MÝVATN
“The lands are there sun-gilded at the hour
When other lands are silvered by the moon,—
The midnight hour, when down the sun doth pour
A blaze of light, as elsewhere at the noon.”
—_Anon._
Ólafur Eyvindsson had crossed the country from _Reykjavik_ by way of the
western dales with a train of eight ponies. The packing boxes, saddles
and provisions had been forwarded by the coast steamer, so that when we
landed from the _Botnia_, thanks to the faithfulness of Helgi Zoëga,
everything was in readiness for our departure. At one in the afternoon
we entered a launch and crossed the broad _Eyjarförðr_. On the beach
we found a farmer with ponies saddled and waiting for our departure to
_Mývatn_, Midge-Lake. Ólafur had taken the precaution to drive the ponies
around the upper end of the fiord and across the marshes at low tide the
previous evening for pasturage as grass is scarce in _Akureyri_ and the
charges are excessive.
We left the bulk of our provisions at the house of the farmer, since we
would not require them in the region we were about to visit and it was
necessary to return to _Akureyri_ to set out upon our long journey across
the country. We ascended the bluff and turned northwards to climb the
mountain along a diagonal.
[Illustration: _Goðafoss, the Icelandic Niagara, on the Skjalfandafljöt._
_Island Craters in the Mývatn from Skútustaðir._]
Once more in the saddle, with the length of the summer and the width of
Iceland between us and the steamer that would bear us from _Reykjavik_
to Denmark. Our trip up the east coast and the stops at the trading
posts had been pleasant and full of interest but the real work, and the
enjoyment that is born of it, was before us. It was with a spirit of
exultation that we turned the ponies into the narrow trail that winds up
the mountain side and, after a year of absence, felt the motion of our
little steeds. Step by step we climbed the gradient; little by little the
fiord below narrowed and lengthened; the sounds of the fishermen and the
bustle of the shipping diminished and finally disappeared altogether.
The mountain rose in a wild tumble of treeless ridges and ice-crowned
escarpments, scored with shining glaciers and coursed by numberless
waterfalls and trickling rivulets that resolved the great silence into
a musical cadence. We “knew the land of smiling face,” we understood
from experience that there were bridgeless and troublesome rivers to
cross, morasses to negotiate or in which to founder, smoking solfataras
and trackless wastes of lava, deserts of sand and glacial moraines to
cross between the northern and southern coasts. But the spell of Viking
Land was upon us and we realized that for the summer it was all our
own,—free to anyone who would take the trouble to explore,—to roam when
and where we willed, unfettered by time tables, with no porters, cabbies
nor waiters to break the spell, no fences to obstruct, no “trespass
forbidden” to turn us aside, no man to say us nay. The roar of the
locomotive and the purr of the motor had been left far behind as also
the jostling of ubiquitous tourists with their satellites the guides.
A day of delight in the saddle was to be followed each day by a better
one: an evening welcome at a humble farm and a heartfelt God-speed in
the morning. Our only limitation, the ponies. These promised well at the
start. They had been carefully chosen and at the end of the long and
difficult journey proved their worth.
The ascent of _Vaðlaheiði_, Wade-Heath, in sunshine is one of the best
rides in Iceland. The long fiord opens out to the Arctic Ocean at our
feet and the distant _Jökulls_ rise into prominence with diadems of ice
upon their brows. The pastures on the lower slopes stud the valley with
gems of emerald. Nearing the summit we came upon the unmelted snows of
winter, which were crusted sufficiently to support the horses. Here we
found a company of men laboriously dragging telephone poles to the summit
to repair the damage of the winter storms. At an elevation of 2,300 feet
above the fiord we reached a flat moorland which slopes gently, at first,
towards the east. We paused to bait the ponies and stretched ourselves at
length on a mound of Arctic flowers and gazed across the valley to the
_Vindheima Jökull_, Home of the Winds.
We followed a zigzag line of cairns down towards the valley of the
_Fnjóská_, Touch-Wood-River. The view of this valley with the broad,
swift river flowing in a long series of S-curves, the enormous mounds of
volcanic ash fantastically sculptured by the wind, the little farm by
the river where we refreshed ourselves with real cream and the forest of
diminutive birch on the opposite bank of the river, these will never be
forgotten. To one accustomed to seeing the joyous meadows of Iceland in
undulating reaches of emerald green sprinkled with brilliant flowers, the
tangled heaths of the uplands where roam uncounted sheep and half-wild
ponies and the barren slopes of the foot hills of the volcanic ranges, as
viewed from any descending trail,—this prospect is extremely pleasing. It
must be remembered that there are no real forests in Iceland. Henderson,
writing in 1817, says,—
“About a hundred years ago the valley exhibited one of the finest forests
in Iceland, but now there is not a single tree to be seen,—such has been
the havoc made by the inclemency of the seasons and the improvident
conduct of the inhabitants. The remains of this forest are still visible
on the east side of the river, which divides the valley, in the numerous
stumps of birch trees which present themselves, some of which exceed two
feet in diameter.”
