KRISUVIK
… “Whose combustible
And fuel’d entrails thence conceiving fire,
Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds,
And leave a singéd bottom all involved
With stench and smoke.”
—_Milton._
From _Galtalaekur_ we turned towards the sea. All the long day we
traversed the sands of _Hekla_ and the bordering marshes. In the latter
there is an abundance of the sand reed, _Elymus arenarius_, growing to a
height of four feet or more with heavy panicles nodding in the wind. In
times of famine the seeds of this plant have often been ground and used
to make bread. Innumerable trails cross each other in these plains and
exact knowledge of the locality is necessary in order to avoid wandering.
We overtook a girl of fourteen on the back of a pony. To the tail of
the pony was tied a string of ponies, nose to tail in the Icelandic
fashion. Each pony carried two huge cans of milk, one on either side in
a bag suspended from a peg in the pack saddle. The girl made the long
ride to the creamery and back each day and alone. She, like the lad at
_Hruni_, was improving her time in study. As the ponies always walked to
avoid churning the milk, she had ample time to read. In ways like this
the youth of Iceland, deprived of modern educational advantages, employ
their time in study for the pleasure it gives. When study is a pleasure,
ignorance is baffled. The milk establishment being near our trail, we
entered it to compare it with the fine institutions of this character
in other lands. The comparison was wholly favorable to Iceland. Within
the building extreme cleanliness was manifest in the spotless floor, the
white aprons and caps of the dairy-maids and the glistening implements of
the industry. The Icelandic creamery is on a sound scientific basis and
conducted on a strictly coöperative plan. Modern machinery is employed
which is operated with water power. A laboratory opens out of the
weighing and sampling room and it is well equipped for expert testing.
The maid in charge showed us the lists of the coöperating farms, the
fat percentages and butter yields. The milk is received on the basis
of the yield of butter fats and the skim milk from the separators is
returned to the farmers. The butter is shipped in great casks to England
and successfully competes with the fine product of Denmark. In the best
grazing centers there are several of these creameries under the general
supervision of the Agricultural College.
Iceland could produce many more tons of choice butter from the abundance
of the nutritious grass which clothes the summer pastures, if the hay
crop were of sufficient quantity to warrant the keeping of extra cows
through the long winter. Grass grows in abundance but the low temperature
and the short summer prevent it from coming to full maturity so that
the home fields are cut long before the grass is ripe and often before
it forms the seed heads. Frequently it is only six inches high at the
time of cutting. Given a little warmer summer to produce more grass and
Iceland would become a flourishing dairy land.
[Illustration: _Favorite Ponies, Sunlocks and Greba._
_Mountains of Sulfur, Solfataras, at Krisuvik._]
These grassy plains border two places of historical importance in
Iceland. This is the margin of the _Njal Country_. At the foot of the
trifingered mountain in the fertile plains of the _Markarfljót_ is
_Hlíðarendi_, Grass-Slope, the home of _Gunnar_ of _Saga_ fame. In his
day _Hekla_ had wrought but little of the present desolation and the
land was rich in flocks and herds cared for by numerous thralls. The
ice-capped mountain rose behind the farm and towards the sea sloped
the productive meads. _Gunnar_ and his friend, _Kolskegg_, were exiled
for three winters for the part they had taken in a blood feud. As they
rode down to the _Lithe_ on their way to take ship to foreign shores,
_Gunnar’s_ horse stumbled and threw him. As he rose to his feet he looked
towards his pleasant home and exclaimed,—“Fair is the _Lithe_; so fair
that it has never seemed to me so fair; the corn fields are white to
harvest, and the home mead is mown; and now I will ride back home, and
will not fare abroad at all.”
If an outlawed man refused within the given time to go into the specified
exile, any one could slay him without breaking any law. This his enemies
took advantage of and during the following autumn killed him in his house.
Near at hand is _Oddi_, Point, as of land, made famous by the school of
_Saemund Sigfusson_, the Learned, a popular center of learning in the
ancient days of Icelandic glory. Here, also, in 1181 went the youthful
_Snorri Sturlason_ then only three years of age, into fostering. This
school was called the “highest-head-stead” which signifies that it was
not only the wealthiest in Iceland but the most renowned for scholarship.
_Snorri_ was an apt pupil, a brilliant scholar and one who delved deeply
into the old Latin manuscripts, long since lost, in the rich library at
_Oddi_. It was here that he acquired the knowledge of European history
which gave birth to his story of the Round World, _Heimskringla_, a story
of the Kings of Norway. _Snorri_ was the first pragmatic historian who
ever wrote in the Teutonic language. To him are indebted the German and
the English historians of later days, though they do not always take the
trouble to acknowledge it. Without his gleanings from that old library at
_Oddi_ many pages of history would be missing. That he was faithful we
may well believe when we note the following from his preface:—
“In this book have I let write tales told concerning those chiefs who
have borne sway in the Northlands, and spake the Danish tongue, even as
I have heard men of lore tell the same; and also certain of their lines
of kindred according as they have been taught to me. Some of this is
found in the Tales of Forefathers, wherein kings and other men of high
degree have traced their kin; but some is written after olden songs or
story-lays, which men have had for their joyance. Now though we wot not
surely the truth thereof, yet this we know for a truth, that men of lore
of old time have ever held such lore for truth.” Again,—
“Now it is the manner of scalds, (poets), to praise those most whom they
stand before while giving forth their song, but no one would dare to tell
the king himself deeds, which all who harkened, yea and himself withal,
wotted well were but windy talk and lying; for no praise would that be,
but mocking rather.”
