Iceland: Horseback tours in saga land

by W. S. C. Russell

From the summit of the pass an extensive view of the Mývatns Öraefa, Desolate Lava of Mývatn, is obtained towards the northeast. It is a trackless ruin wrought by the combined labors of several volcanoes and contains no vegetation save patches of lichens that nourish a small herd of reindeer. At the foot of the slope upon which we halted a vast plain spreads out into the Öraefa. This plain is covered with a thin crust of chemical earths which rest upon a substratum of viscid, hot and sulfur-permeated clay. At the margin we left the ponies and ventured cautiously upon the crust, recalling the experience of Dr. Hooker in a similar situation at Krisuvik, where he nearly lost his life by sinking into the hot mass. The crust will support the curious traveller if he is sufficiently cautious in choosing his route by sounding the shell in front of him with a staff. It reminded me of an experience I had when a boy in watching my father cross a river upon thin ice, where he sounded the ice step by step in advance with the pole of his axe while I followed with great temerity over the cracking ice. As I expressed my fear of breaking through, he replied, “it will hold as long as it cracks.” And so with the sulfur crust above the seething furies, “it will hold as long as it cracks.” Woe to him who fails to sound this undulating crust before his advancing steps! All of this crust is composed of sublimated chemicals brought to the surface by the superheated gases. The crystals are various in form according to their chemical constituents and together they present a discordant color scheme, much like a painter’s palette where the various color daubs have run together. As one crunches the crystals beneath his feet he has the sensation of walking with hob-nails through a jeweller’s showcase.

This Arctic Phlegethon is mottled with pits of boiling bolus. There are four principal groups of these mud cauldrons, each in a basin of baked mud, elevated a few feet above the level of the plain. In 1910 one of these groups contained seven cauldrons, the largest being thirty feet in diameter. The cauldrons are not permanent but crust over from time to time and new ones form in the adjacent areas. The mud rises slowly in a gigantic bubble, like the sticky bubbles on the surface of hot molasses candy, until the gas pressure is sufficient to burst the film, when a cloud of gases suddenly shoots upward, a hot shower of mud is ejected and then the entire mass slides back into the bowels of the earth with a horrid, sickening gasp. It is now safe to mount the rim and watch the mass as it slowly wells upwards for another display. Standing in a bath of vapors one looks backward over the track whence he came and notes tiny columns of steam marking the trail along which he so recently advanced. Every place in the crust that was punctured with the staff is slowly changing into a cauldron like the one at his feet and the traveller experiences a sensation of uneasiness, knowing, as he does, that in a brief time a new line of cauldrons will be in operation and for the first time he fully realizes the insecurity of his position and he longs for the solidity of the lava ridge where he left the hobbled ponies.

Because it suggests the food that may be provided for the guests of the Inferno, the Icelander has named the material within the smoking cauldrons “hell-broth” and the name can not be improved. They boil and splutter, spatter and emit abundant volumes of steam and make a great fuss over the little matter of a solid nature that is ejected. These spiteful explosions are worthy of greater results.

“And still the smouldering flame lurks underground

And tosses boiling fountains to the sky.”

For two hours we wandered among the fumaroles and fountains of seething mud. Oftentimes the crust cracked viciously beneath our feet and we retreated precipitously to a thicker portion of the shell which covers this vast subterranean fire. It gave us much amusement to plug up the orifices of the small fumaroles with plastic clay and sulfur and to wait for them to burst forth spitefully and hurl out a shower of scorching mud.

Following a narrow sheep trail between the edge of the lava and the high ridge that connects Námarskartð with Leirnúkr and Krafla, we arrived at a lonely spot, a deserted Icelandic farm with tumbled down buildings, which gave evidence of having been a prosperous stead before the lava flood spread its fiery wings over the valley. Here we paused for lunch. Among our steamer gifts was a package which was marked for us to open some day when we desired a change from our regular fare. We put it into our hamper that morning and rejoiced to find a bottle of delicious olives. We washed down this lunch with acid water from the brook, which we later found to have its origin in one of the craters of Krafla. On our return from the summit, the ponies, who had had no water for several hours, went eagerly to this brook but after one taste they trotted along. Curious to know why they would not drink since they had freely done so in the morning, I dismounted and tasted the water. It had become much more acid and I could account for it only by supposing that a larger volume than usual had issued from the crater and that there had been less snow water for its dilution than when we had lunched.

The climb soon began in earnest. In a long series of zigzag curves we crossed ridge after ridge of sticky clay interspersed with volcanic ash and pumice. Having gained the summit of the ash ridges we photographed the distant peak of Krafla, traversed a bit of high moorland containing a small crater lake of blue water, entered a sheltered valley between the upper peak of Krafla and Hrafntinnuhryggr, Raven-Peaks-Back, a ridge of obsidian or Icelandic agate. Enormous masses of jet black obsidian of the purest form rise from this ridge and millions of these glass boulders are piled in a talus at the base of the cliffs. I secured an excellent specimen seven inches in diameter, pointed at one side and with a beautiful and double conchoidal fracture for the science museum at Springfield, Mass.

We left the tired ponies to graze in the bit of grass while we made the final ascent of the mountain, which is far above the craters. The slope is steep and is clothed with a thick mat of birches to the very edge of the snow in the ravine. These birches are so small that an entire tree, roots, stem, leaves and catkin may be placed upon a five cent piece without projecting. We saw many tracks of reindeer and picked up a fine set of antlers of the last casting. The herd of these animals in the vicinity of Krafla is thriving as they are undisturbed by the natives.

On the very tip-top of the mountain we erected a cairn and deposited a record of our ascent in a metal cylinder. We then photographed the official flag of the Arctic Club of America and examined the broad and horrent country surrounding the base of this volcano. Before I went to Iceland my mountain climbing had been confined to the mountains of New Hampshire, where a magnificent, virgin forest clothes the middle and lower slopes. To stand upon any mountain in Iceland, with White Mountain impressions in the mind, and gaze at the barrenness of the surrounding country affords the greatest possible contrast.