That there were large forests in the ancient days we have plenty of
evidence in the numerous references in the _Sagas_. In the thirty-sixth
chapter of _Burnt Njál_ we read:—
“There was a man named Swart, Bergthora’s house-carle. Now Bergthora told
him that he must go up into Redslip and hew wood; I will get men to draw
home the wood.”
There is further evidence that the wood was large enough so that it
was hewn for ship-building and for houses. Since Henderson’s day, the
_Fnjóská_ forest has sprouted and grown to a considerable size. The
trees are four to eight feet high and mostly of birch. There are several
of these birch forests in Iceland and the government not only protects
them but provides a trained forester to study the local problems of
forestation. Though not large enough for timber yet the birch has a
definite value for the people. The branches and brush are used to lay
between the layers of fuel while drying and the larger pieces are used to
make plaiting on the roofs over which turf is laid. The tough birch also
lends itself well to the making of rakes and other implements upon the
farm.
Until quite recently the passage of the _Fnjóská_ was most difficult and
we were agreeably surprised to find a reinforced concrete bridge spanning
the flood. What a task was its construction! The cement and steel had
to be transported over the mountain by the ponies from _Akureyri_ but
a great mistake was made in its width. It is suitable for horseback
crossing but will not permit the passage of even a two-wheel cart of
short axle, such as is being introduced upon some of the farms. The
building of these bridges is doing much to bring the remote farms into
closer relationship.
Crossing a waste of wind-driven sand and ashes we arrived at the
parsonage of _Háls_, Ridge, a farm of great antiquity. For many centuries
it has been the resting place for travellers across the mountains from
_Akureyri_ to the east. Even in _Saga_ days, when farers from over the
seas drew up their ships in the fiord for the winter and journeyed
eastward for “guesting” they made use of this place for refreshment. We
did not call as we hoped to reach another farm at the far end of the lake
by evening.
The descent of the ridge into the upper end of the valley is pleasing
because of the varied scenery. At the foot of the hill we crossed a bog
and forded a small stream; the bog was difficult on account of recent
rain and the ponies moved with greatest caution. When we reached solid
ground we halted to graze the ponies and to examine the rich flora of the
locality. As we mounted a party of Englishmen whirled by at a furious
gallop. This gave us some concern as we knew that the farm towards
which we were making our way had accommodations for only one party and
it looked as if they intended to be the party. We learned later that
they turned towards the north in search of a coal deposit, which it is
needless to say they did not find.
_Ljósavatnsskarð_, Lake-of-Light-Pass, is a narrow valley, a watershed.
The stream that tumbles down the gorge from the mountains divides into
two arms, one flows eastward into the lake and the other westward into
the _Fnjóská_. The ride down towards the lake is one continual crossing
of small streams that rush down the snow gullies. From the pass to the
margin of the lake we crossed, by actual count, fifty-three of these
white streams during a ride of two hours.
_Ljósavatn_, Lake-of-Light, will ever remain one of the brightest
memory pictures of Icelandic scenery. The lake is long and narrow,
the mountains descend abruptly on either side. The tumbling cascades,
the many sheep upon the green ridges between the cataracts, the cattle
grazing eye-deep in the lush grass along the shore, the numerous water
fowl, where many a
“Stately drake, led forth his fleet upon the lake,”
the spectrum colors in the lava cliffs, the bands of cloud that hang
perpetually over the narrow notch,—with clouds, colors, waterfalls and
crags mirrored in the burnished surface,—formed a picture framed in the
dark outlines of the mountains that caused us to dismount and for an hour
held our close attention.
At evening we reached the _Djúpá_, Deep-River, well named. This stream
has carved a gorge through a mass of old craters and heaps of volcanic
ash. Under the influence of several days of continual sunshine the snows
had been rapidly melting. We spent an hour in a fruitless search for a
suitable ford and then drove the pack ponies into the torrent to swim
across and composed ourselves for a good wetting in the icy water. We
drew our knees above the necks of the ponies, seized the crupper strap
with the left hand, turned the ponies up stream and made the crossing
without serious mishap. A portion of the way the ponies were obliged to
swim and the rapid current carried them far down stream. Thanks to the
sagacity of the little fellows and to their perseverance, we escaped
without getting wet, although our precarious position, balanced as we
were on the top of the saddles, promised to topple us into the angry
waters. The pack horses swam the stream with the packing cases partly
submerged. Within an hour we were made comfortable in the tidy farmhouse
at _Ljósavatn_ and the contents of the cases were spread in the kitchen
to dry. The house is large and comfortable and two beds were prepared for
us upstairs, an unusual condition as the guest room is usually on the
ground floor. We had only one inconvenience,—the telephone is located
in the guest chamber. Beside the house there is a small church where
the farmers and their families assemble on Sunday, some of them from a
considerable distance.
