A Waterfall, a Crater, and a Mood

On the cabin’s surprisingly well curated bookshelf is an anthology, Wanderlust, with a thrilling introduction by Pico Iyer. He quotes Camus that “what gives value to travel is fear,” and that’s true but incomplete. I prefer his quote from Santayana. “Travel is like love: It cracks you open, and so pushes you over all the walls and low horizons that habits and defensiveness set up.” Although I think of my return to Portland with joy, the fire and ice still have work to do.

As we leave Reykjavik, following the Ring Road south and east towards Selfoss, a drizzle turns to flakes and the roads thicken with snow. I’m grateful for studded tires and all-wheel drive, and for Carly’s admiration of my driving skills. One of Carly’s many unusual qualities is the ability to deliver effusively over-the-top praise with such sincerity that I can’t help but take it in. She marvels at my proficiency and my spine straightens as I navigate us through the blanketed fields of lava. After about an hour we descend into the southern lowlands and the snow gives way to sleet, the land turns to brown and tan scrub, and after a river and a couple of roundabouts, pull into the slushy parking lot of the Selfoss Bonús grocery store.

The parking lot is mayhem, the order of Iceland gone to wrack and ruin. Cars are parked randomly, pedestrians rush thither and yon with blatant disregard for vehicles and other pedestrians, while fresh cars enter as if into a pinball machine. We survive the walk inside and enjoy the magnificence of the grocery store. I use the self-checkout machine this time, which does indeed have an English option and spends the next four minutes loudly reminding everyone in the building that I do not speak enough Icelandic to get my own groceries. We depart, barely escaping the parking lot with our purchases and our lives, and drive north through more sleet and wind to the cabin.

About half an hour from the cabin, I realize how tiring the drive is today. My confidence has grown, but navigating this weather and these roads requires fierce concentration. Carly cheers me on and I breathe, grateful that at least the route is familiar now. Back at the cabin, we unpack groceries and then put on boots and head lamps and walk over to the main building to get fresh linens. Snow falls the entire time, and I interrupt our conversation every three minutes to exclaim over it. Then we read, write, play a few rounds of gin rummy, and enjoy a post-dinner soak in the hot tub. There are no stars or aurora, but there is snow. The wind has settled and the flakes drift down, melting on the heat of my arms.

Sunday morning, the sky has cleared and the world is layered in white. The long grasses behind the cabin have frozen, looking for all the world like packaged fettuccine dusted with flour. The mountains and fields are all white, the placid sheep nosing through the snow to find better grazing. The clouds will roll in later, but as the day starts, the sun is low and bright in a sky of winter blue. We have breakfast and then drive west — the car starts right up again this morning, thank all the gods — to the Gulfoss waterfall.

The roads are snowy but not icy, for the most part, and the drive is more relaxed than yesterday’s. We drive past Geysir, the linguistic origin point for the English “geyser,” and pause on the road while throngs of tourists cross from the parking lot to fenced-in steaming hot springs edged in neon green. Past Geysir, the roads are snowier, the traffic lighter; we cross a one-lane bridge over a stunning river, and pass more Icelandic ponies than I could count.

The parking lot of the Gulfoss waterfall has a modest number of cars when we arrive. When I open the door, I’m suddenly grateful for all my layers. Until today, I’ve wondered if maybe I overpacked; the temperatures have been mostly above freezing, skies mostly clear. Now, all at once, my base layers and parka and snow boots and heavy gloves feel like I packed exactly right.

We walk to the first overlook to see the wide Ölfusá river plunge down two immense steps into a crevice. The thundering falls send up a wide spray of mist that curls over the parking lot; every exposed centimeter of my skin is frigid but I don’t care. The snow and sun and churning water lift my spirits into the blue.

We tromp up a long staircase of gridded metal, up to a higher set of overlooks. The fresh snow crunches under my boots, that magical zippery sound. At the farthest overlook, we try taking a selfie together; in the cold and the harsh light, my face is scrunched up like I’m filled with a holy rage but happy about it. (Later I’ll chuckle about my expression and Carly will object that it’s a great photo and that I look literary, which will only send me into gales of laughter.)

I can’t bring myself to go into the gift shop at the top of the hill. Beyond us, in the distance but seeming like I could reach out and touch them, are low jagged peaks and the dome of the glacier. The cabin back in Uthlið is rural, but the land beyond me here is remote, the kind of place that wouldn’t just push me over walls but demolish them and swallow their rubble. I feel a tug towards the wild, and a thrill of fear. The gift shop behind me is depressingly tame in comparison. Glancing across the window displays, I do hear the echoes of smaller desires — that dress, that shawl, those boots; would I look more sophisticated, be more attractive, be happier with these things? — but the consumerist song is annoying rather than seductive. I want to stay in the snow, cold and awake.

