Leaving the sea we climbed a ridge of slag and ash debris of brilliant and variegated colors. Great masses of this material, shaped like ropes of molasses candy that has been pulled, were scattered beside the trail and mingled with thousands of volcanic bombs. From this summit we looked across a green valley to Eldborg, Burning-Dome, and beyond to the pleasant farm of Krisuvik.
We were comfortably housed and more than the usual attention was given to our comfort. Here we met an old acquaintance of the Laura, M. phil. Carl Küchler from Varel in Oldenberg, Germany. We had found him a pleasant acquaintance, a man who had travelled widely in Iceland, speaking the Icelandic and an author of several books in German upon Iceland. We were pleased to renew the acquaintance. He has since been decorated by the King of Denmark for the work he has done in Iceland.
The columns of steam rising from the hills beyond the meadow and the roar of the escaping gases attracted our attention and it was with impatience that we changed the riding habit for a lighter one and started across the fields to examine the spot which Hooker in 1813 described as, “One of the most awfully impressive scenes that the world can furnish, or even imagination can conceive.” This is strong language. Had Hooker visited the solfatara of Krafla his description would have been of interest. We shall see that Krafla is intensely more interesting than Krisuvik.
It seemed but a short walk, a quarter of a mile at most, from the house to the columns of steam belching from the side of the hill. Although we were accustomed to the deceptive distances in this clear atmosphere, this time we were thoroughly deluded. That walk of ten minutes lengthened into one of an hour as the distance proved to be fully three miles. Crossing the meadow we climbed a gentle slope of clay and sulfur to the very edge of the solfatara. What a weird and impressive scene it is! Every beauty of form and color, every horror of sound and odor are here united. Unnumbered tons of sublimed sulfur are piled in banks and pyramids at the base of the cliffs. Great pools of boiling bolus hiss, splutter and stink. The air is foul with hot hydrogen sulfid and stifling with sulfur dioxid. Wavering columns of steam render the walking dangerous as oftentimes one can not see the place where he is about to set his foot. We crunched through the beds of monoclinic crystals and frequently slumped into them to the knee and when we pulled the leg from the hole a new column of steam shot into the air. Geologists who have examined this place have had unpleasant experiences because of approaching too near to the centers of activity. Hooker states that “In endeavoring to avoid one of these unpleasant gusts, (of steam), which threatened to annoy me while I was gathering some specimens, I jumped up to my knees in a semi-liquid mass of hot sulphur.” What a thing of beauty is a hole in these warm sulfur needles! They are like needles, three to six inches long and glisten with the purest amber glow. The viscid mass of clay and mineral earths stick to the boots and it is often a task to withdraw the feet from the clinging mess. The appearance of the surface is deceitful, for often when it seems most secure the crust breaks and a spurt of hot steam shoots up beside the leg in a very unpleasant manner. A thin hard crust of sulfur often conceals a seething mass of the same material and one literally walks, “Perignes, suppositos cineri doloso.”[6] Elevated rims about the sizzling pools hold the viscid mass in place except when a sudden eruption of steam causes the material to slop over the sides of the basins in a frightful manner. Add to this the steam-filled air, the moaning of the cauldrons, the roar of the escaping gases from a hole high up in the side of the talus and the thought that the whole area may collapse into the bowels of the earth or explode with volcanic force and the mental situation is complete.
That vent in the cliff pours out its hot gases with such a force that it sounds like the whistle of a locomotive and the sound is plainly audible in the bedchamber three miles distant. Day after day and century after century this safety valve has been sounding and it is sounding as we write,—an awful sound to unaccustomed ears, a pleasant one to those who live within the radius of this wide belt of volcanic activity, for it signifies safety from violent eruption as long as the generating forces beneath the surface are continually spent.
It has been estimated that there are no less than 250,000 tons of sulfur in this place and it is constantly increasing by sublimation from below. The hot area is on a line with hundreds of others of a like character, active or temporally quiet, extending in a line from Krisuvik to Thingvallavatn, a distance of thirty miles. This line is also on the main diagonal of volcanic activity extending from Reykjaness to Mývatn in the northeast. Over five hundred square miles of the fire peninsular is of recent volcanic origin and the subarea is highly heated. Numerous hot springs abound, fumaroles are without number, earthquakes are many, lava frequently issues from the fissures in the mountain sides and there is evidently beneath the crust of earth another Phlegethon, that flaming river of the under world in whose channel flowed flames instead of water.
Around Krisuvik there are many extinct craters filled with water. Gestavatn, Guest-Lake, near the solfatara is of this character. It is said to be without a bottom but this is because it is funnel-shaped and very deep in the center, which marks the old volcanic tube. It is strange that in the midst of this heated territory the waters of this lake should be icy cold. It is a beautiful sheet of water, so deep and so clear that it holds the reflected blue of the sky appearing now to be a sheet of lapis lazuli and now a sapphire blaze. Around its margin a rim of grass and flowers thrive but beyond the ring volcanic rubble and patches of sulfur and clay displace the vegetation. At a greater distance the brilliant surface of Kleifavatn, Cliff-Lake, reflects the encircling bluffs and ragged gorges within whose recesses a small herd of reindeer seek seclusion from the traveller. Down by the sea the Eldborg stands, well worthy of inspection. It is a mound-shaped crater with very thin walls. It would seem as if Pluto was sparing of his solid material when he built this funnel, for he made it as frail as possible as if in haste to pour out the molten matter in a flood upon the surrounding plains. The shore side of the mountain is the home of countless puffin, skua and other aquatic birds. Along the sands of the sea the seal bask in the sunshine or crawl back to their element with the retreating tide. Taken as a whole, the Krisuvik region is a place of fascination, even though one stands on the thin crust of sulfur that feebly supports him, with fire and brimstone in incessant action beneath his feet and clouds of stifling and vile smelling gases enveloping him and his ears are closed to all other sounds by the thundering of the exploding steam. The beauty of the lakes and fells, the peacefulness of the little farm and the kindness of its owners make the traveller disposed to linger till the margin of time between the present and the sailing of the steamer from Reykjavik has been reduced to a minimum.