On the Sabbath all work ceases in Iceland, unless approaching rain makes
it imperative that the cured hay be taken to the stacks. The people array
themselves in their best attire and ride to church at a wild gallop, each
on his favorite pony. The small children ride with their parents and the
young people from the different farms so time their journey as to meet at
the intersecting bridle paths and relate the news of the past week. On
they ride, an ever increasing cavalcade, over moor and mountain ridge,
across brook and farm till the parish has assembled at the church. The
ponies are hobbled or turned into a compound and their riders have an
hour for gossip before the service begins. The aged sit upon the grass
and exchange snuff—a universal custom in Iceland,—and eagerly report
the gossip that has filtered to the distant farms from the coast. The
young meet in the church yard and many a pledge is here given that binds
them together till the turf of the same yard receives beneath its floral
decorations one of the faithful pair. The women hasten to the parsonage
to don their best gown and arrange their braids and the silk tassel of
the _húfa_, woman’s cap. Finally arrives the pastor at the church, who
greets all the people individually, arrays himself in his accustomed
robes and then with the ringing of the bell the service begins. The
sermon is generally read from manuscript, after which the Holy Communion
is celebrated frequently followed by a christening. The service ended,
the people usually assemble at a near-by house for coffee and further
conversation after which the parties go their several ways. The young
men attempt to show the speed of their ponies in short spurts that would
do credit to a western cow-boy, each trying to outstrip the other. The
maidens follow demurely and the old people ride away last of all in a
quiet manner. How well they know from experience that as soon as their
sons are out of sight that they will rein down those galloping steeds and
hold them until the maidens overtake them. Then Sigurð and Karin, side by
side, will wend their leisurely way to Karin’s home just like the young
couples of other lands. The merry greetings and the cheerful partings at
the church yard have ceased to fill the air and only the wind stirs the
long grass upon the roof and sways the flowers upon the graves.
No pack trains come and go, no hay-laden ponies wind up from the meadows,
no scythe rings with the stone,—the sounds of farm-life are hushed and
the peace of the well-kept Sabbath rests upon these homes. Sunday evening
calls are made and long ones they are, coffee is served with delicious
cakes, the snuff horn circulates freely and in the compound the saddled
ponies patiently await the coming of their masters for the wild ride over
the moors to their own pastures.
I have witnessed many Sundays in Iceland and each one impressed me with
the peace and happiness of its people, the devotion of worship and the
value of the plain and simple life as a factor in contentment. To the
young men who enquired about the customs of America and its advantages
I had little to offer and my advice was to stay where the customs of
centuries had ingrained habits of simplicity and instilled contentment.
After all, what more do we wish in this world than contentment? Given
enough to eat and to wear, protecting shelters, books and an occupation,
the influence of right living and an absence of the craving for money
and position, and man may be truly happy,—no matter under what sky his
tent is pitched. In _Reykjavik_ with its sprinkling of foreign merchants
and its few people who ape the customs of the continent in dress and in
vice, yes and in idleness the mother of most of the vices, conditions are
different. As in America, so in Iceland, the boy, who leaves the paternal
roof and the occupation of his ancestors, who scorns the opportunities
of the farm and seeks his fortune in the metropolis, soon puts aside his
home-taught virtues, lapses into ways of idleness, acquires the idea that
the world owes him the same living as that won by the ceaseless energy of
toil, and it is not long before he becomes a derelict upon the ocean of
humanity.
At breakfast we were treated for the first time in our Icelandic
experience to the national dish of skyr, curdled milk. My first
experience was not pleasant but I have since learned to relish it. It
was necessary to eat a goodly portion of it in order not to offend the
mistress who had taken considerable trouble to prepare it for us in the
best fashion. _Skyr_ has been a national dish from the earliest days of
the _Vikings_ but the method of its preparation has been kept secret. On
our second return from Iceland we were accompanied by an Icelandic maid,
who frequently prepared for our table Icelandic dishes, but we could
never persuade her to prepare this dish nor to tell us how it was made.
Another dish set before us was cheese made of sheep’s milk; it was nearly
chocolate in color and resembled mild roquefort in flavor. I needed no
repeated trials to acquire a taste for this delicacy. It was set before
us at every farm but it varied a good deal in quality. If one does not
relish a rich, full-flavored cheese then the Icelandic cheese of sheep’s
milk would not appeal to his taste.
The country around _Ljósavatn_ is of considerable geological interest.
The lake is of glacial origin and around it are several small drumlins
of ashes and rubble which are now being transformed into conglomerate.
The lake has the form of the Scottish inland _lochs_ and was formed by
the filling in of one end of a glacial valley with glacial debris. Since
the formation of the lake there has been a lava outflow across the east
end of the valley and scores of small craters are along the banks of the
_Djúpá_.
