On this same farm, and at some distance from the margin of the lake, there is a deep rift in the plain, the descent into which is made with little difficulty. There is an abundance of water in the rift at a temperature of 90°F. The place is called Stórigjá, Large-Rift, and is a result of prehistoric earthquake action. The rift is very deep and extends up near to the hot mountain from whence issues the hot water. The water in the bed of the chasm is clear as crystal and reflects most beautifully the narrow streak of sky and the flower encrusted walls. Here the wild geranium and ferns grow abundantly, almost tropically, on the walls and in the clefts of the rocks. It was a novel experience to take a swim deep down in the crust of the earth in this hot water of emerald hue, to look up the chasm and see the towering ridges wreathed with rising steam and then to turn about and gaze towards the snow-capped peaks beyond the other end of the rift. The bath is invigorating and puts vigor and elasticity into the body to such a degree that it is noticeable for hours afterwards. It has been thought to be strongly radio-active.
No journey to Reykjahlið would be complete without a visit to the small island of Slútness, one of the extinct craters in the lake. It is a paradise for ducks. Having obtained permission of the farmer at Grimstaðir, Grim’s-Farm, who owns the island, we rowed out to the island accompanied by the farmer and Ólafur. Such a place for ducks we had never seen; they breed in thousands on the small islands in the lake and in the retired creeks, but the island of Slútness is one great nest for ducks. The farmer told us that he had already taken over 13,000 eggs from the island that season, and had left sufficient for breeding purposes. These eggs are packed in water-glass for winter consumption. One may walk across the island in three minutes with ease and this makes the number of birds seem all the larger. During the nesting season it is not possible to step anywhere without taking precaution not to tread upon the birds. Here one may see the Golden Eyed Duck, Clangula Islandica, in all its glory, lift it from the nest for photographing and return it without any apparent disturbance to the bird. The eider duck, Somateria Mollissima Dresseri, is abundant on this island, though usually seeking the sea coast during the nesting season. The island itself, even if the birds were missing, is charming. It is circular in form, with the crater portion filled with water to the level of the lake. It is in this water that the ducklings take their first swimming exercises. In many places it was literally covered with the puffy brown balls that darted hither and yon amid the loud scolding of the numerous mothers in their efforts to keep the different families from getting inextricably mixed. Around the margin of the basin there is a remarkable plant society with numerous members, wonderful for this high latitude, above Lat. 65°-30´. The mountain ash and Arctic willow form dense thickets near the margin of the pool and close to the water the Angelica, Angelica officinalis, stands to a height of five feet and when crushed fills the air with the fragrance of its oil. This plant grows luxuriantly on many portions of the lake shore as well as on the islands and it is highly prized by the inhabitants. The list of plants which we collected here is too long to give in full. There were over thirty specimens of flowering plants, among which we noticed the violets in dense mats, vigorous geraniums, Geranium maculatum, with larger and deeper colored blossoms than in New England, dandelions and arnica in great profusion, asters, marigolds and wild pinks. This island will yield a good deal of information to the botanist interested in Ecology and in the variation of species.
The house at Reykjahlið, is an ancient one built of turf and stone with the usual turf roof, covered with grass in a flourishing condition. In front of the house is the only windmill that I have seen in Iceland. The sails are of galvanized iron and laid on the yards in squares like the glass in a window. The mill is a small affair and is used to grind barley and rye for the use of the family. No grain is raised in the country but it is all imported from Europe and ground as needed. The entrance to the house, like the one described in the chapter on Hekla, is through a hallway with an age-trodden floor. The guest room is finished in wood and we found it neat and clean. We are glad to report this state of cleanliness because the English writers tell strange tales about the uncleanliness of this house and its vermin-infested guest room. The people at the farm spoke no English but they waited upon us with the customary Icelandic cordiality and we thoroughly enjoyed the several meals prepared especially for our table. The trout came fresh from the lake and the prime eggs from ducks’ nests on the islands.
A Hot Water Fall at Hveravellir.
Slútness, Crater Island in the Mývatn. Home of the Golden Eyed Duck.
One day I found a magnificent specimen of an edible mushroom, Lycoperdon giganteum, and to the horror of the people on the farm I requested that it be cooked. This specimen was ten inches in diameter, hard, white and in prime condition. It had been long since we had tasted mushrooms and our vegetable diet had been a sparing one since we left the steamer, so I persisted, through Ólafur, that “the Americans really mean that they wish this mushroom cooked and they will eat it.” Our directions were carefully followed and the Lycoperdon came to the table well prepared and in full flavor. What consternation it created in the kitchen we will never know, save that there was much talking there and uproarious laughter in that department during the cooking process. The maiden who brought it to the table came in with a blushing face and ill-concealed laughter at some remarks that followed as she left the kitchen. It certainly was delicious and after we had dipped deeply into the contents of the tureen, Ólafur was persuaded to try it and the farmer standing in the doorway looked aghast when he saw Ólafur eat it. Ólafur pronounced it good and invited the farmer to try it but the latter shook his head in a manner to convince us that he had no idea of being so unwise as to eat such a thing. On the following morning when I called for the remainder, the response was,—“it is all gone.” Whether they threw it away or whether it was eaten after consultation with Ólafur I will never know for a certainty but I believe that it was eaten, also I believe that every sizable Lycoperdon growing on this farm in the future is destined for the stew pan with real cream.
We tarried at the farm for three days and during this time we had every possible attention paid to our comfort. The farmer always came to our room during meals and took coffee with us and smoked a cigar at the end. He always proffered his snuff horn to me but I was impolite enough to refuse this courtesy. Snuff taking is universal among the men. When two men meet upon the trail, whether they know each other or not, they salute, each brings out the snuff horn and the horns are exchanged. A little is then poured upon the back of the left wrist from which it is snuffed up the right and then the left nostril. One or two violent sneezes follow, each man trying to sneeze the louder in compliment to the finer quality of the other’s snuff, though it often happens that both horns were filled out of the same jar in the store. The sneezing over, they again shake hands, salute and ride their several ways.