It was a smiling Sunday morning when we reluctantly packed for the last day of Icelandic travel and turned our faithful steeds towards their home pastures for a much needed rest, little thinking that we would return the following season for a more extended tour and then again on the succeeding summer. On our way towards Reykjavik we turned aside for one more gaze at the alluring solfatara, for one more plunge into the viscid sulfur, for one more sniff of its putrid air, then, swinging around the shoulder of the smoking bluffs we wound our tortuous way to the heights above, dismounted and looked down for the last time upon that scene so fair and yet so terrible. Upon the rim of a great crater we held the ponies by the bridle rein and silently absorbed the glories of the panorama. Below,—thousands of tons of yellow sulfur sublimed in Nature’s furnace sloped downward to the grassy fields awaiting the coming of some genius of industry to transmute it into the precious metal,—from the yellow mounds rose the never ending columns of odorous steam filling the air with quivering spirals and vibrating with a weird incessant roar,—beyond, the lazy sea in azure blue mirrored ten thousand waterfowl on its burnished surface,—to the west, Hengill, arrests the eye, its slopes wreathed in a hazy mantle of vapor issuing from the encircling springs and fumaroles,—nearer, the deep cerulean waters of the crater lakes, the home of the wild swan and golden-eyed duck, throw back the smiles of heaven,—southwest, Reykjavik stands white against the black and ponderous cliffs of Esja,—southward, Faxafjörðr cradles a hundred sailing craft upon its bosom and beyond the fiord, great Snaefells Jökull projects its cone of sparkling ice six thousand feet where the north Atlantic mingles with the icy waters of the Arctic Sea.
The ride of twenty-five miles to the capital city is over a series of craters and across the hraun to Hafnarfjörðr, Harbor-Fiord, thence by an excellent road to Reykjavik. The crossing of the craters is of considerable interest to the geologist. The narrow trail winds down the rim, across the floor strewn with ash and scoriae then up the farther side and thus on from crater to crater till the mountain side is reached then down the mountain side by a winding, troublesome trail to the valley. Here is met as wild a scene of desolation as is to be found in the south of Iceland. The lava flowed over the valley in great billows and out to the ocean. What a commotion that was when the fluid rock slipped hissing into the icy sea, what volumes of steam filled the air, what explosions in the cooling lava as the ocean checked its destructive progress! The lava rises in mammoth blisters with numerous caves that shelter the sheep in the autumn storms. Over all is spread a thin mantle of lichens and within the crevices the Arctic willow and dwarf birch are struggling to reclaim for vegetation this awful wilderness. A wilderness it is, a desolation, a place where witches hung their devil’s cauldrons and brewed their fiendish potions. So intense were their fires that their pots were ruined and when they fled they left the curled and contorted fragments to ensnare the feet of the orthodox traveller. The trail winds down the sides of the cliffs and among the towering blocks in a dizzy fashion. A portion of this territory is called Sveiflaháls, Rolling Hills, that is, an undulating mass of lava. On the right rise huge cliffs that have been frost-shattered and at the foot of the narrow ravines that embouche into the plain huge fans of multi-colored rubble are spread above the crumpled rock. From their coverts in the crevices and from within the little caves spring the ptarmigan while the whimbrel’s call is ceaseless from the undulating hillocks. No grass grows here, no sheep scurry before the traveller and not till the Kaldá, Cold-River, is reached is there anything for the ponies to eat. This is a delightful place to lunch, this grass grown mound within the river, a tiny island in the midst of ice-cold and sparkling water. The river itself is a natural curiosity, as it rises in several springs from under the mountain, like those at Hlíðarendi, flows merrily for two miles and then plunges into a rift to be lost forever, unless it has an underground passage to the sea.
Hafnarfjörðr is a prosperous trading village with a good harbor, a high school and many excellent homes. It contains one house reported to have been built by Snorri Sturlasson. As he was born in 1178 this house is of great age and worthy of a visit. It was doubtless built as reported, for tradition in Iceland is not like Virgil’s Fame, it is truth. The road from this village to Reykjavik is of the best construction and one must admire the skill of the engineer as the pony canters around the curves, ascends the gentle grades and skirts the numerous small inlets of the sea. Many of these tiny bays indent the land, hundreds of piles of peat are drying in the August wind, sheep and cattle are scattered over the upland slopes, the late summer flowers are in full bloom, the tiny fishing craft are rocking on the shimmering sea and the wash of the water in the lava pebbles on the strand adds music to enhance the pleasure of this seaside ride. Out of the austerity of the volcanic passes, into the quiet and serenity of the uncharred meadows, comes the rider, and the load of grandeur and sublimity is lifted that beauty and charm may soothe the mind after the contemplation of these natural creations that astonish and awe. This is the pleasure road of Icelandic youth and those gentlemen who wish to display the points of the latest saddle pony from the great horse fairs of the north. If one has formed the impression that Icelanders are sedate and morose and never given to enjoyment that breeds laughter, he should travel this road on Sunday when it is thronged with country folk and city dwellers alike. Gay groups are here and there, songs that are merry from throats that are attuned fill the air, and seated upon a jutting rock are two young people reciting to each other in this softened light that age-old story, that sweetest of all stories, love. This seaside drive is to the people of Reykjavik what Riverside Drive is to the people of New York City.