On the walk down to the car, we pass through the richest mix of languages I’ve yet heard. Reykjavik was steeped in British and American accents, but here we get every Indo-European language. Spanish and Italian and French and German, Scandinavian vowels, Indian and Pakistani consonants. People taking selfies, on video calls; tourists in mountain gear and in stylish city coats. This is the off season; I shudder to think of the crowds at midsummer.

We get back in the car and head west towards Selfoss, stopping first at the Kerið Crater. After paying the modest entrance fee, we climb up to the edge of a small volcanic crater with a frozen pond in its center. This formation is a mere babe in geological terms, maybe three thousand years old, and its youthful iron deposits make the gravel a rich burgundy instead of the more typical volcanic black. I can imagine how vivid this place is on a warm sunny day, bright red contrasting with azure water, but today’s slate sky and freezing temperatures give the place a grimmer look. Gunmetal and blood.

Gulfoss was cold, but here the wind bites and I’m glad the circuit is a relatively short one. On the far side of the crater, the path changes from snowy to ice-slick, and after a few wobbly slides, we decide to put on my ice cleats, one per person. This is my first experience with ice cleats, and I’m hooked — I want to seek out every stretch of ice in the country and trudge merrily across it. Firmer of foot, we enjoy the rest of the short hike, although we decide not to brave the steep, frozen stairs down to the water’s edge and instead get back into the car.

Next, the short drive down to Selfoss to find lunch. Our first stop is a book cafe (of course), but it’s closed on Sundays. Next we try Matarlyst Cafe-Restaurant-Bar, a hotel restaurant that’s highly rated in the online reviews. The place is empty except for the staff; I would find this more alarming if it weren’t Sunday afternoon in Selfoss. The red wine is shockingly good, a jammy flavor explosion that I savor through the meal. Roasted broccoli with a layer of cheesy goodness, but for me the showstopper is the tacos. Cod, fried to perfection, with a sharp pineapple salsa that brings out the buttery flavor of the fish; and a smoked pulled pork that is salty and melt-in-your-mouth tender, complemented by pickle slices that give it just the right edge of acid. Carly has an open-faced shrimp sandwich that looks fantastic. She offers me a bite, but I can’t bring myself to distract my mouth from the flavors in front of me.

Sated, we return to the cabin for a cozy evening of reading and chatting and hot tub relaxation.

Monday morning, I wake in a Mood. I don’t want to do anything; not work, not writing, none of my morning routines. “Let’s go for a drive,” I say, ostensibly to make sure the battery stays charged, but once in the car I just want to keep driving. “Let’s go to Þingvellir,” I say, and drive up out of the lowlands until the rain and sleet tell me to turn back.

At the cabin, the Mood turns savage. Everything is awful. Carly knows me well and calmly proposes we go for a walk. I don’t want to go for a walk, but I don’t want to not go for a walk, so we layer up and step outside. The wind is cold, which gives me something concrete to be grouchy about. We peer into the tiny blue and white church at the end of our driveway, look at the grave markers (there are three), walk down to visit the ponies. The sheep give us stares that make clear the depth of their distrust. We loop around and hike up the hill behind the cabin. As we’re coming back around, past the houses where the sheep dogs always yell at us from the yard, the sky starts to pelt us with tiny hail. I turn around and walk backwards to protect my face from the stinging, then give that up and just put my head down, hood yanked forwards as far as it’ll go. Mollified that the weather is matching my Mood.

I flounder and flop through my workday. Finally, in the evening as we’re getting ready for the nightly hot tub ritual, a small lightbulb starts to glow in my brain. Today is Monday, November 8. That means Friday is November 12.

My dad’s birthday.

It’s been almost eight years since he died. Every year I tell myself: remember, remember how you get the week of his birthday. Every year I forget, until the Mood descends, and something reminds me that this is the tide of grief coming in.

It’s no accident that I’m in Iceland for his birthday. No accident that I’m walking backwards through sleet in a savage Mood the Monday before he would have turned 71. I wanted to be here for this anniversary, to give the grief a new setting.

I sit in the hot tub with Carly. She asks me questions about him — Carly asks the best questions, it’s one of her many superpowers — and I remember him to her. Sweat and steam greet the tears. The Mood, once named and greeted, morphs. Settles.

That night, I sleep deeply.