An hour’s ride from the farm across the ancient lava bed brings the
traveller to the bridge across the _Skjálfandafljót_, Trembling River,
and to the _Goðafoss_, Falls-of-the-Gods, one of the most beautiful
waterfalls in Iceland. It has not the grandeur of the _Gullfoss_ and
the _Dettifoss_ but its symmetrical formation and the two even sheets
of water that pour over its brink unbroken make it very attractive. In
form it is like Niagara, and _like_ Niagara has its rocky island near the
middle. The eastern fall is about seven feet lower than the western, due
to the lava formation over which the water flows. The falls are between
twenty-five and thirty feet in height according to the melting of the
snows. The rocky islet is split asunder and a solid stream of water pours
through the cleft forming a central fall. The spray and mist from the
falls are visible for many miles around and to one accustomed to look
for hot springs, whenever mists are seen rising in a column from the
plain, this waterfall comes as a great surprise when one approaches the
unexpected canyon.
All the country side is historic land and is frequently mentioned in
the _Sagas_. When we left the river valley and climbed to the summit
of the tableland and were skirting the great bog, we recalled that it
was related in the _Saga_ of _Hrafnkell_, _Frey’s Priest_, how _Sámr_
with three ponies rode from _Mývatn_ across _Fljótsheiði_, River-Heath,
to _Ljósavatn_ Pass and on to the great fiord. We were taking the same
journey but in the opposite direction. The great heath on the upland is
typical of the highland heaths of Iceland and may be briefly described in
this connection.
It is a tongue of land some thirty miles long, reaching down from the
inland plateau between two great river valleys. When the summit is gained
it appears quite flat but a place where one would little expect to find
extensive bogs and marshes, but such is the case. We followed the bog at
its margin for nearly two hours in search of a place to cross and noted
that patches of water glimmered here and there. Beautiful Arctic flowers
fringed the margin of the pools, masses of _Eriophorum_, Cotton-Grass,
spread their white sheets in the sun and the dwarf birch and Arctic
willow tangled every foot of the way. Scores of ancient bridle trails cut
into the ground so deeply that in places the ponies rubbed their sides
against the turf in following them. Numerous sheep were scattered about
the moorland singly and in groups of three to a dozen. Often a sheep
would get into the trail and run in front of the ponies for half an hour
bleating in a frightened manner. This custom of making a needless run
until exhausted and driven far from their companions speaks strongly
for the small intelligence of these domestic animals. The sheep run
wild upon the mountain pastures and moors throughout the summer and are
characteristic features of the landscape.
At the narrow neck of glacial moraine where we crossed the great bog
we halted for an hour for lunch and to graze the ponies and shift the
saddles. These out of door luncheons are real picnics. One turns up the
lid of a packing case for a table, seats himself upon the grass and
finds more enjoyment in the repast than at the best spread board in a
fashionable hotel. The plover and whimbrel are always about to add their
joyous cries to the calling of the curious sheep, the ponies graze
contentedly around the outer circle of the luncheon board and over all
is the deep blue vault and showers of glorious sunshine. Those hours of
rest and refreshment upon the heather and the enjoyment of the pipe! We
were veritable Arabs, our steeds the thoroughbred Icelandic ponies and
our oasis the patch of grass in the midst of a great lava desolation.
There are no palm trees beside the water hole to complete the Oriental
scene but a pillar of lava shelters one from the wind, or, if the day be
sultry, one may crawl beneath a scrub of Arctic willow to ward off the
sun and it is then, if the flies are present, that the pipe is a double
comfort.
In the middle of the afternoon as we were descending a ridge into a
gully with a boggy brook to cross we heard a shout from the top of the
ridge, “Turn to the left, the crossing is better.” Looking back we saw
a party of several Icelanders galloping down the slope, led by a portly
gentleman with a smiling countenance. We paused till he approached and
were surprised to have him address us by name and add that he expected us
to spend the night at his home. It was _Árni Jónsson_ of _Skútustaðir_,
Cave-Stead, the Dean of _Mývatn_, accompanied by his wife and three
friends. They had just come from _Akureyri_, having stopped at the
parsonage of _Háls_ while we had been at _Ljósavatn_. From this moment
until we reached his farm the ride was most enjoyable on account of the
companionship of the Dean. Several years of his early life had been
passed in North Dakota and he was well acquainted with the customs of the
United States. He spoke English with fluency and had many questions to
ask about America. We were glad to give him the information in return for
the many questions we found necessary to ask him about Iceland and the
customs of his people.
