drew out a big platter laden with
what I suppose was smoked fish.”
I had no sooner reached the room and was wondering where I was to sleep,
than these ladies came again bringing more eider-down covers and a
box. The box was placed at the end of a chest, a bed was made upon the
combination and I turned in to await an early call. But those two boxes
were possessed to separate and I found myself on the floor between them
in a smother of covers. I then made up my bed on the floor and in the
morning rearranged the boxes to give them the appearance of having been
used as intended. This I did on the following night. The people did the
best they could to be hospitable, served us excellent food and attended
to every thing possible for our comfort, even to removing our clothes
and boots during the night and cleaning them. True hospitality is in the
spirit of the service and not in the quantity or quality and this fact
must be recognized in order to do justice to these friendly people.
_Hekla_ was our goal. Across the noisy river, out of the folds of its
mantle of wrinkled lava ridges, rose the icy shoulders and hooded head
which we hoped to win this day. We engaged an additional guide at the
farm to go with Johannes and taking our best ponies, Michael Sunlocks
and Greba, we left the farm at six in the morning. This is early in
Iceland. From ten to one is the usual hour for beginning the ride of
the day. A short trot across the field brought us to the _Vestr-Rángá_,
West-Wrong-River. There is an Eastern as well as a Western “Wrong-River,”
so named because the eruptions of _Hekla_ have so often changed its
course. We passed close to the _tún_ of _Noefrhólt_, Clever-Stony-Ridge.
The stony ridge is there but why “clever” I can not surmise, unless the
people have been clever in dodging the big masses of rock that roll down
from the mountain. The buildings are close in under the steep lava wall
and there are hundreds of great stones around the buildings, any one of
which would have destroyed them, that have tumbled down from the mountain
wall. Many homes have been demolished in this country and people killed
by the rolling stones. This ridge is palagonitic conglomerate, the refuse
of preglacial eruptions. The term preglacial in Iceland means the same
as in other glaciated countries, but the geological time is much more
recent than in North America. More of this when we reach the glaciers.
We climbed the ridge beside a beautiful stream of water sluicing down
a grooved ledge and saw two pairs of Harlequin ducks, _Histrionicus
minutus_, swimming in the swift water. It is remarkable how these
swimmers can hold their position in such strong currents. The bluish-gray
plumage of the males slashed with bars of white and the dark brown dress
of the females made a pretty picture as the lively birds zigzagged in the
glistening stream. They were quite fearless and did not dive until we
were within ten feet of them.
Coming to a great quadrangular enclosure in the lava walls we stopped to
rest and to feed the ponies, as this is the last spot where grass can be
obtained. The great ridge to the right which is deep red and compact like
jasper is the lava of the recent eruption. It terminates in a fissure
in the mountain side far below the summit. The wall to the left turned
in front of us in a long sweep to join the base of the above mentioned
rift. From our position no egress appeared from this formidable _cul de
sac_ and we expected that the guides would leave the ponies here with
the ascent just begun and that we would have this tangled mass of lava
ropes to scale as best we could. A mile further on a twist in the flow,
where the viscid lava rose in a billow and broke back upon itself, we
found a precarious egress which the ponies negotiated with the agility
and sure-footedness of mountain sheep. We dodged about between the basalt
fragments and over the ash ridges rising higher and higher with every
turn. The travelling is somewhat dangerous in places, as I had occasion
to testify, the lava is full of cracks and holes and the lichens have
woven a treacherous carpet over this floor. High above loom the red walls
and the obsidian points bristling like a _cheval-de-frise_. We had not
yet reached the snow line but the fog hung low upon the shoulders of
the mountain and we despaired of even a momentary lifting of the mantle
should we gain the summit. We next came to an ash ridge so steep that we
dismounted and sometimes walking and sometimes riding we gained the top
of this ridge, an elevation of 2,000 feet above the sea. Descending into
a wild glen of chaotic fragments, like huge masses of broken glass, we
found a patch of level sand and here we left the ponies. We tied them in
pairs, the head of one to the tail of the other and here we left the poor
beasts without food or water till six at night to shiver in the blast.
_Hekla_ is situated thirty miles from the sea on the south shore of the
island. In clear weather it is easily seen from the Westman Islands
and is a fine spectacle as it lifts its silvery mass above the great
plain. It has two peaks, craters. From these peaks extend northeast and
southwest a ridge of lava fifteen miles each. This is the material that
has belched from these craters and more recently from the rifts deep
down in the side of the mountain. We made the ascent from the west. From
the eminence which we had gained we looked over the country traversed
during the past three days. The base and the middle slopes are composed
of contorted and tangled skeins of lava which flowed at different
periods, the more recent ones adapting themselves to the older ridges,
sometimes filling the gullies and overflowing, sometimes melting down
thin barriers or baking the ridges of ash and rubble into conglomerate,
which someone has aptly termed a “geological Irish stew.” The rolling,
spreading and twisting of these semi-fluid hot streams, the terrible
rough and punctured surface of the lava, the sharp and glass-like
angles, the pinnacles and crevasses are better imagined than described.
