I visited the east coast of Iceland on two consecutive summers. The first visit was in 1910 with Mrs. Russell; the second trip to this realm of fog was in 1911 as the geologist of the Stackhouse Expedition to Jan Mayen. During the former year we stopped at Eskifjörðr, Ash-Fiord, Seyðisfjörðr, Cooking-Fiord, and Vopnafjörðr; during the latter visit the Expedition spent several days in the eastern fiords especially at Faskrudsfjörðr, Seyðisfjörðr and in the bight of Langaness, Long-Cape. We were storm bound for two days at Langaness and then we returned to the south and followed the Norwegian tramp steamer Ask into Faskrudsfjörðr. Here we recoaled, then returned to the protection of Langaness, made slight repairs to our engine and finally reached Jan Mayen. On our return from the north we again entered Seyðisfjörðr for coal and repairs, before putting south to Faroe. These wanderings along this mountainous and fiord-cut coast have given me ample opportunity to examine the wonderful formations, to penetrate the fiords, climb some of the mountains and explore the waterfall regions as well as to observe the people engaged in fishing. The narration in this chapter is the result of the observations and experiences of two summers without any attempt to give the dates.
When the Fog Lifted,—Entrance to Seyðisfjörðr.
Washing Split Cod at Faskrudsfjörðr.
Once more in Icelandic waters, this time off the east coast. It had been a smooth run up from Faroe, with a pleasant ship’s company and a placid sea. Morning enveloped us in a fog dense as a dripping blanket. Confidently the Botnia held her course with her siren sounding every minute. At two in the afternoon the echo of the whistle announced that we were under the lava cliffs of Iceland, but they were invisible. The ship was stopped but she drifted strongly with the current rushing out of a fiord. For a long time we had heard the whistle of a steamer and even the voices of her invisible crew. It recalled to our minds the phantom ship of Pierre Loti. Suddenly she burst into view, the Scarpa, a Scotch whaler, and she ran under our starboard bow to enquire of our skipper his position.
The rote of the waves upon the cliffs of Krossaness, Cross-Cape, so named from the snow formations in the cross-shaped ravines upon the mountain slopes, grew louder. Just as many of the passengers were anxious for their safety, we shot out of the wall of fog, like a needle through a blanket, into clear sunshine. Behind us the fear-breeding fog, before us the sentinel mountains of a sunken valley whose bottom was filled with placid water; it was Reydarfjörðr, Whale-Fiord. The full glory of the glacier-carved and snow-bonneted mountains, streaked with tumbling cascades and strips of green sphagnum burst upon us.
At midnight we dropped the anchor at Eskifjörðr at the time when twilight and dawn mingled their changing colors. Such sunset glows upon snow and multi-colored lava are seldom witnessed elsewhere. A flush of rose-purple fell upon the cliffs and crept slowly upward to the snow line. The sun was setting in the north to rise in the north within the next few moments. The livid shades poured through the mountain pass upon the water in the free-way and streamed up the snow-mantled lava; up, up the streamers went, deepening the purple hues upon the reddish basalt, tinging the icy domes with a roseate flush. The village was asleep. Our whistle called forth the postmaster and a few laborers, the latter to assist in exchanging a portion of our cargo for fish, wool and eider down. We rowed ashore and climbed the mountain at the back of the hamlet to an elevation of 1800 feet to a large waterfall plunging beneath a snow arch which spanned the gorge.
At the border of the snow we gathered many Arctic flowers in full bloom, among them the purple Armaria and the dainty blue Pinguicula as well as two species of Orchids. Standing on top of the snow arch, which reverberated with the roar of the cataract beneath, we looked over the midnight fiord. A whale was anchored in the offing awaiting the flensing knives while over it the gulls were wheeling in anticipation of the morning feast; a woman was washing clothes in the brook and below her a boy was cleaning trout; our steamer was discharging her cargo by means of row boats, but all else in fiord and hamlet was quiet. The long fiord shimmered with the mingled midnight lights and the purple-tinted spires of the mountain ranges were reflected in these vast depths. This was Iceland’s second greeting, an earnest of the glories we were to experience during the coming weeks.