With sixteen ponies we made a merry showing as eight of us rode in single
file at a full gallop over the undulating moor, now rising to the top
of a ridge with a broad view of the country bordering the lake we were
approaching, now descending into a gully rich in grass where we made
the customary halt to rest the ponies. Towards evening we rode down to
the _Kráká_, Crow-River, which we forded and soon afterwards arrived at
the farm of the Dean. We were ushered into the sitting room, a separate
room was provided for our luggage and we were given a large room over
the _Thinghús_ adjoining. The _Thinghús_ in each _Syssel_, County,
corresponds to the Court House in our Counties.
The children followed us about with some curiosity and were especially
interested in our toilet preparations. They were excellently behaved and
watched every chance to be of assistance. We enjoyed an excellent supper
and that which made it especially agreeable was the fact that the Dean’s
wife dined with us. This is a rare occurrence for strangers in Iceland.
After supper we sat for a long time listening to the Dean’s account
of his people. He was very obliging and afforded us much information
relative to the conditions of the church, Icelandic politics, woman
suffrage and education.
Weary with the eight hours in the saddle, Mrs. Russell retired while
I roamed about the farm till midnight, examining the strange lava
formations. Midnight? Yes, but bright as day and under a cloudless sky.
When one is interested in the north of Iceland, he does not know when to
go to bed. At the end of my long ramble I expected to find Mrs. Russell
asleep, on the contrary she was sitting up in bed admiring the needlework
on the sheets and pillow cases. The upper sheet had a hand crocheted
insertion in Icelandic, _Goða Nott, Sof ðu Rott_, Good Night, Sleep
Softly. One of the pillow slips was marked in the same fashion, _Goða
Nott, Pabbi_, Good Night, Papa. The other was marked, with the similar
Icelandic expression for Good Night, Mamma. We admired the skillful
needlework and the amount of time and patience necessary to complete this
remarkable set and admitted that the Dean’s wife possessed considerable
skill, even among Icelandic women where the art of hand embroidery is far
advanced. When we commented upon it, Mr. Jónsson, with a smile, called to
him his little daughter of twelve and said,—
“This is the little lady who did that needle work. She did it while in
the fields last summer and without our knowing anything about it. It was
her Christmas present to father and mother.”
Several days later as we were packing the cases preparatory to our
departure, this little girl approached and shyly presented to Mrs.
Russell a package. Not knowing the contents it was accepted with the
customary handshaking. When a chance moment offered it was slyly opened
and lo! it was one of those pillow cases. We then protested against
receiving so valuable a gift and one that had been devoted to a parent
with a child’s love at Christmas time. Mr. Jónsson assured us that his
daughter was sincere in her wish that we should take it home to the
United States and that she would be happy to make another to complete
the set. This pillow case, covering a pillow of genuine eider down, has
since held a place of honor in our guest room and we never see it without
recalling the bright faces and the hearty hospitality of _Skútustaðir_.
At eight in the morning I awoke and was scarcely out of bed when the door
opened and in came the maid, Kristine, with coffee, sugar, cream and
cakes for our first meal. I tried to have her leave it outside the door
and motioned her away but it was of no use. In she came with the air of
one who knew her duty to her master’s guests and intended to fulfill it.
She placed the tray on a stand, turned quickly to our clothes, gathered
them up and was about to take them away when I protested as vigorously as
I could with signs that they were necessary for my immediate use, but to
no effect. I did succeed in pulling from her grasp my trousers but she
fled smilingly with all the other items of wearing apparel even to the
hats and riding boots. We were prisoners. After the coffee had been drunk
the maid returned with the clothes nicely brushed and folded and the
boots polished. Ever after this I slept with my trousers under my pillow
and my extra pair of shoes hid in the room; otherwise I would have often
been deprived of an hour of delightful strolling about the farm before
the real breakfast.
[Illustration: _Fording a Shallow Arm of the Mývatn. Turf Cottage in the
Distance._
_Contorted, Twisted and Crumpled Lava at Skútustaðir._]
The _Mývatn_ region is the most fascinating, the most weird as well as
the most beautiful place in all Iceland. I believe it to be the fairest
spot in all that land of sun-kissed and wind-swept enchantment. The lake
is twenty miles long and its deepest place is not over twelve feet. There
are places where the water is hot and others where the water flows from
under the lava in ice-cold streams into the lake. At the entrance of
these streams there is excellent trout fishing. The lake is dotted with
islands, each a small crater, each fringed to the edge of the water with
the fragrant _Angelica_, each clothed with grass nearly to the summit and
each summit black and red, scorched, blistered and horrent. Hundreds of
these low craters fringe the southern end of the lake and are scattered
over the adjoining farms, especially the farm of _Skútustaðir_. They are
an exact representation of the mountains of the moon as viewed through
a powerful telescope. To the geologist the _Mývatn_ craters are of rare
interest, for nowhere else on the earth are they duplicated in the
numbers and in their peculiar formation. They rest like huge ant hills on
a level plain, each is circular in form and many of them are confluent at
the base. The slopes of many of the mounds are covered with bombs and of
characteristic type. The character of the bombs on the slopes of widely
separated craters is different, indicating a different period of eruption
and a different composition of lava which entered into their formation.
