In connection with this there was another incident of sharpness that came to my attention in the summer of 1913, though it may have been done more from the love of a joke than from any intention to defraud. The Icelander is very fond of a joke, especially when at the expense of some one else. The steamship company trading around the coast advertises “to return empties free of charge.” A farmer in Borg sold a cow to a man in Reykjavik with the understanding that the skin was to be returned to him. The man in Reykjavik tied up the skin and shipped it to the farmer in Borg. The steamship company charged the farmer for carrying the bundle. The farmer replied,—
“But there is no charge. You took the cow to Reykjavik and you offer to return ‘empties free of charge’ and if a cow skin is not an empty, what is it?”
Up and up we climbed to an elevation of about 2,000 feet to the height of land, the watershed between Skagafjörðr, Cape-Fiord, and Eyjafjörðr. The ride down the valley towards the west is wild in the extreme. The trail passes through a long mountain pasture where we encountered about one hundred young ponies, thence along the edge of a chasm so deep that the tumbling of the water in the bed came up to us only as a murmur. On our right rose impassable cliffs and rubble screes and it was along this talus of rolling material, composed of disintegrating lava and sand, that we made our way. There are places where a false step or a small avalanche would sweep horse and rider into the depths of the chasm. When the canyon widened, the green-white of the water flashed up to us like masses of liquid emerald. The trail improved as we descended and the declivity became less precipitous; having a long distance ahead of us we gave the ponies a free bit and away we went in a joyful gallop down the grade. We had been discussing the prospects of a tumble a few moments before when on the edge of the cliff but now all fear had vanished. My pony stumbled on some small stones and I shot over his head much to the amusement of my companion. Mrs. Russell was following at this point. Scarcely had I regained my seat in the saddle and reined in to the rear when her pony stumbled and threw her in a similar manner. She was not hurt. This was my second and her first tumble during the two summers of riding, so she held up two fingers to me from time to time. She was laughing at my poor horsemanship and I pushed on to the head of the train. A great raven perched on a lava point was croaking excitedly and it seemed to me that he said, “saw-you, saw-you, saw-you!” Turning to look at this fine black bird I saw my brave companion trying to remount from a second tumble without letting me know of it. She never forgave that raven, for if he had not notified me of the mishap she might still have held those two mocking fingers at me.
Rapidly we descended to the lower valley and forded the rapid river. Ravine after ravine opened into the valley, each bringing its turbulent stream to swell the great river far below the trail. We lingered here and there to examine the rocks and I was surprised at the outcroppings of copper in the form of copper carbonate. Zeolites of great beauty are imbedded in the lava and I have often longed for a day or two to explore some of those ravines that lead from this pass. There are indications of considerable copper in two places in Iceland and since Iceland has unlimited water power for the electrical treatment of ore some one will soon ascertain the quantity of copper present.
As the valley became wider it turned towards the northwest and we caught glimpses of tiny homes on the opposite side of the river. Desolate homes are these among the mountains, far away from neighbors. The farmers eke out a bare living with the produce of their sheep. Down came the wind in mighty gusts bringing rain and mists that shut out all distances. The winds came directly from the ice sheets and as the clouds shut out the sun the rain soon turned to a driving sleet. We were tired, cold and hungry and thoroughly in need of shelter. The top of a tiny spire showed itself through the mist below and I thought, “Miklebaer at last.” Ólafur dashed our hopes by saying that this farm with its excellent buildings and its hospitable pastor was two hours ride beyond the metal church below us. He urged us forward but I refused as it was not possible to ride further, except in a case of life or death. So we reined into the tún of Silfrastaðir, Silver-Stead, and while we were dismounting a man, blind with age, tottered towards us on his cane and extended his trembling hand and in the Saga phrase, “he greeted us well.” That little tumbled down home in the mountain pass, that small bed in a cupboard in the wall, how good they looked to us! That Icelandic welcome! We had received it on the prosperous farms and in the city, yes in the more favored portions of the land, even in the home of the Governor, but never before, never since, has any abode seemed so pleasant and all other welcomes at home and abroad shrink in value when compared with the welcome and the cordial hospitality of this poor blind man of Silfrastaðir, who gave us the best he had and bade us “God speed” on the morrow.
During the night our ponies ran away and it was a long time before Ólafur found them. They were going, according to their habit, before the wind and were nearly down to Miklebaer when the guide found them. While he was pony hunting I repaired to the little kitchen, if such it may be called, and over a fire of dried sheep manure made some coffee and with the provisions in our packing boxes we made a good breakfast. We got away at ten thirty and soon after noon arrived at Miklebaer and turned into the tún enclosure to visit the grave of Frederick W. W. Howell, F. R. G. S. Howell was the author of the Pen Pictures of Iceland. He had spent many summers in the country and knew it the best of any Englishman. His illustrations are works of art and his descriptions of natural scenery are faithful and full of appreciation. Howell was the first to make the ascent of the Öraefa Jökull, 6,400 feet in height and the highest peak in Iceland. This was in August 1891. He lost his life in fording the Heraðsvötn, District-Waters, a broad, swift and deep river which flows through the valley of the Skagafjörðr. The place was opposite the farm of Miklebaer. This farm belongs to the church and within its cemetery the unfortunate Englishman is buried. A marble memorial marks his resting place and bears the following inscription:—
In Loving Memory
of
Frederick W. W. Howell,
F. R. G. S.
Who Was Called to His Rest
From the Heraðsvötn River
3d. July 1901
Aged 44.
“Asleep in Jesus, Oh What Rest!
So them also which sleep in Jesus
Will God bring with Him.”
The pastor invited us into his study and refreshed us with coffee and cakes and conversed with us in German and broken English. He had a good library of English, German and Icelandic works. Our stay was longer than we intended, for Ólafur, (this time it was a young lady and not the ponies that caused the delay), found a fair maiden of pleasing conversation. We finally started without the guide and later when he had overtaken us at the fiord and I teased him about his tardiness he stated that the maiden asked him to wait while she wrote a letter to a friend of hers in Reykjavik and requested him to be the messenger. It must have been a long letter. Had he collected as long a letter from each of the attractive maidens at the many farms where we called in the summer of 1910 he would have had a good sized mail by the time he reached the capital.
On arrival at the ferry we found a good boat into which we loaded four of the ponies at a time with the packing cases. It was here that we met the venerable poet, Matthias Jochumsson. Remounting we crossed a wonderfully rich grass plain. It is in this valley that the best ponies of Iceland are bred. Later in the day we arrived at Viðimýri, Wide-Bog. Here we were fortunate in witnessing a pony-fair at which hundreds of ponies changed hands. They are gathered from the mountains for sale to the exporters and it is here that the Icelandic gentleman comes for his private saddle pony.