Iceland Day 13 – Höfn Day1

Day 13 – Sunday September 7, Seyðisfjörður to Höfn

We did not know it, but when it started raining in earnest yesterday afternoon on the way to Seyðisfjörður, it was the beginning of a multi-day pattern of pretty miserable weather, weather that would cause us to change our plans. I should say that the weather was miserable in the context of our trip; Iceland certainly has much more miserable weather that it could have thrown at us. Over the next several days, as I told Ann repeatedly, we needed to embrace the suck. The weather was not improving; only our attitudes toward the weather could improve.

I awoke this morning knowing that it had rained through the night, hearing it banging on the windows as I woke sporadically through the dark hours. When I was fully awake and able to look out the window, it was still raining and the mountains behind us looked a foggy mess that I hoped would improve before we got on the road to drive to the far southeast corner of the country near the village of Höfn.

Morning View of the Mountains We Had to Cross

For a change of pace and to give the fog time to lift, buoyed by the success of last night's dinner at the Hotel Aldan, we took advantage of the breakfast and thermal carafes of drip coffee that they lay out for a reasonable fee. We are not big breakfast eaters, but having time to kill and seeking to lift our spirits against the gray misery outside, we donned our raingear and walked across to the hotel.

Along the path to breakfast, scads of Redwings were attacking and scarfing mountain-ash berries, creating a clucking ruckus just like their cousins, the ever familiar American Robins. Our mountain-ash berries seem to be a couple weeks less ripe than these Europe Mountain-ash berries which are deep scarlet orange. Our Cascade Mountain-ash berries were only half-heartedly pumpkin orange when we left two weeks ago. They are likely coloring nicely now.

For breakfast, I had a lot of American drip coffee. Foodwise, I was craving fiber so I took a bit of muesli mixed with half raw oats and a slice of delicious sunflower seed bread. I skipped the warm buffet complete with the typical buffet eggs cooked to the size and consistency of BBs. The cold buffet included many nice breads, cold cuts and cheeses, and my all-time favorite, pickled herring. It never looks great, but I have always loved it since I was a toddler. Ann gamely tasted a tiny piece and immediately left it to me.

If You Have Nothing Good to Say About Pickled Herring,
Say Nothing and Pass Me Your Portion

Breakfast complete and car packed, we pulled away and out of town at 0930 to head up into the foggy mountains. I was not amused to run up on a car going 40kph in a 90 zone almost immediately outside of town. I wanted to go perhaps 70 and when I tried to pass on a long straight stretch, the small oriental woman holding the steering wheel in a death grip gunned her engine to keep me from passing. We have encountered so many bad tourist drivers. Ultimately, the fog was not as bad as I thought it would be. The road went mainly under the fog layer except at the very top where the track runs largely flat and straight.

On the way back into Egilsstaðir where we bought groceries yesterday, we saw almost nothing with visibility limited to 500 meters or less. It would rain the entire day and the visibility would not improve at all as we followed the ring road Route 1 along coastal fjords rather than taking Route 95 through the mountains. Route 95 is not the shortcut that the mapping apps think it is and definitely not an option in sketchy weather conditions.

We stopped briefly in Djúpivogur, supposedly a photographable fishing village. We found it a town of little charm and returned to the ring road quickly. Beyond this, we intended to stop at Fauskasandur, a black sand beach with a large block sea stack, but our GPS had us turn off on a dirt road just before the official turn. After driving down to the cliff edge and fording a creek, we drove perhaps 600 meters parallel to the ocean along the cliff top to a rocky prominence where we stopped.

Despite the miserable weather, this was a fortuitous stop that we had all to ourselves. At the edge of the cliff, dozens of Northern Fulmars swooped by us at eye level, unconcerned with either us or the rainy gale-like conditions. Clambering back into the car, we continued on to the official parking area for Fauskasandur, finding it anticlimactic after where we had just been.

Near Fauskasandur

Northern Fulmars Unconcerned About the Weather

Surf Raging in off the Atlantic Ocean

Sea Stack at Fauskasandur Proper

All throughout Iceland, we had seen innumerable cairns near the roads, especially in the Westfjords and now again in the Eastfjords. Stone cairns, called vörður, have been used for centuries as wayfinding points and trail markers, protected historic artifacts that are part and parcel of Icelandic culture. People building new cairns has become a problem in Iceland. Leave no trace is always the best policy.