At _Thjórsátún_, Farm of Bull-River, we found modern buildings
constructed of wood with many continental conveniences. The farmer,
_Ólafur Isleifsson_, had lived in Winnipeg about six years and had
returned to his native land with many western ideas. He spoke some
English and was glad to greet travellers from America. It was a relief to
find a bed of sufficient length to permit one to stretch at full length.
The food was cooked on a real iron stove and we were treated to a beef
steak, the first we had seen in the country. The salmon were fresh and
broiled to a turn, the coffee excellent as usual, and with rolls, cheese
and eggs we made a substantial meal, having been without food for ten
hours. It was a cool night and having a slight chill, I gave the hot
water bag to the host with the request that he fill it with hot water.
He looked at it with a peculiar expression as if wondering how it could
be used as a drinking vessel. On its return it was filled with ice-cold
water. As it is the Icelandic custom to bring drinking water to the guest
on retiring, the farmer evidently thought we preferred the rubber bag to
the customary glass bottle. Anticipating the luxury of the hot water and
promising with every shiver to restore quiet to my quivering limbs the
disappointment was keen. I had not the courage to call attention to his
mistake by asking a second time but replied as cheerfully as I could,
“_tak_,” thanks.
This farm is located on a high bank overlooking the broad expanse of
rolling lava and grass lands through which the canyon of the _Thjórsá_
extends. A fine suspension bridge spans the flood and the view of the
white water foaming down the rift is excellent. Beyond the river a good
road, the post road, leads all the way to _Eyrarbakki_, Beach-Bank.
The country is level and produces an abundance of grass. This section
contains nearly all the made roads in Iceland. When we passed we noticed
much activity in road construction and in the erection of telephone
lines. These roads will be of great value to the farmers in this section
who are just beginning to use carts with two wheels after transporting
their produce on the backs of ponies for about twelve hundred years. The
ponies do not enjoy the harness, but prefer the saddle. During these
days we met many ponies hauling telephone poles and grading material.
Every one of them had a dejected look much like that of a new convict. We
fancied that the saddle ponies, as they called to the prisoners in the
harness, realized the better condition of their own labor and that they
looked down upon the plodders in the thills, much as the chauffeur looks
upon the pedestrian as he envelopes that individual with dust. The made
road is not liked by the pony, accustomed to travel the crooked trails,
which in the lowlands are always soft, and he shuns the hard roads
whenever he can. The trails are much easier for the rider as there is
less pounding in the saddle. After a journey of a thousand miles on the
lowland and upland trails, the following summer our last day’s ride was
from _Thingvellir_ to _Reykjavik_ a distance of thirty-five miles over a
hard macadamed road, and it was the hardest day’s ride of the two summers.
We rode along the base of a lofty table land, a giant block of basalt
shaped like a mesa, which is called _Ingölfsfjall_, _Ingölf’s_-Mountain.
At the request of _Ingölfr_, who was the first real settler in Iceland,
he was buried at the top of this mountain. He said,—
“I wish to be buried there in order that I may behold my vast possessions
from its summit at the last day.”
The _fata Morgana_ tantalized us all the afternoon as we rode down
to the sea. The village of _Eyrarbakki_ loomed high above the level
plain and we were surprised at the extreme height of the houses until
they disappeared, all but the tops. Looming up into the vibrating air
and sinking into the sand they alternated with the shifting strata of
variously heated air. Late in the afternoon the objects on the shore
became fixed and real, like other houses in the country. We clattered up
the one street by the sea to the home of _Fru Eugenia Nielsin_. It is
the finest house in the village and a portion of it is over two hundred
years old. There are stone and turf houses in Iceland that are much
older but this one is constructed entirely of wood. The _Neilsins_ are
Danish merchants engaged in the wool and fish trade and importers of
general supplies for the farmers. We found _Fru Neilsin_ a delightful
hostess, who exerted herself to make our short stay one long to be
remembered with gratitude. Back of the house was an excellent garden
with some splendid potatoes; in front there was a well kept lawn, almost
English in character, and here we enjoyed croquet at eleven at night.
The village has a population of about three hundred people, mostly
engaged in fishing. I examined the lumber yard and noted a high grade of
Norway spruce. Although not a stick of timber grows in Iceland it can be
purchased at less than half the price asked in New England.
Within the house we found refinement and comfort, culture and
hospitality. As fortunes are reckoned in Iceland these people are
wealthy. The household furnishings are valuable for their antiquity and
the handicraft with which they were constructed. It is not the writer’s
intention to describe the furnishings of the different homes in which he
has been entertained nor to differentiate in degrees of hospitality. The
welcome and the entertainment were sincere and as cordially proffered in
the poorest hut in the mountains as in the more favored homes by the sea.
