Iceland Day 14 – Höfn Day 2

Monday September 8, Höfn Day 2

Two weeks into our trip, I scheduled another down day knowing that we would likely be tired, but also that we are entering the south coast of Iceland where the must-see sights come one right after the other. A slack day would offer the freedom to accelerate or postpone sights according to our level of energy and the weather.

As I woke intermittently in the night, rain fell more or less hard, but constantly. At the stroke of two, a loud and violent blast of wind ramming into the side of the house like a car collision and a smattering of raindrops across my face caused me to lower the casement window two meters from where I lay in bed. How hard must the wind howl to force rain two meters horizontally into a building through a window just barely tilted open at the bottom? The weather station near us recorded gusts of 27 m/s or about 62 mph. The wind in Iceland is not a joke.

At 0545 when I awoke for good, the rain had slacked but was still spitting, Willamette Valley-style. The wind, however, was a near constant 10-15m/s with more serious gusts randomly. The forecast had the wind increasing and the rain decreasing throughout the morning, with rain resuming in the early afternoon. The maintenance guy who came by opined, without a trace of sarcasm, “This is normal; this is good weather.”

We opted out of hiking around Vestrahorn on the Stokknes peninsula yesterday on account of the blasting wind, sideways rain, and zero visibility. I hoped that we might revisit the hike today, but the local morning weather and the visibility vetoed this hope. However, the forecast showed a window without rain in the morning until 1300 to our west, so we decided to head west.

At 0800, from our apartment near Höfn, we drove west towards Vík to see the glacial lakes Fjallsárlón and Jökulsárlón (árlón meaning reservoir or lagoon), planning to return to Höfn to purchase gas, groceries, and lunch. After lunch we would make a weather-based decision what to do, such as visit Stokknes, knowing the afternoon forecast was dire.

On our drive west to the lagoons, we saw many road signs warning of animals, the equivalent of the American "Open Range" signs as well as signs with the outline of specific animals. In the U.S. West, we are familiar with Open Range signs, meaning, cattle are not fenced in and will at some point get out on the road. We are all too familiar with elk, deer, bison, moose, and mustang warning signs as well.

In Iceland, a country where it is impossible to travel 10km and not see sheep grazing on the road shoulder, why on earth are there specific sheep warning signs in certain locations, especially along the ring road in the south? Sheep are just a given. I understand the reindeer warning signs there for the winter when they come down from the hills, just like the elk herds here in Oregon. But, sheep? That is like putting up a sign on an Icelandic road warning that it might rain.

Fjallsárlón and Jökulsárlón, located a mere 10 kilometers from each other, are lagoons formed from meltwater off the massive Vatnajökull glacier. A glacial snout meets each body of water and calves off icebergs that float on the water, their blue ice contrasting with the water. Fjallsárlón is the smaller and less visited lagoon, while Jökulsárlón is overrun with tourists. They are different experiences, however, and Jökulsárlón is much more impressive than Fjallsárlón.

Our first stop was the further point west, Fjallsárlón, from which we would backtrack to our apartment outside Höfn. The unpaved ring road between the two glacial lagoons was a pluperfect mess, undergoing repair and wickedly muddy and bumpy, all part and parcel of the perpetual highway repair in a country where tremendous floods destroy roads at will.

As we pulled into the Fjallsárlón car park, the rain was pouring in wind-blown horizontal sheets. Standing in the lee of the car, it was all I could do to put on my rain pants and jacket, the jacket especially because the wind was trying to whip it away from me as I struggled to put my arms in the arm holes. This was surely going to be a miserable experience, and it was.

Ann's Thoughts on the Nasty Weather

A few moments after taking this picture, I found myself all alone, Ann having retreated to the car, the allure of a few bergs in a glacial pond insufficient motivation to stay out in the elements. A short walk later, I stood all alone at the lagoon, rain streaming off the brim of my hat across my glasses, accompanied by a White Wagtail that was seemingly unphased by the weather. With visibility limited to just a few meters, I had no idea how small and compact the lagoon was. I could barely see the blue ice of the calved-off bergs. Just as I was leaving, a couple who was as crazy as am I wandered down to the edge of the lagoon. I have included a photo of them for scale.

Blue Ice and Silty Water at Fjallsárlón

Intrepid Idiots Joined Me in the Driving Rain
Snout of the Glacier Across the Pond Was Not Visible to Naked Eye

Gladly returning to the car, I did not take off my rain suit knowing that we were just going down the road a few minutes to Jökulsárlón. As I made my way out of the parking lot, I discovered that an idiot tourist parked in the exit for the lot, thinking perhaps that it was a parking slot, or perhaps not thinking at all. I am voting for the later; I doubt the driver cares.