Cairns Called Vörður are Common in the Eastfjords

After limping down the ring road behind a car driving 45kph in a 90 zone through a several kilometer-long no passing zone, we finally were able to get around and get back to decent speed. Soon enough on this remote stretch between Egilsstaðir and Höfn, we saw a chair inexplicably perched atop a boulder and we knew Ann needed a photo op. At the next place to turn around, a dirt road pulling off to the inland side of the highway, we noticed several cars up ahead at a small waterfall. I went to investigate while Ann stayed behind trying to figure out what creek I was looking at and what the chair was all about.

Stumbled on Fremstifoss by Accident

Bridge from Which I Took the Head-On Shot of Fremstifoss

After I took a few photos of the Fremstifoss and the pedestrian bridge in front of it, we backtracked to the chair that is actually labeled Red Chair on Google Maps. While most of the day, the rain has been of the annoying so-so variety, as soon as we tried to shoot photos, it started to pour. I suppose that the chair is something akin to a public art installation.

Annie on the Red Chair in the Pouring Rain

At the very southeastern corner of Iceland, one of the must-see sights is Stokksnes, a headland jutting out into the ocean with a picturesque black beach framing the strikingly craggy Vestrahorn peak. We planned to visit today and make a circuit hike starting from the Viking Cafe and Guesthouse. But, we knew it was a losing bet before we even turned onto the entrance road to reconnoiter the area, it raining all day, heavily at times.

As we approached the cafe and the radar station, the wind blew like hell, at one point shoving the car sideways by a half a meter, unnerving us both. We called our little foray quits and headed to our apartment less than five minutes away. Even if we had gotten out, we could not see but a few meters ahead of us and camera equipment would have been useless in the sideways rain. Perhaps it would clear for us to make a visit tomorrow.

Unable to secure affordable lodging in the town of Höfn, we booked a cabin nearby in the countryside along the ring road. As we turned off the ring road, a cluster of perhaps a dozen small black boxy structures appeared in the midst of what appears to be former pasture to our left. Turning into the complex, we could see that each box comprised three one-room apartments cheek-by-jowl, each with a front door looking out on the world. This triplex format feels appropriate for Iceland where a common theme is the álfhól, the elf hall, often represented as a tiny set of three birdhouse-like dwellings joined in a row like a triple townhouse.

Dark Clouds Looming over our Álfhól

Warm and Dry at Last; Wind is Raging Outside

After we situated our belongings in our tiny house, the weather became progressively worse, eliminating any further outdoor activity. I resigned myself to relaxing and potentially never getting to see Stokknes. Because we have been away from home for a couple weeks, I have not had the opportunity to write, a creative exercise that I both enjoy and find therapeutic. Sometimes I like to write more intentionally than the simple stream of consciousness narration for these blog posts. Having killed our plans for the day, the wind and rain gave me time and opportunity to craft the following:

“Gazing wistfully through the rain-streaked sliding glass door of our álfhól into the foggy gray late afternoon, I appreciate the non-stop waves of wind making themselves visible through the rain-distorted glass as wild ripples in the grass as far as I can see, the tall grass on the mound outside the door bent nearly to the ground by random bursts of chilly wind, some gusts merely attention getting, some seemingly the wrathful vengeance of an unseen wind god.

In the distance beyond the adjacent farmer’s field and several others after that, the strikingly jagged and massive mountain called Vestrahorn becomes cloudier by the minute, only a few meters of the bottom of the craggy 900-meter behemoth currently visible in the mist. The low-hanging clouds have also obscured the stark white waterfall twisting and hurtling down the seemingly vertical dark mountainside behind the silo across the way.

The newly shorn grass in the nearer field offers a swath of brilliant Irish green, but the local shaggy-maned Icelandic horses that were previously grazing nonchalantly on the verdant buffet in the drizzle have sought shelter against the forceful rain that is drumming and banging on the flat roof of our tiny house building, not how we imagined our long-planned vacation in Iceland.

The decidedly ugly weather guarantees that we will not see some things we planned or wanted to, but that is life, is it not? Plans scrapped for the day, Ann and I are together, warm, dry, drinking a glass of wine, and looking out at the rain from comfort, and that is as good as today gets. Every day should be this good.”

Vestrahorn Invisible in the Clouds

Waterfall Behind the Silo
At Times Obscured by Clouds

For dinner, we pulled the tiny table away from the wall to the center of the floor and I laid out a feast of crackers, cheese, salame, and Icelandic smoked lamb. The lamb was less than what I hoped for, overly processed and overly smoked, a sad ending for lamb that is some of the world’s best.

I Like the Joke Here on the Label
"Little Chablis - Not So Little"
Petit Chablis is a Sister Appellation to Chablis

The rain abated by 1930 as we streamed a couple shows before lights out. Once the lights were out, the rain started in again, heavier than ever and the wind howled at gale levels.