No adequate idea can be obtained till one has made the ascent, till one
has had many a fall, cut his hands upon the glass, scoured his boots on
the needlepoints, lost his breath and almost lost his temper,—till then
he will remain in ignorance of the true condition of _Hekla’s_ horrent
surface. Now and again a patch of loose sand or a pocket of snow gives
respite from the sharp and angular blocks that menace a cut with every
step.
The ridge where we left the ponies commands a grand view well worth
the ascent to this point, even though the traveller goes no further.
Most people who “make the ascent of _Hekla_” go no further than the
summit of this ridge, though it is only two-fifths of the elevation of
the mountain. We ate a portion of our lunch, cached the remainder in a
crevice under a rock, and picked our way as best we could over a tumbled
pile of bristling lava for half an hour when we arrived at the snow which
was in exceptionally good condition for walking. It lay in a narrow gulch
between two steep ridges of rock which extend up to the steepest portion
of the mountains. While we are making this easy portion of the climb let
us recount a bit of _Hekla’s_ history.
_Hekla_ is the greatest volcano in Iceland and in some respects the
greatest in the world. What makes a volcano great? Is it the area of the
base and its altitude? Is it the number of recorded eruptions? Is it the
number of people it has destroyed together with their flocks and herds?
Is it the space of territory devastated and the duration of any one or
any series of its eruptions? This volcano was doubtless active prior to
the settlement of the country as shown by the formation of its slopes,
but since 1004 there have been twenty-five recorded eruptions, each of a
serious nature to the country and destructive of life and property. Some
of these eruptions have lasted only a few days and several for months
and the one beginning in 1766 lasted two years. The great eruption was
in 1845 and lasted seven months. The shortest period between eruptions
was from 1294 to 1300, only six years, and previous to this eruption
the volcano had been quiet for seventy-two years. The longest period
was between the last two eruptions, 1768 to 1845, seventy-seven years
and this followed the long eruption of two years. The average period of
inactivity from 1004 to 1845 is thirty-two years. These figures do not
take into account the frequent flowing of lava from the rifts during the
periods of so-called inactivity. The following are the most memorable
eruptions,—
[5]1294 Eighth recorded eruption. There were violent and destructive
earthquakes throughout the country. Great rifts in the old lava plains
were opened. The rivers were covered with pumice and many of them
changed their courses. New hot springs came into existence and others
disappeared. There was great destruction of life and property.
1300 Ninth recorded eruption and following the short period of six
years of rest. This was one of the most violent on record. Ashes
covered hundreds of miles of the north country. There were many severe
earthquakes and the destruction of the grass and livestock produced a
famine with resulting heavy loss of life.
1436 Thirteenth recorded eruption. Many homesteads and much arable land
laid waste under a mantle of scorching ashes.
1510 Fifteenth recorded eruption. Enormous volumes of ash and pumice were
poured out and myriads of lava bombs were scattered for miles, which in
falling demolished houses and killed livestock and people.
1583 Sixteenth recorded eruption. This was excessive in its violence.
Thundering explosions were audible throughout the island and continued
for twelve days with great violence. Eighteen columns of flaming gases
issued from as many different vents in the mountain. Earthquakes
destroyed many farms and hundreds of the turf and stone dwellings were
demolished. There was a great loss of life.
1845 Twenty-fourth recorded eruption. It began on September second and
continued without cessation for seven months. The ashes rose miles in the
air and were carried by the wind to the Shetland Islands and to Norway.
During this eruption, it is estimated that 500 feet in altitude of the
top of the mountain was blown into fragments and hurled in places to
a distance of fifteen miles or more. Hot sand, ashes and scoriae were
ejected in a constant fountain from the crater and the mountain itself
opened lower down, and from this rift came the floods of lava that flowed
for seven months destroying everything in its path. It has been estimated
by the Danish survey that the mass of melted rock poured out, (not
counting sand, ash and scoriae), from this rent is 14,500,000 cubic feet.