This being the only Danish home in the country where we were entertained,
justice demands that we make it clear to the reader that the modern
Dane is not lacking in the inborn hospitality of his ancient race. We
frequently found proof of this on the little Danish ships plying between
Iceland and Copenhagen and in Copenhagen itself. And so _Fru Neilsin_ set
her table with her finest service and her Icelandic kitchen maid produced
a dinner that night for two hungry travellers that would have done credit
to the chef of a first class hotel.
Entertainment has a different meaning to an American after he has
experienced it in Iceland. What would Americans think if two foreigners,
travel-soiled, unable to speak their language, should ride upon their
lawns, throw the bridle to the ground, and through an interpreter make
a request, much in the nature of a demand, for food and lodging? I fear
that in most cases they would be cooly invited to continue their journey.
Not so in Iceland. The stranger is taken to the best room, provided with
soap, towels and food. His riding habit is taken away to be cleaned and
returned in the morning when the morning cup of coffee and the cakes are
taken to the bed room. The breakfast, like the dinner, is of the best the
house can afford, the ponies are taken to the door, you pay the modest
reckoning and ride away conscious of a kindly and generous liberality.
The _Ölfusá_, as the lower end of the _Hvitá_ is called, is a mighty
river. It receives the waters of _Thingvallavatn_, the _Laxá_, the
_Túngufljót_, _Varmá_, Warm-River, and several other tributaries. At the
sea this lake narrows to half a mile by a projecting bank of sand. The
flood of water pours out this narrow channel at low tide with a strong
current. The water is icy cold and it is so laden with glacial clay
that it is still “_Hvitá_,” White River. At _Óseyri_, Beach-Mouth, we
obtained a boat and two local guides, who knew the river, to ferry us
across. We waited for low tide as it is impossible to swim the ponies
across this broad estuary at high tide. The boat was taken half a mile up
stream to allow for the drift of the current in crossing, the ponies were
stripped of saddles, bridles and packing cases and Johannes tied a cod
line around the lower jaw of each horse and left the lines about eight
feet long. All the luggage was placed in the bottom of the leaky boat
with the packing boxes at the bottom. We sat on the top of the baggage
and the two oarsmen, stout fellows, worked the boat into the stream.
Johannes handled the ponies in the following manner. He knelt in the
stern of the dory with four of the lines in each hand. The ponies hung
back for some time, as the cold and rapidly flowing water frightened
them. It required full five minutes of careful coaxing to bring them
into the water beyond their depth. This was a delicate bit of oar work
as the current tended to sweep the boat sideways towards the shore and
against the legs of the ponies. As the ponies were swept off their feet
and began to swim the current caught the boat sideways and it required
all the energy of the two oarsmen to back water sufficiently to relieve
the strain upon the towing lines and at the same time keep the boat
pointed across the stream. The tethers were kept sufficiently taut to
enable Johannes to keep their noses above the water and we now discovered
why Johannes had tied the cords around their jaws. He watched them with
care and as soon as one nose plunged below the water he gave that pony
his whole attention and with the strong cord pulled the pony’s nostrils
to the surface and held it there till it had blown out the water. One
after another, and sometimes two at a time, they succumbed to the cold
water and to the difficulty of swimming so closely together. Only one
of the eight swam the entire distance without sinking and this was the
fiery “Jog Joggensen,” my afternoon mount. Away we went down stream,
boat and horses together, the ponies checking the stern of the boat, the
current swinging the bow downwards, requiring the utmost exertion of the
oarsmen to point it towards the opposite shore. It seemed as if we would
be swept over the bar and out to sea before we could win the beach. To
add to the difficulty the boat leaked frightfully and held over a foot of
water by the time we landed. The plunging and snorting ponies, the wild
rush of the waters sweeping out of the estuary at low tide, the roar
of the breakers just below, the countless gulls and tern circling over
our heads, the rapidly sinking boat and the anxiety depicted on the face
of Johannes, made this anything but a pleasant crossing. Around us the
seal thrust their shining heads above the water, questioned with their
eyes our right to invade their ancient domain and dived to reappear on a
different quarter. The bow touched the sand, Johannes cast off the eight
lines, we jumped into the water and waded ashore and the ponies staggered
up the slope and lay down exhausted in the sand. They speedily recovered,
rolled repeatedly to dry themselves and we allowed them a brief rest
before resaddling.
When the boat touched land at the very verge of the breakers with the
sand streaming away from us as the waves crawled back into the sea, at
least one member of the party gave a sigh of relief. It has always been a
disputed point as to which one of us uttered that sigh. Many ponies have
been lost at this crossing by being swept out to sea. We were fortunate
in saving all of ours, but Johannes stated that he had lost several in
this tide race. As we lifted the packing cases out of the water in the
boat it was with grave fears as to the condition of the camera films, for
the water had filled all spaces within those cases.
