At the summit of the hill, across the muddy area, we paused to view the scene below. The Túngufljót drains the southern slopes of Láng Jökull, its three great arms thrust downward through the alluvial plains, a mighty trident of hydraulic power, forced by the melting glaciers during the continuous shine of the summer sun. It is a delightful view,—the luxuriant green below crossed by the silver threads of the rivers, the whiteness of the glaciers across the valley and the steam clouds hovering over the heated area.
We turned to the north where the thunders of the falls boomed from beyond the cliffs and the mists glistened high in the air. No falls, not even the river is visible, they are embedded in the canyon a mile beyond. The crashing roar of the water increased and turning an angle of the cliffs the steeds paused upon the brink of the Hvitá canyon. The full glory of the falls burst upon us radiant in its sheaf of rainbows. Leaving the ponies to graze upon the brink, we descended the crumbling wall to the level of the triangular area within the canyon. This grassy, mist-washed mass of rock is on a level with the top of the lower falls, the real plunge of the Hvitá into the lava abyss. As far as the mass of water is concerned this fall is the largest, not only in Iceland but in all Europe. Its rival, the Dettifoss, Drop-Falls, has a deeper canyon, a higher fall but there is not so great a mass of water. This waterfall is on the Jökulsá, Ice-Mountain-River, in the northeast of Iceland. The canyon of the Hvitá is V-shaped, about fifty feet wide at the top and not more than a dozen feet at the bottom. Most of the waterfalls in Iceland are formed, like the Öxerá, by a river falling into a Gjá, rift, from the side of the canyon. In the case of the Gullfoss the water falls into the end of the canyon, for this great rift begins at the falls. Just above the main falls the water rushes over a series of ledges, columnar basalt bluffs, fifteen hundred feet wide and fifty feet high. The space between these falls and the main plunge is short. Here the water runs wide and deep with a troubled surface, fretted with foam and impatient for the approaching plunge into the unfathomed depth.
A huge mass of rock divides the main falls at the top with about one hundred feet in width of water on each side. It is from this point that H. Rider Haggard in Eric Brighteyes causes the hero to descend into the canyon of the Hvitá to swim to the lower end in order to win the hand of Gudruðr, the Fair. Of all the strange and imaginative tales which this writer has related this is the most improbable. The water upon the brink of the two arms of the falls is eighty feet deep and the plunge into the canyon is not less than two hundred. What a water power and no syndicate to control it!
The true falls can not be photographed. The triangular plot upon which we have been standing is within the canyon and the walls rise above us to the height of about two hundred feet. Above us the palisaded buttresses, drenched with spray, glisten in the morning sun and hanging over the chasm frown upon the river below as if threatening to prevent its escape. The imprisoned waters boil and foam in their mad contention with the walls ragingly impatient of their restriction, anxious to escape to the rural calmness of the southern plains. So mighty is the mass of water, so narrow are the depths into which it hurls itself that one must believe that subterranean passages exist or the lava rift would fill and quickly choke itself to overflowing. It is possible that these hidden rifts, results of earthquakes, supply the water for the hot springs far away. Perhaps the ramifications of great Geysir’s underground system reach even to the foot of this canyon, even as one end of the drinking horn, out of which Thor drank in the halls of Utgard-Loki, was placed in the sea, so that Thor lost his wager by being unable to empty the horn at a single draught.
Grim, grand and glorious is the Foss, surpassing Niagara in scenic environment. Under suitable conditions Niagara has its well-known rainbow, but Gullfoss has several of them arching the waters one above the other in the dense volume of spray that is hurled two hundred and fifty feet above the surface of the stream. If the fabled pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow arch is to be obtained anywhere, it must be sought for in this place, for within the walls of the upper canyon the rainbows end. One may pass through them and even stand at the springing of the prismatic arch if he is willing to take the drenching of the down-pouring floods of spray, like sheets of water in a New England thunder storm. Grand as is the Gullfoss, its setting is even more impressive. Above the plain Láng Jökull stretches forty miles across the horizon, lifting its unexplored surface of adamantine ice high in air, a perpetual challenge to him who would search the unknown. At its base and near at hand Hvitávatn, White-River-Lake, the source of the river, carries a fleet of icebergs upon its sun-lit surface. In the perpetual sunlight of Iceland’s summer months this vast icefield discharges constant floods down its cliffs. Hence the Hvitá starts upon its turbulent course to the sea a full-grown river laden with glacial clay. Towards the east the peaks of Kerlingafjáll, Old-Woman-Peaks, arrest the eye, around whose skirts hot springs are scattered sending up a mass of vapor like incense to the heroic gods of Scandinavian mythology.