1913 Twenty-fifth recorded eruption. At three in the morning of the
twenty-fifth of April, Friday, there was a violent earthquake shock in
the region of _Hekla_ and several houses fell, notably the ancient
one at _Galtalaekur_, to which special reference has been made in this
chapter. Heavy smoke poured from two sources and fine ashes fell between
the _Thjórsá_ and the _Hvitá_. On the thirtieth of April the lava spouted
over 1000 feet into the air and on the first of May a rift opened that
was over 600 feet in length. Moderate action continued until the eighth
of May. During the eighth and the ninth of May the action was violent and
the outflowing lava covered an area two miles in length by one in width.
_Krakatindr_ is a small peak on the eastern slope of the _Hekla_ field
and _Lambafell_, Lamb Mountain, is another in the same locality. Here the
eruption was central and in the last mentioned ridge the lava broke out
in ten distinct places. It must be remembered that the 1913 eruption of
_Hekla_ did not come from either of the summit craters, but from the foot
hills and buttresses of this mountain. It must be regarded as an eruption
of _Hekla_ when dealt with scientifically. The mass of lava, slag and
ashes on the summit of _Hekla_ will preclude any future activity within
the ancient craters; but, future action, like this of 1913, will take
place in rifts in the sides and at the foot of this volcano, since it is
in this lower crust that the mountain is weakest.
It was over the ruins of the 1845 eruption that we had travelled for
a day and it was those curled and solidified streams of bristling and
horrent lava over which we have been making our snail-like pace to
the summit. When we speak of a great volcano we unconsciously turn to
Vesuvius but this is because of its dramatic position in history and
because it has enjoyed more advertising than all other volcanoes in
the world. Because of the vineyards and the dense population upon its
slopes and the number of lives it has destroyed we thoughtlessly crown
it the king of volcanoes. Had the plains of _Hekla_ enjoyed the mild
climate of Naples they would have supported many times the population
within the radius of the influence of Vesuvius and the destruction of
life due to _Hekla’s_ eruption would have totaled an appalling figure.
Vesuvius was silent for long centuries prior to 79 A. D. then came its
ash and mud eruption, then for about fifteen centuries it was silent.
Since that time its activity has been largely spectacular. Lava rifts
where molten rock pours out continuously are beyond doubt the most
terrible forms of volcanic activity,—such has been the type of _Hekla_.
To answer the questions which introduced this topic,—the things that make
a volcano great are not the circumstances of men. Its greatness lies in
the number, violence, duration and character of the eruptions, in the
quantity of molten material forced out, in the mass of detritus ejected
from the crater and the power with which that material is vomited upon
the earth. If this definition of greatness is correct, then _Hekla_ is
the greatest volcano of recorded time. It has been little studied, never
systematically, on account of its remoteness.
At the upper end of the snow covered lava gulch we turned to the right
and the real snow climbing commenced. At this place the mountain has a
slope of forty-five degrees. The snow was hard, too hard in fact for
sure footing, almost ice, and we were forced to dig steps with our feet
to support us while making the next step. At the time we were on the
mountain there was an unusual amount of snow, which filled the cracks
and smoothed the angular projections of this upper portion. On the
steepest slopes the snow basely rewarded our confidence and gave us many
a backward and ignominious slide.
While we were fastening the ponies, the feasibility of Mrs. Russell’s
going further was questioned by Johannes.
“Madam will stay with me till the guide and your man return?”
“I am going to try the climb with Mr. Russell,” she replied.
“The lady go to the top of _Hekla_! If the lady go then Johannes will go,
but I fear the lady will not go far.”
When we were struggling up the steep snow slope, I made steps in advance
and Mrs. Russell, importuned by Johannes and weary with the toil was
ready to halt, if she had received the least encouragement from me.
“The lady can go no further,” said Johannes to me as he dug a hole in the
snow for a seat, “and you must not allow it.”
I replied, “she has travelled two days over a rough country, fording the
rivers and now she has almost won the cinder cone. She will always be
sorry in America to have to say that she got _nearly_ to the top and gave
up the struggle.” This I said, talking to Johannes but for the benefit of
“the lady.”
“Well, Johannes can go no further; Johannes is an old man and he has
pain in here,” placing his hand over his stomach, “the _skyr_ I ate this
morning was little and it not good to do _Hekla_-climb on.” So saying, he
dug his hole deeper and reclined in the snow while we pushed our way over
the remaining snow surface to the cinder cone.
Yes, Johannes was an old man and a faithful one. His action this day was
a fine bit of Icelandic courtesy and faithful service. Honestly he did
not think it wise for a woman to attempt the climb and being confident
that Mrs. Russell would not endure, he knew that my climb of the mountain
would be defeated if I had had to turn back with her, so he trudged
along manfully to be her companion when she ceased climbing and await
my return. When we were near enough to the summit so that it was evident
that “the lady” would win, he halted and veiled his whole earnest efforts
under the excuse of his weakness. He was a faithful man, constantly
anticipating our wants and always ready to exert himself for our comfort
and pleasure.