At noon we arrived at a small farm under a high cliff at some distance
from the sea. It is called _Hlíðarendi_, (not to be confounded with
_Hlíðarendi_, the home of _Gunnar_), the usual Icelandic farm in an
unusual situation. The buildings stand at the back of an amphitheatre.
The surrounding cliffs are five hundred feet in elevation above the
buildings. At the base of the cliff three generous streams of water flow
out of the mountain. This is water that has sunk into the moorland near
the base of the distant mountains and has found a passage through the
cracked lava. Climbing to the top of the bluff I found an extensive
moorland where numerous sheep were grazing and hundreds of whimbrels and
plover. I spent two hours in stalking the plover with the camera. They
finally allowed me to approach within fifteen feet of them. In the winter
several hundreds of ptarmigan live upon this heath and the farmer shoots
them for the English market. They are shipped in a frozen condition and
are used in the London Clubs.
The view from the bluffs is extensive. At the foot of the cliffs lay
the _tún_ dotted with bundles of hay. Beyond the _tún_ extends a waste
of lava blocks and sand and then the sea, blue and surging. To the
north rises range above range of the barren volcanoes of _Reykjaness_,
Smoking Cape. I found the descent of the bluffs much more difficult than
the ascent. The cliffs are clothed with a rich carpet of grass and an
abundance of flowers in full bloom. Here the _Spiraea_ lifts its purple
spikes high above the grass, the dandelions and _Arnica_ sprinkle the
area with patches of bright yellow: beside the water pockets and embedded
in the sphagnum moss the orchids bloom profusely: wild geraniums fringe
the angular lava and many plants peculiar to this high latitude fill in
the remainder of the floral scheme.
Mrs. Russell had considerable labor in restoring order to the packing
cases and in spreading our clothes upon the rocks to dry. In the passage
of the _Ólfusá_, our cases filled with water though they were supposed
to be waterproof. The jog, jog, jog of the ponies had stirred up towels,
soap, bread, tobacco, camera films, cocoa, tea, note books and other
items and churned these ingredients into one common mass with salt water
better than it could have been done with any Yankee washing machine. This
was the reason we ended our journey at noon this day. The camera films
were uninjured as I had taken the precaution to place each film in a
metal box and seal it. These same boxes have since been around the world
with another traveller and did similar excellent service for him in the
jungles of India. All camera films taken to Iceland for transportation
on a pony should be soldered water proof. They are easily opened and the
empty tin will take the exposed film. This can may be securely sealed
against moisture by winding the joint with several turns of waterproof
tape.
I turned to the hayfield and finding an unused rake I went to work,
not that I needed the exercise after my climb of the bluffs, but that
I might have further excuse for observing the people at their work. I
have previously made several observations about the haying and the tools
but there remain other items of interest. The rake may be called a fine
toothed comb. It is made in the usual form of the American hand rake
with the exception of the teeth, which are from an inch to an inch and
a half in length and set closely together. They are whittled out of the
tough and crooked roots of the Arctic birch. This implement serves its
purpose admirably, for it gathers all the short fine hay. The Icelandic
scythe has been described, but it remains to mention an instrument not
used in America, the _reipe_, rope. This consists of two eyelets whittled
out of wood or more often fashioned from a ram’s horn. The eyelets are
connected with a rope a foot long. To each eyelet, and at right angles to
the connecting rope, there is attached another rope which is from twelve
to eighteen feet in length. In use these two ropes are laid in parallel
on the ground, the hay is heaped upon the center to a weight of eighty
to one hundred pounds. The eyelets are then brought up to the top of the
heap, the corresponding rope from the other side is then brought up to
its eyelet and passed through, the free ends are drawn taut by the force
of two men, a half hitch is taken in each, the ends are then turned at
right angles to their original position and passed round to the other
side of the bundle and fastened just as a box is tied in a store. Out of
the loose ends is fashioned a loop to hang the bundle on the pin of the
hay saddle. The bundle is then thoroughly combed out with the rake and it
is ready for transportation to the haystack. If it rains or if the hay
is not sufficiently cured, the bundle is left in the field. Hay makes
rapidly in these bundles and a long rain will not penetrate. Haying is
the only agricultural pursuit in the country. Each farmer keeps account
of the number of pony loads taken to the stacks each season. An average
crop for the country is about 1,800,000 pony loads which average one
hundred and ninety pounds per pony load. Of this hay 1,000,000 loads are
taken from the wild land, that is, from the land outside of the _tún_.
This wild land is the moorland, unfed patches in the pastures, islands,
bogs and meadows. The _tún_ is fertilized with the manure from the cow
stables. Each day this material is carried out on a stretcher by the milk
maids and piled in a heap. This material dries into a hard cake during
the summer. When the time comes for spreading it upon the _tún_ it is
broken up and the fragments are placed in a toothed hopper and ground.