The thunders of Gullfoss diminished as we followed the brink of its canyon southward and descended into the stony waste of Biskuptúngur, Bishop’s-Tongue, a tongue-shaped mass of fertile land in the valley of the Túngufljót formerly belonging to a bishop. Here the foaming of its silt-laden stream was the only evidence of the recent travail of the Hvitá. Of the twenty travellers in the party from Geysir all had returned except one, a German who stayed with us till we reached Skipholt, Ship-Ridge. On the way he told us of an amusing experience he had had with the Icelandic pony. During the first hour of his ride he wished to stop and repeatedly shouted “Whoa!” The pony only went the faster and finally ran away with him. He stated that he had ridden horseback in many lands and no matter what language was spoken this was the first country where “whoa!” did not mean “stop.” Hót or hoa is the Icelandic word at which a pony starts quickly into a trot or gallop and the sound so much resembles “whoa” that the pony was doing his best to be obedient.
About noon we regained the trail that leads from Geysir across the Hvitá towards Hekla. And again we found pleasure in the earlier visit of the King, for a good bridge has been constructed across the Hvitá at this place. This is one of the worst of the Icelandic rivers to ford and many people have been drowned in the attempt. A few miles through a delightful country brought us to Skipholt which we found to be a model farm. It is one of the best in Iceland. During the visit of the King in 1907 he was so well pleased with the conditions at this farm that he presented the owner with a medal in the form of a cross for the excellence of his work and the skill he had displayed in the construction of the buildings and in the management of his flocks and herds. It was the wish of the King that it might prove an incentive to the neighboring farmers to do their best to imitate their more prosperous neighbor.
It was Sunday and no work was in progress. We left the ponies in the lane and went up to the house where we received a cordial welcome and the farmer’s wife set before us an excellent dinner. With a mixture of English, German and French we conversed for an hour over the dinner with our German companion who proved to be a professor at Berlin but spoke no English. The landlady beamed upon us, all the while conscious of our difficulties and had it not been for the Icelandic reserve I have no doubt that she would have proved a good interpreter. It was not till later that we discovered that many of these people can speak several languages. The biscuit, pastry, griddlecakes, mutton and coffee were excellent as well as the butter, cheese and milk and it did seem, by other standards, as if we had eaten more than the value of twenty-five cents each, which was the charge.
At Skipholt there is an excellent set of buildings mostly made of wood, the turf walls are in prime repair, the fields free from stones and smooth, smoothness being a rare condition of Icelandic mowing fields, the flocks are large and the cattle numerous. It is the only farm in the country where I have seen running water supplied to the stables. I must add that there are other farms in the north which the King did not visit that are as prosperous as Skipholt. This was the best one that he visited. If he had gone to Skútustaðir, Kalmungstúnga or Miklibaer he would also have found praiseworthy conditions and no doubt would have rewarded, at least with a word of praise, the industrious farmers at these steads.
Bidding the bondé and the good-wife at Skipholt good bye and receiving in return their hearty góðr á daginn we turned towards Hruni. Our German companion continued southward to Skálholt and we left the road to climb the series of ridges between the valleys of the Hvitá and the Laxá, Salmon-River. The ponies picked their way over ridge after ridge of lava crags with alternate ascent and descent. In some places the declivities were so steep that it was difficult to retain our seat in the pommelless saddles. The surcingles were old and cracked and we put little trust in them. However, they held, else we would have experienced a very undignified descent. I have seen hundreds of saddles and bridles in Iceland and never have I seen a new one. I often wondered if they were ever new. It is remarkable that they seldom break. As we climbed the last ridge we met a barebacked rider, a tall, sun-browned shepherd carrying a lost lamb in his bosom with its head protruding above the rider’s arm and the well known words of Elizabeth Clephane’s hymn came to our lips,—