One of the craters deserves a special description. It is shaped like an
inverted funnel with the stem cut off at the apex of the funnel. Out of
this orifice the lava was hurled in liquid drops to so great a height in
the air that it cooled and the bombs returned to the crater and around
it like a shower of grape-shot. It must have been a wonderful sight,
the spraying of the upper air with liquid lava like water from a hose
and to such an altitude that the stream broke into drops and every drop
cooled before it returned to earth. A few of the bombs are fused together
because they collided in a viscid condition. Others are flattened because
the mass struck the earth before they had become rigid; but most of them
are spherical and vary in size from tiny pellets to a croquet ball.
There are several _tintrons_ around _Mývatn_ and in the adjacent region
of _Húsavik_. A _tintron_ is a hornito, or more correctly speaking, a
lava chimney. A hornito is a veritable lava oven from which issues smoke
and fumes and it may be level or even sunk below the level of the general
surface of the lava sheet; while a _tintron_, like a factory chimney with
a spreading base, rises from the level ground to the height of many feet.
It is evident from examination that they were formed by the spouting of
lava in a liquid state so hot as to have lost its viscousness, and, like
geyser-formations, that which fell upon the rim cooled and continual
spoutings built the _tintron_. We ascended one of the _tintrons_ beside
the lake and gazed down into its black depths. The outer surface at
the base is clothed with grass while the _tintron_ proper is encrusted
with lichens. What a rugged and forbidding aspect is presented in the
interior! Deep, deep down into the earth extends the flue, its wall hung
with lava stalactites and patches of lava that solidified as the material
dripped back into the interior after an explosion.
Of the scores of craters around _Mývatn_ that I explored, only one
contained water,—except those in the lake,—and this one is known as
_Thangbrandspollr_, _Thangbrand’s_ Pool. _Thangbrand_ was a Saxon Priest
whom Olaf Tryggvason, King of Norway (995-1000 A. D.) sent to Iceland
to perform a wholesale christening of the pagans. King _Olaf_ forced
Christianity upon his subjects at the point of the sword, killing and
plundering all who refused to forsake the worship of _Thor_ and _Odin_
and take the christening. _Thangbrand_ was chosen for the Icelandic
mission because of his inhuman and zealous methods. He had, what he
deserved, little success. We read that,—
[9]“Hall let himself be christened and all his household.”
It was merely the act without any conversion from Scandinavian
polytheism. Again we read,—
“Winterlid, the Scald, made a scurvy rime about him,” _Thangbrand_. And
again we find,—
[10]“_Thorvald_, the Guileful, and _Winterlid_, the Scald, made a scurvy
rime about _Thangbrand_, but he slew them both. _Thangbrand_ abode three
winters in Iceland, and was the bane of men or ever he departed thence.”
It is reported in Iceland that this Pool is the place where _Thangbrand_
christened his converts. Since it is authentic that he passed the time
in Iceland at the home of _Hall_, which was in the southeast of Iceland,
it is not likely that this is the real pool, although it is true that
christenings took place in this pool at very early times. The Vikings
did not take very kindly to the christening and the following facts will
be of interest to those who dispute over the correct method of baptism.
When the priests found that the Icelanders were the most stubborn of all
the pagans of their experience about the rite of christening, the priests
changed their tactics and performed their christenings in the warm pools
adjacent to the hot springs. Their method of baptism in the eleventh
century in Iceland may be inferred.
The Saga references show that the _Mývatn_ region was an important place
in the early days of colonization and in subsequent centuries and we
reluctantly close the old annals so full of interest to the antiquarian
and the historian, and turn again to a more general view of the _Mývatn_
of the present. The view from _Skútustaðir_ is remarkable and of great
variety. In the foreground, the quiet lake, alive with water fowl and
fringed with prosperous farms, presents a picture of pastoral peace
and beauty; in the distance across the lake rise clouds of steam and
sulfurous gases from the sizzling solfataras of _Námaskarð_, Sulfur-Pass;
to the left rises the innocent looking peaks of _Krafla_, Creeping, and
_Leirnúkr_, Mud-Peak, two famous volcanoes; to the right, the prominent
feature in the landscape is _Hverfjall_, Hot-Spring-Mountain. _Hverfjall_
is a large circular crater of the explosion type. It stands 700 feet
above the level of the plain and is 4875 feet in diameter across the top.
It is four miles in circumference at the summit of the rim. The interior
is a mass of fragments and crushed rubble. There is a large mound in the
center composed of crumpled lava with angular edges. It is doubtful if
lava ever flowed from this great crater, although there was said to have
been an eruption in 1728. I found no evidence of such eruption, other
than that of a violent upheaval of the crust due to internal explosions
of a mighty character. A force beyond human comprehension or calculation
thrust upwards this enormous mass and dropped the titanic fragments in
the form of this circular wall 700 feet high here,—
“Wide ruin spread the elements around,
His havoc leagues on leagues you may descry.”
