After an hour and a half of very hard work, for we had scrambled up nearly 2000 feet (aneroid, 26·60; thermometer, 35°), we reached the mud-pillars, and serious difficulties began. My camaro, who walked pluckily enough, could mount no more. I had taught him the rule of volcano-climbing on stones and descending on cinders; of using the toes when going up and the heel when going down; and the consequence was that his Iceland slippers and stockings were clean worn away, and in a few minutes his feet would be cut. I left him and sought a couloir, which by careful “swarming,” might have opened a passage. But here a new difficulty was added to ever-increasing darkness and to numbing cold. In Switzerland the rock cannonades are most frequent between midnight and dawn: here the blocks of basalt, detached by the leverage of sun and frost, begin to fall as soon as the temperature lowers. The couloir was too narrow for swarming up the sides, which are less risky than the centres. After three narrow escapes, in one of them my right hand saving my head, I judged that the game was not worth the candle. Though close to the snow (aneroid, 26·55), it would have been impossible to reach the summit alone, in the night and over an unknown field.
Descending in double-quick time—“devouring space,” as Belmontel says—we soon reached the moat which separates the castle from its outworks of lava, and refreshed ourselves at the little tarn. During the descent I observed a feature, before hidden from view; a lumpy tail with two main bulges prolonging Herðubreið to the south-west: perhaps the next attempt might succeed if this line be followed. From the Heröubreiðarvatn we took the south-eastern line, where the lava-field was by no means so horrid. After an hour, striking the Herðubreiðarlindá, also an influent of the Jökulsá, we hurried down the right bank, frequently crossing when the soft and rotten ground threatened to admit the ponies. Finally, we traversed in fifteen minutes a divide of lava, we forded the double channel of the Grafarlandsá, and at 9.45 we were received with effusion by the solitary Gísli. Those who follow me will do well to ascend the left bank of the Jökulsá, to trace the Grave-land Water to its source, to pass over the lava-breach, and to follow the Lindá where it rises from the plain.
The day’s ride had occupied nine hours thirty minutes, and the unfortunate “tattoos” were not prepared for some four more: moreover, les genous m’entraient dans le corps, as the gamin says. The blood-red sunset promised a fair night, free from wind and fog, and, although we were some 1400 feet above sea-level, a bivouac in the glorious air of the desert under
“Cette obscure clarté qui tombe des étoiles,”
could not be considered a hardship. No one thought of a fire till I set the example of collecting willow-roots, and then all, beasts as well as men, were greatly comforted by the short, sharp bursts of blaze. The poor fellows offered me a share of their only viaticum, a bit of bread and sausage, but I saw by their longing, hungry eyes that their necessities were greater than mine. A blanket instead of the oilskin from my saddle-bag would have been a comfort; but even without it I slept like un bienheureux, and awoke lively as a lark. What a different matter was my night in the open below Fernando Po peak!
That morning I had set out to “plant a lance in Iceland,” by mastering the Herðubreið; for once utterly deceived by the clearness of the air, I had despised my enemy, and he got the better of me—the general verdict will be, “Serve you right.” My consolation was that, though beaten, I had hardly been fairly beaten; the fog was not to be controlled; the guide led us by the worst paths, and we crept over lava after expecting to move fast. The altitude is laid down at 5447 English feet above sea-level; and as we rode up to the base, about 1500 feet high, there remained only 4000 feet, which would not have taken more than five hours. Such was my calculation, and it erred by being drawn too fine. Nor could the attempt be renewed next day. I had promised to send back to Mr Lock my only companion, Stefán, whose foot-gear was in tatters; Gísli and Kristián would have seen me in Ná-strönd, the shores of the ignoble “straw-dead,” rather than accompany me over an unknown snow-field, and such climbing must not be done single-handed.
Section II.—Return to Valthiófstaðir and Stay There.
August 12-16.
There is little to say concerning these five days, which were spent in returning to Valthiófstaðir by devious ways. On August 12th the world, according to local belief, was to have been destroyed; knowledge has increased since A.D. 1000, so no one made preparation, spiritual or material, for what Hindus call the Pralaya, hourly expected by primitive Christianity. Je m’en moque comme de l’an quarante (1740). At three A.M. we rode down the cold valley of the Grafarlandsá, picked up the tent, and bidding adieu to the good Stefan and the miserable Kristián, we reached the Jökulsá ferry after a total of six hours forty-five minutes. The blood-red sunset had kept its promise till clouds rolled up from the south, and I have seldom had a more thorough dusting.
At early nightfall suddenly appeared Mr Pow and his guide, Jón Pètursson, son of the old priest of Valthiófstaðir: they had been paying a visit to Mý-vatn, and now they were hastening home for a wedding. The former had been making inquiries about sheep-farming; he believed that, in that line, something might be done whilst the pony traffic was thoroughly worked out. Farms ranging from $3000 to $6000 are readily bought throughout this part of the country. As the snow begins upon the Heiðis in November, lies deep in December and January, and lasts till May, it would be necessary to allow one ton of hay per thousand head, and the import price, excluding freight, must be computed at £2,10s. rising to £4. He was sanguine enough to expect a cent. per cent. profit: I never heard that the project had any results.