Iceland: Horseback tours in saga land

by W. S. C. Russell

We entered a tract of scrubby willow and dwarf birch. Some of the birches were as high as our shoulders while we were on horseback and thus we rode with our heads protruding above the Icelandic forest and there was some free advice given about getting lost in the woods. There are two or three larger forests in the north which we shall visit later. We passed several good farms and every one, men, women and children were busy with the hay harvest. Two hours riding took us to Miðdalr, Middale, church, which is close to the famous Brúará, Bridge-River. Many streams rush out of the mountain gullies and unite up this side valley. Here the Brúará comes foaming down its shelving bed in a passion. Near the crossing it spreads out in a wide sheet over the lava which is full of ugly crevasses. One great rift, of unknown depth, and five feet wide extends through the center of this lava and the river tumbles into it from both sides. Tumbling into lava rifts is a characteristic of Icelandic rivers, some of them entirely disappear. Until the coming of King Frederick in 1907 the traveller rode his pony through the water for about one hundred feet, carefully avoiding the cracks, with the water well up the flanks of the pony. When the rift was reached it was crossed on planks bolted to the rock and often with the water flowing over them. When safely across the “bridge” another passage of one hundred feet through the water brought the traveller once more upon dry ground. This is why it is called “bridge river.” A suspension bridge now spans the stream and the view up the river is excellent. In former days it required some steadiness of purpose to thread this tangled maze of cracks beneath the white water and ride the plank over the foaming stream, and yet, I am sure, I would prefer it to the crossing of the Ölfusà which we made two weeks later.

Here we encountered a large party of Icelanders with numerous pack ponies laden with provisions, timber, and strangest of all, huge piles of fish heads with attached vertebrae. The party had been down to the coast to dispose of their wool and were returning with their supplies for the summer. When the fish are dressed the heads and backbones are cut out and hung upon the fences to dry. In the interior they are pulverized and used for food whenever provisions are short. In the spring when hay becomes scarce fish are often fed to the livestock.

Passing the farm, Utlið, the out-folk or the people beyond, we wound around the shingly side of Bjarnafell, Bear-Mountain,[2] and descended to the plain which proved to be a bog saturated with the recent rain. Lord Dufferin in his Letters from High Latitudes calls this place “an Irish bog.” The crossing was anything but pleasant for the ponies. Many deeply worn trails crossed the plain towards Geysir. Under ordinary conditions of dryness any one of these ditches would have been satisfactory to the ponies, but partly filled with mud the ponies shied at them and without any warning frequently jumped out of one and into another before the rider was aware of what was about to happen. It is in places of this character that the instinct and experience of the pony is more serviceable than the judgment of his rider. It is in the bog, on the rough mountain trail and in the foaming river that the true worth and peculiar qualities of the Icelandic pony is revealed. The ponies prefer the old ruts which often are worn so deeply that his flanks rub the turfed edges and the rider must pay special attention to his own feet if he would not have them jammed into the turf at the angles of the intersecting trails. Attempt to get the pony out of the rut and on to what the rider assumes is a better path, the turf, and the mettle of the steed is immediately aroused. It requires a strong pull upon the rein and a dig of the heel into the ribs of the pony to get him out of the path he has chosen. As soon as this is accomplished to the satisfaction of the rider and he settles down in the saddle conscious of his superior wisdom over the brute creation, without the least warning the pony takes a side step which lands him in the bottom of the forbidden trail. After a few of these unexpected rebuffs the rider is content to let the pony have the choice of trails providing it leads in the general direction of the rider’s choice.

In the distance we saw columns of steam rising from a large area and Johannes assured us that it was from the geysers. It was here that we met an acquaintance from the Laura, Mr. A. V. Manneling, a banker from Helsingfors in Finland, whose company had been very agreeable on the voyage from Leith to Reykjavik. He informed us that Geysir, (pronounced gáy-sir,) had erupted that noon and would probably give another exhibition that evening. We bade him good-bye and hastened on in order to be present during the eruption. A century ago Geysir was quite constant in the periods of its eruption but owing to recent earthquakes which have changed the conditions below it is not at all regular and it is frequently eight days between the displays. We forded several tributaries of the Túngufljót,[3] Tongue-River, rounded the base of Laugarfell, Hot-Mountain, and rode into the midst of the steaming acres, the site of great Geysir and his satellites, a place of awful magnificence, where the water,—

“… hot, through scorching cliffs is seen to rise

With exhalations steaming to the skies!”

—Iliad.

We dismounted at the little inn, which is located in the midst of the boiling and spouting caldrons, glad to leave the saddle after a ride of thirty-five miles across a diversified country. It had been our second day in the saddle but we had become accustomed to the ponies and they had discovered that the riders were their masters. We had had an exceedingly pleasant journey with no discomforts except those attendant upon horseback riding through a rough and roadless country.

This little inn was another creation for the benefit of the King and again we rejoiced that his visit to Iceland preceded ours. There are four rooms on the ground floor, one for dining and the other three for bedrooms. The cooking is done in a little house slightly removed towards the mountain. Formerly all travellers to Geysir took tents with them for use at this place or hired them of the farmer at Haukadalr, Hawk-dale. The Inn was crowded. There was a large company of Icelanders out for a holiday besides several Danes, Germans and those lovers of the Laura, the Swede and the Icelandic maiden. We encountered them several times during the summer and they were having a happy time. It appeared to be a honeymoon preceding the bridal. There was a prolonged conversation between Johannes and the keeper of the Inn in which Johannes expressed himself quite forcibly if we could judge by the determination in his voice. He appeared to be the victor, for he came to us with a beaming face and showed us into one of the corner rooms next to Geysir. Our luggage was brought in, a steaming supper of boiled mutton, potatoes, milk, coffee and black bread was set before us. That Icelandic coffee! The berries are freshly roasted every morning, they are of prime quality, the brewing is expertly done, the cream is real and,—well, it is delicious. Throughout the country it is the same. Halt at a farmhouse at any time in the day and you are invited to Coffee. It is coffee with every meal and frequent potations between meals. In that land the coffee ghost has never risen to be cried down with a score of cereal concoctions. Prepare it here freshly and expertly as they do and there is no reason why conscience should peer over the brim of the steaming cup to bid us beware of the snare of its fragrance.

We were hungry but our curiosity concerning the locality made short work of the supper. We then learned that the discussion in which Johannes became so energetic was precipitated by his stipulation that no one was to use the room except ourselves. In it there were three single beds, bunks built against the wall, and provisions for several more in the middle of the room when occasion required them. We did not know the Icelandic custom, that several men, women and children, whether known to each other or not, sleep in the same room without any inconvenience. The inn-keeper did not understand why this custom should be broken to the inconvenience of the many people who desired shelter that night. We learned more of this custom as our experiences multiplied and we will give the reader a full account in a later chapter.