The farm at _Skútustaðir_ is one to which my thoughts often revert. I
spent some time there in 1910 and was so charmed with the place and
delighted with the Dean and his family that I returned to it for a more
extended visit in 1913. The Dean has since moved to _Hólmar, Eskifjörðr_.
_Skútustaðir_ is a scene unmatched in Iceland, the lake, the sloping
uplands clothed with excellent grass and sprinkled with a wealth of
Arctic flowers, the flocks and herds in the succulent pastures, the farm
buildings, _Thinghús_ and church grouped on an eminence between two
bodies of water and the grand panorama of meadows, rivers and volcanoes,
with their ascending columns and clouds of steam,—a panorama that is well
worth a summer and ten thousand miles of travel. On each of my visits the
haying was in full swing. The men rose early to cut the grass in the dew
and paused at midday for a long rest and a plunge in the lake while the
raking, bundling and stacking continued well into the night. Numerous
cocks of hay rose from the closely pared turf, many wild ducks led their
young from one sheet of water to the other, crossing the yard between the
buildings or pausing around the haycocks to pick the numerous insects or
venturing close to the doorways of the buildings for bits of food. Along
the margin of the lake I found many of the swimming sandpipers, _Lobipes
hyperboreus_, the _Northern Phalarope_. It is a beautiful bird and at
_Mývatn_ it is so tame that one may sit quietly on the bank and coax it
up within a few feet of the shore where it will dart about picking up the
insects thrown to it. I devoted an hour to studying this bird, feeding
it in groups of several and in taking their photographs. What a shame it
is that New England birds are not treated with the same thoughtfulness
as the birds of Iceland! These birds were within a minute’s walk of the
house.
We strolled around the east side of the lake to the north shore and for
three days made our headquarters at _Reykjahlið_, Smoking-Pass, a remnant
of a once prosperous farm which has been destroyed by the lava pouring
from the vents of the foot hills that surround _Leirhnúkr_. English
travellers of casual observation have stated that this great flood of
lava came from the volcano itself but if they had taken the trouble to
follow the streams of lava from the farm to their source, they would
have found that a deep valley runs between these foothills and the real
volcano of _Leirhnúkr_. This lava flowed during the years 1725, 1727,
1728 and 1729. _Leirhnúkr_ was active at the same time, hence their error
in attributing this sheet of lava to the volcano. The volcano has enough
havoc to its discredit without charging it with the crime of ruining the
fertile plains at the north end of the lake. In 1729 an extensive tract
of grazing and mowing land of rare fertility was overflowed by molten
rock. Some branches of the stream entered the lake and quenched their
ardent fires, one branch flowed to the northeast corner of the church and
was arrested in its flow within two feet of the building. Here the stream
divided into two arms and flowed around the edifice reuniting about
sixty feet from the opposite corner, leaving the church entirely unharmed
in the midst of the terrific heat of its fiery glow. Says Henderson, who
mused at length over the incident,—
“Who knows but the effectual earnest prayer of some pious individual,
or some designs of mercy, may have been the cause fixed in the eternal
purpose of Jehovah for the preservation of this edifice?”
On this same farm, and at some distance from the margin of the lake,
there is a deep rift in the plain, the descent into which is made with
little difficulty. There is an abundance of water in the rift at a
temperature of 90°F. The place is called _Stórigjá_, Large-Rift, and is
a result of prehistoric earthquake action. The rift is very deep and
extends up near to the hot mountain from whence issues the hot water.
The water in the bed of the chasm is clear as crystal and reflects most
beautifully the narrow streak of sky and the flower encrusted walls.
Here the wild geranium and ferns grow abundantly, almost tropically, on
the walls and in the clefts of the rocks. It was a novel experience to
take a swim deep down in the crust of the earth in this hot water of
emerald hue, to look up the chasm and see the towering ridges wreathed
with rising steam and then to turn about and gaze towards the snow-capped
peaks beyond the other end of the rift. The bath is invigorating and puts
vigor and elasticity into the body to such a degree that it is noticeable
for hours afterwards. It has been thought to be strongly radio-active.
No journey to _Reykjahlið_ would be complete without a visit to the
small island of _Slútness_, one of the extinct craters in the lake. It
is a paradise for ducks. Having obtained permission of the farmer at
_Grimstaðir_, Grim’s-Farm, who owns the island, we rowed out to the
island accompanied by the farmer and _Ólafur_. Such a place for ducks
we had never seen; they breed in thousands on the small islands in the
lake and in the retired creeks, but the island of _Slútness_ is one great
nest for ducks. The farmer told us that he had already taken over 13,000
eggs from the island that season, and had left sufficient for breeding
purposes. These eggs are packed in water-glass for winter consumption.