In about ten minutes, after navigating the torn-up ring road and then waiting in a long line of cars for our turn to cross the one-lane bridge over the Jökulsá, the outlet from Jökulsárlón to the Atlantic Ocean, we turned into the parking area. Unlike nearly the empty lot at Fjallsárlón, the massive parking area was overrun with thousands of visitors, cars, and tour buses. If the gorgeous bergs on the lagoon were not staring us in the face and beckoning us to see them, I do believe we might have turned right around and kept driving instead of dealing with the crowds. It did not hurt that the sky started clearing or at least the rain backed off.

Blue Bergs and Blue Water at Jökulsárlón

After taking our obligatory photos of the stunning lagoon, we followed the east bank of the Jökulsá downstream under the ring road bridge to its confluence with the ocean. The current in the Jökulsá is almost unimaginably swift and creates large rapids near the bridge. Beyond the bridge on the ocean side of the ring road, the black beach extends for 100 meters or more to the ocean.

Bergs Headed Under the Bridge and Out to Sea

As the icebergs break off the face of the glacier and float in the lagoon, the current takes them, almost imperceptibly slowly at first, down the river, under the bridge, and out into the ocean. By the time the bergs reach the narrow outlet with its screaming current, the journey to the sea is quick. Once the bergs reach the ocean, the prevailing winds, the waves, and the tides all conspire to drive the ice up onto the beach on both sides of the mouth of the river. When the tide ebbs, it strands the icebergs on the sand.

This black sand beach adorned with glittering ice has been branded Diamond Beach, but is known in Icelandic as Breiðamerkursandur or Fellsfjara. We were on the eastern side of the river mouth or Eystri-Fellsfjara; dozens of people were on the western side, Vestri-Fellsfjara, as well. As much as we enjoyed this beautiful scene, the hundreds of tourists had me wishing for our visits to glacial lakes in Alaska where Ann and I were the only visitors. And the only things on the beach beside us and the ice were bear tracks.

A Final Shot at Jökulsárlón, Black-legged Kittiwakes on a Floe

We exited the parking lot onto the ring road eastbound, happy to have seen the ice, but done with pushy Asian tourists disrupting our photos and clueless American TikTok kids not looking where they were going, heads buried in their phones. The weather was clearing, at least temporarily, and on the way back to Höfn, it cleared at times for me to see the snout of a glacier or two.

We drove past our apartment into Höfn to buy gas, food, and lunch. The groceries were forward looking for tomorrow night when we would be staying on a farm a long way from any town. I bought a bag of frozen bay scallops thinking they would hold up on the trip without a cooler. They did fine.

After the errands, we went in search of lunch. Höfn is the langoustine capital of Iceland, though they call them lobsters. Acting on a tip, we sought out the tiny diner called Hafnarbúðin which is known for its langoustine baguettes. The place may be known for these sandwiches and they may be busy with locals ordering in and to-go, but the langoustine baguettes were a waste of money. There were seven medium shrimp-sized langoustine tails between our two sandwiches, beyond skimpy. We also ordered chicken and avocado BLTs to go for dinner. They proved better.

Sadly Skimpy Langoustine Baguette at Hafnarbúðin

In the restaurant parking lot after lunch, we thought about plans for the afternoon. On a good day, the parking lot looks directly at Stokknes and Vestrahorn. Today was not a good day and Vestrahorn was still socked in. My hope to see Vestrahorn was dashed. Quickly looking at the afternoon forecast and seeing that squalls were imminent, we chose to return to our tiny home to snuggle in and watch the storm howl in from the southeast off the Atlantic Ocean from the direction of the Faroe Islands. On the way back, we stopped to take photos of the several rainbows lighting up the sky.

Rainbow at Höfn

We arrived back to our tiny house at 1245 and a heavy squall blew in promptly at 1250 just as stated in the forecast. Much of the wind and rain is a function of the Icelandic low which sees collisions between warm air from the Gulf Stream/North Atlantic Current and cold air coming south from the Arctic.

Yesterday’s storm about which I waxed poetic was a mere warm up for today’s. This afternoon, our casement windows have been slammed shut several times despite their stout hinges and the bathroom vent stack is whistling like a flute or like someone playing a water glass as the wind rushes over the top of it. The sustained winds from the southeast are 15 m/s or about 33.5 mph. The gusts are far more severe, up in the hurricane range. Call me impressed. Iceland has weather unlike any other place I have ever been.

After nine straight hours of wind without let up, it is bed time. Given the awful weather, I would be surprised if we were in a hurry to leave tomorrow.