There are hundreds of tons of this best of all fertilizers that go to
waste as the soil does not need it. If the soil could be sufficiently
warmed by the sun to produce garden crops Iceland would become a great
market garden for Europe as its soil is exceptionally rich and fertilizer
is abundant. Every farm has its potato patch and a bed of turnips in a
high walled enclosure near the buildings but the farmer raises only what
he needs for his own family. The ground is spaded and the potatoes are
planted in beds as we plant beets and lettuce. There may be ploughs,
mowing machines, pitchforks and hayracks in Iceland but I have never seen
them on any of the many farms I have visited. I have seen a photograph
purporting to be from Iceland which shows some of these instruments but
there are other items in the picture, such as the costumes of the people,
which prove that the negative was made in Sweden.
The ride along the sea coast to _Krisuvik_ is mostly a scramble over a
mass of lava which is strangely contorted and blistered. A mountain bluff
extends parallel with the coast line about a mile from the shore. Prior
to the settlement of the country an eruption of one of the volcanoes in
this region poured out a large volume of fluid lava which rolled over
this bluff in several places and then meandered in various directions.
During an entire day’s ride we saw but two houses, comfortless homes of
fishermen on a barren shore and far from neighbors. This is a bird shore.
Many thousands of sea birds nest in this rough country, far away from
sheep and dogs, in undisputed freedom, for they are seldom disturbed
by man. Oftentimes the ground for several square rods was literally
covered with them. When our trail led through these patches the old birds
resented our intrusion, swooped down and pecked at the horses and at our
clothing. We were forced to keep one hand in continual motion about our
heads to prevent being violently hit with their wings. Over my desk hangs
a quill pen made from the wing feather of the great black backed gull,
which I tore from this bird as it swooped against my arm.
We took lunch this day at _Stranda Kirkja_, Church-by-the-Strand, beside
a stream of brackish water which flowed from under the lava wall. It was
cool but unsatisfactory as a beverage. We found it too sour to drink. It
contained some acid, probably sulfuric, though I had no barium chlorid
with which to prove it. After lunch we forded the shallows at the mouth
of the nearly land-locked bay of _Vogsósar_, Whale-Mouth, and descended
to the shore over a billowy mass of ropy lava. Numerous tide pools were
scattered about and in them were countless eider duck with their young
as well as many other species. It is well for these birds and for the
people who gain a livelihood from their eggs, down and feathers that the
sportsman knows nothing of these breeding places and that the sound of
the shotgun never wakes the echoes of these basaltic cliffs.
We found our way by following a zigzag line of cairns. It was rough
travelling. Oftentimes the ponies were forced to raise their fore feet
to the edge of a block of stone or lava shelf and then spring to the
top like goats, again in descending these stone stairways they crouched
like a cat for a spring, carefully lowered one foot into a niche, placed
the other fore foot in a similar niche below it and then jumped to the
lower level. Never did they slip or make a false step, left to their own
guidance they picked the best places and brought us safely across a mass
of fractured lava that seemed impossible for them to traverse. Certainly
horses of other countries could not have accomplished this feat. Thus
climbing and descending, fording shallows and circling tide pools to the
annoyance of the birds we traversed ten miles of a wild and interesting
country, absolutely primaeval as far as any trace of man’s presence is
concerned save in the scattered cairns and the deep grooves of his horses
hoofs in the lava. In one place I measured a trail ten rods long across
the smooth ledge that had been worn to a depth of seven inches and a
width of eight inches by the tiny feet of the ponies during a thousand
years of travel along this shore.
Leaving the sea we climbed a ridge of slag and ash debris of brilliant
and variegated colors. Great masses of this material, shaped like ropes
of molasses candy that has been pulled, were scattered beside the trail
and mingled with thousands of volcanic bombs. From this summit we looked
across a green valley to _Eldborg_, Burning-Dome, and beyond to the
pleasant farm of _Krisuvik_.
We were comfortably housed and more than the usual attention was given
to our comfort. Here we met an old acquaintance of the _Laura_, M.
phil. Carl Küchler from Varel in Oldenberg, Germany. We had found him
a pleasant acquaintance, a man who had travelled widely in Iceland,
speaking the Icelandic and an author of several books in German upon
Iceland. We were pleased to renew the acquaintance. He has since been
decorated by the King of Denmark for the work he has done in Iceland.
The columns of steam rising from the hills beyond the meadow and the roar
of the escaping gases attracted our attention and it was with impatience
that we changed the riding habit for a lighter one and started across the
fields to examine the spot which Hooker in 1813 described as, “One of
the most awfully impressive scenes that the world can furnish, or even
imagination can conceive.” This is strong language. Had Hooker visited
the solfatara of _Krafla_ his description would have been of interest. We
shall see that _Krafla_ is intensely more interesting than _Krisuvik_.
It seemed but a short walk, a quarter of a mile at most, from the house
to the columns of steam belching from the side of the hill. Although we
were accustomed to the deceptive distances in this clear atmosphere, this
time we were thoroughly deluded. That walk of ten minutes lengthened into
one of an hour as the distance proved to be fully three miles. Crossing
the meadow we climbed a gentle slope of clay and sulfur to the very
edge of the solfatara. What a weird and impressive scene it is! Every
beauty of form and color, every horror of sound and odor are here united.