One may walk across the island in three minutes with ease and this makes
the number of birds seem all the larger. During the nesting season it is
not possible to step anywhere without taking precaution not to tread upon
the birds. Here one may see the Golden Eyed Duck, _Clangula Islandica_,
in all its glory, lift it from the nest for photographing and return it
without any apparent disturbance to the bird. The eider duck, _Somateria
Mollissima Dresseri_, is abundant on this island, though usually seeking
the sea coast during the nesting season. The island itself, even if
the birds were missing, is charming. It is circular in form, with the
crater portion filled with water to the level of the lake. It is in this
water that the ducklings take their first swimming exercises. In many
places it was literally covered with the puffy brown balls that darted
hither and yon amid the loud scolding of the numerous mothers in their
efforts to keep the different families from getting inextricably mixed.
Around the margin of the basin there is a remarkable plant society with
numerous members, wonderful for this high latitude, above Lat. 65°-30´.
The mountain ash and Arctic willow form dense thickets near the margin
of the pool and close to the water the Angelica, _Angelica officinalis_,
stands to a height of five feet and when crushed fills the air with the
fragrance of its oil. This plant grows luxuriantly on many portions of
the lake shore as well as on the islands and it is highly prized by the
inhabitants. The list of plants which we collected here is too long to
give in full. There were over thirty specimens of flowering plants,
among which we noticed the violets in dense mats, vigorous geraniums,
_Geranium maculatum_, with larger and deeper colored blossoms than in
New England, dandelions and arnica in great profusion, asters, marigolds
and wild pinks. This island will yield a good deal of information to the
botanist interested in _Ecology_ and in the variation of species.
The house at _Reykjahlið_, is an ancient one built of turf and stone with
the usual turf roof, covered with grass in a flourishing condition. In
front of the house is the only windmill that I have seen in Iceland. The
sails are of galvanized iron and laid on the yards in squares like the
glass in a window. The mill is a small affair and is used to grind barley
and rye for the use of the family. No grain is raised in the country but
it is all imported from Europe and ground as needed. The entrance to the
house, like the one described in the chapter on _Hekla_, is through a
hallway with an age-trodden floor. The guest room is finished in wood
and we found it neat and clean. We are glad to report this state of
cleanliness because the English writers tell strange tales about the
uncleanliness of this house and its vermin-infested guest room. The
people at the farm spoke no English but they waited upon us with the
customary Icelandic cordiality and we thoroughly enjoyed the several
meals prepared especially for our table. The trout came fresh from the
lake and the prime eggs from ducks’ nests on the islands.
[Illustration: _A Hot Water Fall at Hveravellir._
_Slútness, Crater Island in the Mývatn. Home of the Golden Eyed Duck._]
One day I found a magnificent specimen of an edible mushroom, _Lycoperdon
giganteum_, and to the horror of the people on the farm I requested that
it be cooked. This specimen was ten inches in diameter, hard, white and
in prime condition. It had been long since we had tasted mushrooms and
our vegetable diet had been a sparing one since we left the steamer, so
I persisted, through Ólafur, that “the Americans really mean that they
wish this mushroom cooked and they will eat it.” Our directions were
carefully followed and the _Lycoperdon_ came to the table well prepared
and in full flavor. What consternation it created in the kitchen we
will never know, save that there was much talking there and uproarious
laughter in that department during the cooking process. The maiden who
brought it to the table came in with a blushing face and ill-concealed
laughter at some remarks that followed as she left the kitchen. It
certainly was delicious and after we had dipped deeply into the contents
of the tureen, Ólafur was persuaded to try it and the farmer standing in
the doorway looked aghast when he saw Ólafur eat it. Ólafur pronounced it
good and invited the farmer to try it but the latter shook his head in a
manner to convince us that he had no idea of being so unwise as to eat
such a thing. On the following morning when I called for the remainder,
the response was,—“it is all gone.” Whether they threw it away or whether
it was eaten after consultation with Ólafur I will never know for a
certainty but I believe that it was eaten, also I believe that every
sizable _Lycoperdon_ growing on this farm in the future is destined for
the stew pan with real cream.
We tarried at the farm for three days and during this time we had every
possible attention paid to our comfort. The farmer always came to our
room during meals and took coffee with us and smoked a cigar at the
end. He always proffered his snuff horn to me but I was impolite enough
to refuse this courtesy. Snuff taking is universal among the men. When
two men meet upon the trail, whether they know each other or not, they
salute, each brings out the snuff horn and the horns are exchanged. A
little is then poured upon the back of the left wrist from which it is
snuffed up the right and then the left nostril. One or two violent
sneezes follow, each man trying to sneeze the louder in compliment to the
finer quality of the other’s snuff, though it often happens that both
horns were filled out of the same jar in the store. The sneezing over,
they again shake hands, salute and ride their several ways.