At two P.M. we reached our farthest southern point, the long dorsum which prolongs Snæfell southwards to the Snæfellsháls. On the far side of the col rose Thjófahnúkr, a big, black, cindery cone, like the rest. Between it and the northern hypothenuse of the Vatnajökull lay a dark saddleback, with all the appearance of a volcanic crater; the absence of lava may be explained by its vomiting, like Hverfjall and Herðubreið, cinder and ashes. As we turned up the Thjófadalr, between the Thieves’ Knoll and the Snæfell proper, the ice-wind struck full on our backs. The amphitheatre was girt on both sides by jagged, rocky peaks, like the edges of bursten bubbles and blisters; and the shoulders of Snæfell projected to the south-west, a sharp ridge and a cone of warm-yellow Palagonite—here the ascent would have offered no difficulties. This part of the valley discharges to the south many streamlets of melted snow, some clear, others of white water. Crossing the divide, we struck the Hrafnkelsá, which is prolonged by the Jökulkvisl and the Sauðará (sheep-water) to “Jökulsá of the Bridge.” The line presently became a deep and grisly gorge of black and copper-coloured Palagonite; and we passed sundry long bridges of hard snow which were excellent riding. So far I can confirm the experience of the French naval officers, who assured me that in Iceland these formations, so redoubtable farther south, offer no risk.
At four P.M. we halted for an hour at the head of the Eastern Jökulsá, quietly enjoying the warm western exposure. From this point there was an extensive view of the river-drained plain which, broken by detached lumps of hill and broken ridges, separates Snæfell from the eastern edge of the Ódáða Hraun. When the nags had enjoyed a bite we resumed the descent of the deep and broken river-valley that passes between the Hafrsfell and its western outliers: the buttresses and banks of loose wind-blown sand descended bodily with our weight. Again we saw a spine of Palagonite, showing a fair ascent to the upper snow-field; and we looked in vain for the delicate ripple-marks which from a distance betray hidden crevasses. Here the surface material melting in the sun sinks into the lower strata, making the whole a solid mass—hence the glacier growth which exists in Greenland, and which is suspected in Iceland. As we rode under the precipices of North-western Snæfell, the snow, sliced off as if by a razor, forms a wall some fifty feet thick, soft above, and below pale-blue, like the Blaabreen of Norway, where hardened to ice by excessive pressure. This fine “snout” showed a few thin ribbons, but nothing like “veined structure,” that vexed subject of the glacialists. The whole “snow-fond” for perfect beauty wanted only the lovely background of mazarine-coloured skies to be seen in more southern latitudes.
At six P.M. we forded the Hauká (hawk-water), one amidst a score of shallow, bubbling, pebbly streams, random rivulets, which the afternoon heat was setting free from the vast sheets of snow. Beyond Hafrsfell we recognised with disgust the sodden, rotten ground of the morning, and the weary ponies so lost their tempers that they seemed unwilling to rise after the frequent falls. Yet I could not but admire the pathos, the strange double nature of the wild prospect. Here it was a hard and uncompromising photograph, a weird etching by Rembrandt or Doré, in which, from the vivid whiteness of the snow and the blackness of the rocks, the far appeared near: amongst the chaotic rubbish heaps there was no shadow within shadow, no dark as opposed to a light side. There, beyond a middle ground of steely blue plain, lay a “lovely Claude,” a dream-landscape of distant Jökull. The delicate tints, cool azure-white and snow warm with ethereal rose-pink, seemed to flush and fade, to shift and change places, as though ghostly mists, unseen by the eye of sense, were sailing in the pale beryl-coloured sky. Anon the sun sinking towards the hilly horizon rained almost horizontal floods of light, transfiguring the scene with golden glory as every feature kindled and lit up with a peculiar freshness of expression—a region so calm and bright did not seem to be of this world. Yet a few moments more and its rare spiritual loveliness, passing through gradations of matchless tenderness, began to fade; the pale-grey shadow came, “stealing like serious thought o’er joyous face,” and all disappeared in the dark nothingness of night. These splendours of the Trolls’ home were well worth a journey to the “Brumous Isle,” but the long search and the short fruition almost tempt me to “point a moral.”
After some ten hours’ hard work for man and beast, we were cheered by the steam rising from the Laug, and we again thanked Iceland for laying on such plenteous supplies of hot water. The memory of the last touching view, with its “wild beauty of colouring,” moved me to issue, about midnight, from the nest and to compare the dark with the light hours. But the moon and stars seemed to count for nothing in that “inspissated gloom.” The scene was
“All ruined, desolate, forlorn, and savage.”
The deepening glooms made the silence something more oppressive—τῆς σιγῆς βάρος—than the mere negative of sound; it became an indescribably awful presence, weighing on and deadening to the spirit as the sense of utter solitude—even the nasal music within the Laugarkofi was a positive relief. I can easily imagine a man lost in this utter stillness and swoon of Nature finding the horror and oppression unendurable.
Section IV.—From the Snæfell to Djúpivogr.
To Gísli’s infinite satisfaction, a vile sea-fog crept up the Jökulsá valley, slowly, but persistently, and, meeting scant opposition in the air, which the falling aneroid showed to be unusually deficient in weight, it spread, like the magical “Foka” of folk-lore, over the face of the upper world. Below us, we afterwards heard, all was merry as a fine May-day. I had intended to make the Kverk direct from “Snowdon,” and from that vantage-ground to prospect the Kistufell and the Skjaldbreið, with “Trölladyngja,” the bower of the Troll-Carline. But in the words of Wordsworth’s happy warrior, I did not see what I foresaw, and had only the cold comfort of reflecting—
“Est quiddam prodire tenus, si non datur ultra.”
Icelandic exploration is “chancy” as Central African, and the traveller must expect to be the sport of circumstances far beyond his control, unless, at least, he can afford unlimited time.