Unnumbered tons of sublimed sulfur are piled in banks and pyramids at
the base of the cliffs. Great pools of boiling bolus hiss, splutter
and stink. The air is foul with hot hydrogen sulfid and stifling with
sulfur dioxid. Wavering columns of steam render the walking dangerous
as oftentimes one can not see the place where he is about to set his
foot. We crunched through the beds of monoclinic crystals and frequently
slumped into them to the knee and when we pulled the leg from the hole
a new column of steam shot into the air. Geologists who have examined
this place have had unpleasant experiences because of approaching too
near to the centers of activity. Hooker states that “In endeavoring to
avoid one of these unpleasant gusts, (of steam), which threatened to
annoy me while I was gathering some specimens, I jumped up to my knees
in a semi-liquid mass of hot sulphur.” What a thing of beauty is a hole
in these warm sulfur needles! They are like needles, three to six inches
long and glisten with the purest amber glow. The viscid mass of clay and
mineral earths stick to the boots and it is often a task to withdraw the
feet from the clinging mess. The appearance of the surface is deceitful,
for often when it seems most secure the crust breaks and a spurt of hot
steam shoots up beside the leg in a very unpleasant manner. A thin hard
crust of sulfur often conceals a seething mass of the same material and
one literally walks, “_Perignes, suppositos cineri doloso_.”[6] Elevated
rims about the sizzling pools hold the viscid mass in place except when
a sudden eruption of steam causes the material to slop over the sides
of the basins in a frightful manner. Add to this the steam-filled air,
the moaning of the cauldrons, the roar of the escaping gases from a hole
high up in the side of the talus and the thought that the whole area may
collapse into the bowels of the earth or explode with volcanic force and
the mental situation is complete.
That vent in the cliff pours out its hot gases with such a force that it
sounds like the whistle of a locomotive and the sound is plainly audible
in the bedchamber three miles distant. Day after day and century after
century this safety valve has been sounding and it is sounding as we
write,—an awful sound to unaccustomed ears, a pleasant one to those who
live within the radius of this wide belt of volcanic activity, for it
signifies safety from violent eruption as long as the generating forces
beneath the surface are continually spent.
It has been estimated that there are no less than 250,000 tons of sulfur
in this place and it is constantly increasing by sublimation from below.
The hot area is on a line with hundreds of others of a like character,
active or temporally quiet, extending in a line from _Krisuvik_ to
_Thingvallavatn_, a distance of thirty miles. This line is also on
the main diagonal of volcanic activity extending from _Reykjaness_ to
_Mývatn_ in the northeast. Over five hundred square miles of the fire
peninsular is of recent volcanic origin and the subarea is highly heated.
Numerous hot springs abound, fumaroles are without number, earthquakes
are many, lava frequently issues from the fissures in the mountain sides
and there is evidently beneath the crust of earth another Phlegethon,
that flaming river of the under world in whose channel flowed flames
instead of water.
Around _Krisuvik_ there are many extinct craters filled with water.
_Gestavatn_, Guest-Lake, near the solfatara is of this character. It
is said to be without a bottom but this is because it is funnel-shaped
and very deep in the center, which marks the old volcanic tube. It is
strange that in the midst of this heated territory the waters of this
lake should be icy cold. It is a beautiful sheet of water, so deep and
so clear that it holds the reflected blue of the sky appearing now to
be a sheet of lapis lazuli and now a sapphire blaze. Around its margin
a rim of grass and flowers thrive but beyond the ring volcanic rubble
and patches of sulfur and clay displace the vegetation. At a greater
distance the brilliant surface of _Kleifavatn_, Cliff-Lake, reflects the
encircling bluffs and ragged gorges within whose recesses a small herd of
reindeer seek seclusion from the traveller. Down by the sea the _Eldborg_
stands, well worthy of inspection. It is a mound-shaped crater with very
thin walls. It would seem as if Pluto was sparing of his solid material
when he built this funnel, for he made it as frail as possible as if
in haste to pour out the molten matter in a flood upon the surrounding
plains. The shore side of the mountain is the home of countless puffin,
skua and other aquatic birds. Along the sands of the sea the seal bask
in the sunshine or crawl back to their element with the retreating tide.
Taken as a whole, the _Krisuvik_ region is a place of fascination, even
though one stands on the thin crust of sulfur that feebly supports him,
with fire and brimstone in incessant action beneath his feet and clouds
of stifling and vile smelling gases enveloping him and his ears are
closed to all other sounds by the thundering of the exploding steam. The
beauty of the lakes and fells, the peacefulness of the little farm and
the kindness of its owners make the traveller disposed to linger till the
margin of time between the present and the sailing of the steamer from
_Reykjavik_ has been reduced to a minimum.