When we were on the glassy lava we wished we were on the snow slope,
when we were scaling and slipping on the snow we wished we were on the
lava. But what of the cinder cone! That was short but it was the worst of
all. We made the ascent on a narrow ridge like that of a roof. The loose
material rolled away and often took us backward with it. A false step
to either side of the ridge carried us down several yards and it became
a hand and foot scramble to regain the lost position on the ridge. Near
the very top if we had made a false step towards the right we would have
been precipitated several rods into the creeping rubble of multi-colored
cinders, if the false step had been to the left we would have fallen an
equal distance on to the snowbank in the rim of the crater.
During the last hour of the climb we were enveloped in clouds and as we
gained the summit snow was falling. A sudden change in the direction of
the wind swept the clouds from the top of the mountain and we had ten
minutes of clear sky which afforded time for two good photographs and a
quick view of the surrounding country. Mrs. Russell unfurled the flag
of the Arctic Club of America, the stars and stripes in the upper left
hand corner of an ice-green field. This flag had been presented to me for
this purpose by the late Rear Admiral W. S. Schley, then president of the
Arctic Club. We have every reason to believe that Mrs. Russell was the
first woman to gain this point and I know that it was the first time
that the stars and stripes ever floated from the summit of a volcano in
Iceland.
The reading of the thermometer at the summit was zero, Centigrade; the
reading of the aneroid barometer, carefully compared with the standard
at the station in _Reykjavik_ before starting and corrected by the same
instrument for the same hour when we returned, gave the elevation of
_Hekla_ as 5,050 feet. This is not a high mountain but it has features
peculiar to itself that render its ascent one of toil. Any person with
endurance and thoughtful care can make the ascent and no one who visits
Iceland, if at all interested in the topography of the country or in
volcanic formations, can afford to miss it.
I climbed down to the brink of the crater upon the snow shelf to view the
interior and to photograph the opposite wall. No ascent had been made
for four years and at that time the local guide stated that the crater
was full of snow and ice. This is the ash crater of 1845. The opening is
about 450 by 360 feet. When I looked into its depths on July 20, 1909,
there was no snow in the bottom and vapor was ascending. This vapor was
doubtless snow evaporation. Yet, there has been some heat radiation from
within to clear out this great cavity of ice and snow in four years.
Fifteen minutes walk along the ridge brings the traveller to the red
crater, which is about the same size as the other or northern crater but
unlike it the material is red with considerable sublimated sulfur.
_Hekla_ is by no means dead. Numerous earthquakes have occurred in its
vicinity within the past three years and a large area of the ice mantle
is reported as having slipped off in 1910. It is sixty-nine years since
the great eruption of 1845, which is more than twice the average period
of inactivity but it is nine years less than its longest period of rest.
An eruption may be expected at any time. The old volcano, in spite of
the slander which Burton heaps upon it, is worthy of scientific study
and before its next eruption a series of observations should be taken
similar to those made by Frank Perret on Vesuvius and other Mediterranean
volcanoes.
The view from _Hekla_ is superb. The eye is first arrested by the ridges
of lava, black, red, gray, horrent and ill-boding which extend down the
mountain slopes and bury themselves in the fertile soil of the distant
plains. Each of the two main ridges bisects a well watered section, once
fertile and now choked with sand. To the northwest, _Láng Jökull_ raises
its two score miles of ice-parapet, four hundred miles of unexplored
Iceland; to the northeast is spread out the vast expanse of mighty _Vatna
Jökull_, Mountain-Producing-Waters, an area of ice-covered tableland
one hundred miles by sixty; between these two glaciers and directly
north of us stands _Hofs Jökull_, _Hof_ signifying heathen-temple, it
is nearly circular and appears like the frosted dome of a mammoth cake.
Between the last two _Jökulls_, stretching away into the northeast, is
the _Sprengisandur_, Bursting-Sands, a mighty desert entirely void of
vegetation, a dreary, desolate tract, wind-driven and life-destroying.
