Þorvaldsdalur on the first day of frost
On the first day of frost, I set out on a hike to investigate the wild and mysterious part of the Troll Peninsula. I knew well the east side of the Flár mountain ridge, where our cabin stood, but the inland side on the west remained a mystery. Þorvaldsdalur was an uninhabited and unknown region, and I was excited to venture into this uncharted (by me) territory.
In the early morning, I packed our backpacks with essentials like warm clothes, food, and coffee. My husband and I set off hand-in-hand, our boots crunching on the frosty grass. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a golden glow over the red bilberry bushes. I walked, savoring the stillness of the morning and the promise of adventure.
I left the sheep trails behind and joined the old track, which led me through the gate to the valley. I hiked up the valley, crossing several rivers as the icy morning turned to a beautiful sunny day. Along the path, a few signs stood guard, their names silent reminders of towns that no longer existed. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to live here, in this remote and unforgiving landscape.
Further up the valley, I stood next to the sign with the village name. My eyes were drawn to the rectangular shapes in the moss, the only visible remnants of the old settlements, reclaimed by the relentless force of Icelandic nature. I doubt I would have noticed them at all, if not for the weathered road sign.
I closed my eyes and imagined the scene a thousand years ago. Viking ships sailing into the fjord, their sails billowing in the wind, their prows cutting through the icy water. Settlers disembarking, eager to start their new lives in this remote and unforgiving land.
Back then the only connection between them and Europe was the annual market at Gisir, the bustling seasonal port in North Iceland, a day's journey down the valley. Today, the port is as empty as the valley, its once-bustling harbour silted up and rendered useless by centuries of sediment.
As I hiked in the empty valley, I could barely imagine that once it had been home to at least nine towns, some of which were built centuries ago. Now, all that remained were shapes in the moss.
I eventually reached the snow line and began to climb. The rocks were ice-covered and slippery, and I had to be careful not to slip and fall. The sun's warm rays bathed my face as I climbed. I marvelled at snow-capped mountains, their peaks glistening in the sunlight. I finally arrived at the top of the climb and stood there for a moment, catching my breath and looking out at the view.
The lake was spread out below me, its surface partially covered in a sheet of ice. Small waves whipped up by the strong wind rushed across its surface. To my surprise, I saw a small hiking hut at the edge of the lake.
My footsteps crunched in the dry snow as I made my way towards the hut. The snow was light and powdery, and my boots sank deep with each step. I could feel the cold seeping into my toes. As I drew closer, I realised there was a key in the lock in the door.
I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not to enter. I was trespassing, after all. But I was also curious, and I couldn't help but wonder what I would find inside.
I took a deep breath and turned the key. The door creaked open, and I stepped inside.
The hut was small and cosy, with a wood-burning stove in the corner and a bunk bed against the wall. There was a small table and a few chairs, and a few shelves stocked with canned food and other supplies.
Before we left the hut, we took a moment to sign the guest book. I flipped through the pages, reading the entries from other hikers. Writings were mostly in Icelandic, and they all spoke of the beauty of this place and the feeling of peace and solitude that it offered.
I added our own names to the book, and we left the hut as we found it. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air. I looked around at the snow-capped mountains and the frozen lake, and I felt a sense of contentment and peace.
I imagined how lovely it would be to spend a night in the hut in the summer.
MY BOTANICAL NOTES
Dwarf Willow
Salix herbacea
I came across a boulder, and I stopped to take a closer look. In a crack in the boulder, I found a dwarf willow. The willow was small and delicate, but it was full of life. Its leaves were a brilliant yellow, and they contrasted beautifully with the gray rock of the boulder.
I was amazed that this tiny plant could survive in such a harsh environment. I thought about how it had grown in this crack for years, slowly but surely. I thought about how it had survived the harsh winters and the cold winds. The dwarf willow is a pioneer plant, meaning that it is one of the first plants to colonize new places, such as recently deglaciated areas. The dwarf willow is a tiny, creeping willow that finds a home in all manner of places, from the windswept heights of the mountains to the stark lava fields and volcanic sands.
The dwarf willow is an important part of the Icelandic ecosystem. It provides food and habitat for a variety of wildlife, including insects, birds, and small mammals. It is also a valuable food source for reindeer. The Icelandic name for dwarf willow is Grasvíðir.