It was a smiling Sunday morning when we reluctantly packed for the last
day of Icelandic travel and turned our faithful steeds towards their
home pastures for a much needed rest, little thinking that we would
return the following season for a more extended tour and then again on
the succeeding summer. On our way towards _Reykjavik_ we turned aside
for one more gaze at the alluring solfatara, for one more plunge into
the viscid sulfur, for one more sniff of its putrid air, then, swinging
around the shoulder of the smoking bluffs we wound our tortuous way to
the heights above, dismounted and looked down for the last time upon
that scene so fair and yet so terrible. Upon the rim of a great crater
we held the ponies by the bridle rein and silently absorbed the glories
of the panorama. Below,—thousands of tons of yellow sulfur sublimed in
Nature’s furnace sloped downward to the grassy fields awaiting the coming
of some genius of industry to transmute it into the precious metal,—from
the yellow mounds rose the never ending columns of odorous steam filling
the air with quivering spirals and vibrating with a weird incessant
roar,—beyond, the lazy sea in azure blue mirrored ten thousand waterfowl
on its burnished surface,—to the west, _Hengill_, arrests the eye, its
slopes wreathed in a hazy mantle of vapor issuing from the encircling
springs and fumaroles,—nearer, the deep cerulean waters of the crater
lakes, the home of the wild swan and golden-eyed duck, throw back the
smiles of heaven,—southwest, _Reykjavik_ stands white against the black
and ponderous cliffs of _Esja_,—southward, _Faxafjörðr_ cradles a hundred
sailing craft upon its bosom and beyond the fiord, great _Snaefells
Jökull_ projects its cone of sparkling ice six thousand feet where the
north Atlantic mingles with the icy waters of the Arctic Sea.
The ride of twenty-five miles to the capital city is over a series of
craters and across the _hraun_ to _Hafnarfjörðr_, Harbor-Fiord, thence
by an excellent road to _Reykjavik_. The crossing of the craters is of
considerable interest to the geologist. The narrow trail winds down the
rim, across the floor strewn with ash and scoriae then up the farther
side and thus on from crater to crater till the mountain side is reached
then down the mountain side by a winding, troublesome trail to the
valley. Here is met as wild a scene of desolation as is to be found in
the south of Iceland. The lava flowed over the valley in great billows
and out to the ocean. What a commotion that was when the fluid rock
slipped hissing into the icy sea, what volumes of steam filled the air,
what explosions in the cooling lava as the ocean checked its destructive
progress! The lava rises in mammoth blisters with numerous caves that
shelter the sheep in the autumn storms. Over all is spread a thin mantle
of lichens and within the crevices the Arctic willow and dwarf birch are
struggling to reclaim for vegetation this awful wilderness. A wilderness
it is, a desolation, a place where witches hung their devil’s cauldrons
and brewed their fiendish potions. So intense were their fires that their
pots were ruined and when they fled they left the curled and contorted
fragments to ensnare the feet of the orthodox traveller. The trail winds
down the sides of the cliffs and among the towering blocks in a dizzy
fashion. A portion of this territory is called _Sveiflaháls_, Rolling
Hills, that is, an undulating mass of lava. On the right rise huge cliffs
that have been frost-shattered and at the foot of the narrow ravines that
embouche into the plain huge fans of multi-colored rubble are spread
above the crumpled rock. From their coverts in the crevices and from
within the little caves spring the ptarmigan while the whimbrel’s call
is ceaseless from the undulating hillocks. No grass grows here, no sheep
scurry before the traveller and not till the _Kaldá_, Cold-River, is
reached is there anything for the ponies to eat. This is a delightful
place to lunch, this grass grown mound within the river, a tiny
island in the midst of ice-cold and sparkling water. The river itself
is a natural curiosity, as it rises in several springs from under the
mountain, like those at _Hlíðarendi_, flows merrily for two miles and
then plunges into a rift to be lost forever, unless it has an underground
passage to the sea.
_Hafnarfjörðr_ is a prosperous trading village with a good harbor, a high
school and many excellent homes. It contains one house reported to have
been built by _Snorri Sturlasson_. As he was born in 1178 this house is
of great age and worthy of a visit. It was doubtless built as reported,
for tradition in Iceland is not like Virgil’s Fame, it is truth. The
road from this village to _Reykjavik_ is of the best construction and
one must admire the skill of the engineer as the pony canters around the
curves, ascends the gentle grades and skirts the numerous small inlets of
the sea. Many of these tiny bays indent the land, hundreds of piles of
peat are drying in the August wind, sheep and cattle are scattered over
the upland slopes, the late summer flowers are in full bloom, the tiny
fishing craft are rocking on the shimmering sea and the wash of the water
in the lava pebbles on the strand adds music to enhance the pleasure of
this seaside ride. Out of the austerity of the volcanic passes, into
the quiet and serenity of the uncharred meadows, comes the rider, and
the load of grandeur and sublimity is lifted that beauty and charm may
soothe the mind after the contemplation of these natural creations that
astonish and awe. This is the pleasure road of Icelandic youth and those
gentlemen who wish to display the points of the latest saddle pony from
the great horse fairs of the north. If one has formed the impression that
Icelanders are sedate and morose and never given to enjoyment that breeds
laughter, he should travel this road on Sunday when it is thronged with
country folk and city dwellers alike. Gay groups are here and there,
songs that are merry from throats that are attuned fill the air, and
seated upon a jutting rock are two young people reciting to each other
in this softened light that age-old story, that sweetest of all stories,
love. This seaside drive is to the people of _Reykjavik_ what Riverside
Drive is to the people of New York City.