Nearer, in the emerald plain flow the glacier-born rivers the _Thjórsá_
and the _Hvitá_ and a cloud of saffron sand floats in the air above the
desert which we crossed yesterday. We cannot see the travellers but
surely there is a train of horses there and the wind is lifting the
fine sand into the sun. Turn now to the southward, look down along the
tumbled chimneys and the red hornitos of _Hekla_ and the first object to
arrest the eye is the beautiful _Tindfjallajökull_, Peaked-Ice-Mountain,
with its two ice-horns resembling the Matterhorn, protruding from an
oval mound of lava and casting their blue shadows on the trackless
snow. Behind this mountain is the _Saga_ country of the South, the
home of the noble _Njal_ and the peerless _Gunnar_. There was the scene
of Iceland’s great Epic, Burnt Njal. Those ribbons of limpid silver
that branch from the base of _Goðalands Jökull_, Land-of-the-Gods, like
reins from the hand of a chariot driver, those are the many branches of
the _Markarfljót_, Boundary-Marking-River, pouring down its floods of
glacial waters and volcanic sands to choke the passage in an effort to
join _Heimaey_ to the mainland. Across the moors, the sheep ranges and
the marshes beyond, the North Atlantic, encircling the black masses of
the Westman Islands, wreathes those weathered pillars with garlands of
snow-white foam.
The descending clouds and the falling snow suddenly shut off the view,
but the camera of the eye has caught it all in a circling panorama and
the prints are stored in memory’s folder to be opened at leisure. The
infinite waste of the lava billows, grandeur rising from desolation, the
flash of the restless rivers, the quiet of the happy plain,—these are but
the halftones in Iceland’s matchless print.
The descent of the mountain was quickly made and without incident. The
slide down the semi-glacial cone was a matter of pure enjoyment. We
passed out of the snowstorm and the cloud at the base of the cinder pile
into perfect sunshine with all the loveliness of the western section to
gladden the eye. Johannes rested by his nap in the snow cradle joined us
in the sport of rolling lava blocks down the declivity. To roll stones
down a mountain slope, pitting one against another with equal chances
for winning the race, is a delightful pastime, but when the racecourse
is a bed of ice and the goal a distant lava ridge against which the
contestants dash themselves into powder one is apt to linger till the
last desirable stone has been turned. Many a slip and tumble added zest
to the descent, for each slide was so much gained and no ground could be
lost and we laughed at the brevity of the steps in the upward trail. We
were happy, having done one of the things which we had gone to Iceland to
attempt.
We found the ponies shivering in the circle of sand where we had left
them. In their desire to turn their heavy tails towards the wind for a
protection, each pony of the pair had walked around his tethered neighbor
till a well trodden path had been produced, a narrow circle out of which
they had not stepped. We ate a hasty lunch and mounted. Once down the
steep rubble hill, away they went at a gallop, literally at a break-neck
speed, for they were cold and hungry and longed for the grass by the
brook of the harlequin ducks. I came near to having my neck broken.
When we entered the amphitheater above described, I dismounted to take
a photograph. The ponies always travel in single file, nose to tail, no
matter how fast the pace. If one of them is held back he will whinner
and do his utmost to overtake the leaders. Under these conditions of
photographing I always thrust my left arm through the bridle rein. If the
ponies are together the rein may be thrown upon the ground, the ponies
will not stray but allow the riders to approach and remount without
their stirring. Sunlocks walked rapidly around me, a somewhat disturbing
element in photographing. When I remounted, the other ponies had passed
out of the amphitheater and beyond vision. Sunlocks was all impatience to
overtake them and I gave him a free rein for the wildest gallop I ever
experienced. He followed the trail of the others, tossing the lichens
from the resounding shell of lava at every leap. It happened in an
instant, a flash. I just remember of thinking, while I was in the air,
“Will he hit me with his hoofs?” Then all was a blank. I knew no more
till I felt his velvet nose rubbing over my face and his warm breath. How
long I lay there I do not know. The crust had broken under the plunging
blow of his fore-feet and as he went into the hole I shot over his head
down the slope. I landed on the side of my head, straining the cords of
my neck which were sore for months, in a bunch of sand and lichens, the
only spot in sight that was softer than the rock. Picking up the camera
case I remounted after several failures. How I finally accomplished it
and rode on I do not know. Half an hour afterwards I overtook the party
who had long been waiting and was sending Johannes back to look for me.
I was still in a dazed condition when I rode up to Mrs. Russell and when
she asked me the cause of the delay she states that I replied with this
question,—
“Is my head on straight?”
It was a narrow escape for horse and rider and I have never since ridden
the lava sheets at a gallop. Poor Michael Sunlocks! His fore-legs were
bruised and he was stiff and lame for several days. Why he stayed with me
in spite of his desire to overtake his mates I do not understand. It is a
trait of the Icelandic _hestr_. I have had several tumbles from my ponies
since that summer and at no time did any of them leave me. My friends
sometimes ask why I extol the Icelandic pony. My explanation is that
they are intelligent beyond the intelligence of other horses, the sole
dependent of the traveller in a roadless country and that one of them
gave up the impulse to join his companions in the grass patch when I was
in sore need.