One afternoon in _Reykjavik_ we entered the shop of a fish merchant and
engaged a boat with two men to row us across the harbor to _Engey_,
Meadow-Island, a few miles from the city. The price agreed upon was
three _kronur_, about seventy-nine cents. We were absent seven hours.
The boatmen were so considerate of our pleasure that on the return to
the wharf I handed to each a _krone_, then went to the shop of the
merchant and paid the three _kronur_ as agreed. The following afternoon
this gentleman met me in the street. He had an interpreter with him who
accosted me as follows:—
“Are you the gentleman who engaged my boat to go to _Engey_ yesterday?”
I replied that I was.
“Did you not agree with me for three _kronur_?”
“I did. Did I not go to your shop on my return and pay you?”
“Yes,” he replied, “but on landing you gave to each of the boatmen a
_krone_, you then paid me three _kronur_. The men left the money at the
office last night. You have overpaid me two _kronur_ and I have come to
return them.”
With this statement he handed to me two _kronur_ which I was obliged
to accept. This incident taught me that there is one country in Europe
where a man makes a price, expects you to pay it and neither expects nor
desires any tip. Is there any other place in Europe or in the United
States in which hotel servants, railway porters or cabmen would turn
their tips over to their employer at night? But, if such a condition can
be found, where is the hotel manager, railway official or stable owner
who would search the next day to return a tip to the man who dared to
give it? Tipping is a violation of a contract; in Iceland contracts are
inviolate.
_Engey_ is a delightful place, if one is interested in the eider duck.
They breed in thousands on this and the neighboring island of _Viðey_,
Wide-Island. The birds are tame and will allow one to stroke their
feathers or lift them from their nests. The birds are protected for their
down which is a large item of export from Iceland. When building their
nests the birds pluck the down from their breasts to line the nests; when
these are well lined the owner of the land robs the nests; the birds then
repluck their breasts and again the nests are robbed. For the third time
they pluck their breasts and are not disturbed till after the eggs hatch,
when the remaining down is taken. It is interesting to note that every
crevice and every space under a bunch of grass or the edge of the turf is
occupied with the birds. One must walk with caution so as not to step on
them. Down by the water the earliest hatched sport in the pools while the
mother sits quietly by with one or two of the puffy balls perched upon
her back. Above, the tern, _Kria_, so named in imitation of their cry,
dart close to the nests and in a threatening manner also at the people
who intrude, uttering their loud cries of _kria, kria, kria_.
Late in August we embarked in the little mail boat, the _Ceres_, homeward
bound for Copenhagen. I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Edward Newton of
London, a fellow traveller some years before in Labrador. When we parted
in Halifax we had never expected to meet again. But here we were in a
remote corner of the world, relating old trials and comparing notes of
our Icelandic experiences. It was a quiet Sunday evening and many small
boats hovered around the _Ceres_ to bid her farewell as she hoisted her
anchor and steamed down the glassy fiord. There were feelings of deep
regret in departing from these shores where preconceived ideas had been
so pleasantly upset by what we had seen and felt. We were leaving an
island, remarkable for its physical characteristics, astonishing for its
contrasts, differing greatly from every other spot on the globe. That
which had chiefly attached us to Iceland was the display of integrity
and moral worth, the high intellectual attainments and the sincere
friendliness of its people.
ICELAND REVISITED
O cordial Iceland! Isle of charm!
Where one may roam secure from harm,
Where honest, kindly people toil
On heaving sea or barren soil;
Where welcome hand and open door
Greet ev’ry stranger to thy shore;
O charming isle! O lava land!
Once more I tread thy witching strand.
O lava land! O land of light!
Where summer brings no shade of night,
Thy ice-capped Jökuls shining far
Like prismic ray of distant star;
Thy trackless wastes of heath and sand,
Thy basalt ridges, grim and grand,
O land of frost! O land of fire!
Thy charm hath filled my soul’s desire.
O land of darkness! Land of night!
Where winter sheds no ray of light,
Where Arctic storms beat on thy shore
And snows lie deep on berg and moor,
In humble homes thy people rest
Content with life, serene and blest.
O land of night! O Arctic land!
May Storm-king rule with gentle hand.
O glacier land! O land of steam!
Where chasms yawn and waters gleam,
Thy noxious gases whistle shrill
From red-hot cliffs in ice-clad hill;
Thy horrent lava spreading o’er
The fertile, grazing meads of yore.
O land of geysers! Land of snow!
May Vulcan stay the powers below.
O isle of poets! Isle of song!
Whose lines thy early deeds prolong,
Thy Sagas filled with pagan strife,
With blood for blood and life for life,
’Till came the Cross with Christian sway
To rule the isle in gentler way.
O isle of story! Snorri’s isle!
Long may the Muses on thee smile.
O land of light! O lava land!
Where sturdy Vikings took their stand,
To brave the storm-tossed Arctic main,
To burst the links of Harald’s chain,
To found a nation, strong and free,
Whose basal bond is Liberty.
O land of heroes! Land of lure!
God grant your freedom may endure.
—_W. S. C. R._