Inside the Picture: the Laugavegur Trail - Day 1

Landmannalaugar – Bláhnúkur: 6.7km

The wind was blowing rain into my face and making me stagger as I leant on the summit pillar.  It was the first day of walking and my legs were already wobbly from the steep ascent.  Climbing on the soft grit had been hard work, following our group at a slightly higher pace than I would have chosen for myself.  ‘This is a mistake,’ I thought to myself, ‘I’ve made a dreadful mistake.’

The anxiety had started earlier.  Earlier than the nervous wait for the bus in Reykjavík, earlier than finding myself alone in Iceland after my friends had left, earlier even than leaving Britain.  How would it all work?  Would the other people be ok?  Could I back out of it?

After a pre-dawn start at the City Hall bus stop, where I had briefly spoken to fellow trekkers Karl and Laurie, from Boulder, Colorado, I mostly slept on the highway to Hella (bet no one’s done that gag before, and it really doesn’t work if you pronounce the town’s name correctly, i.e. sort of like ‘Hetla’).  Anyway, the rain was battering down and it was thick fog over Hellisheiði, so it wasn’t like I was missing the views.  The bus was half-full with a mix of trekkers and daytrippers but filled up more completely while we stopped in Hella for breakfast.  After that we turned north through bleak, rather ghastly wastes of blankness and grey ash.  The road soon turned into a gravel one, not that a minor detail like that did anything to slow down the driver, who clattered his way over rocks and potholes with little regard for the way the vehicle shook and rattled.  There was one river crossing to do and we stopped just short of it.  I hoped there wasn’t a problem but it turned out we were picking up some passengers whose minibus had broken down.  I glanced back from the far side of the river to see someone bending down at the back of the forlorn bus, alone, abandoned.

The scenery became more attractive hereafter as jagged, moss-covered peaks rose around us.  On the far side of these was the wide, flat, sandy-looking valley around Landmannalaugar.  There were a lot of vehicles parked up, mostly chunky 4x4s and also a few buses.  We parked up right by the huts and tents to unload the bus, and to receive our instructions.  At this point we were introduced to our guide, ‘HD’, who directed us to our hut and to the room we would be sharing.  We were upstairs to one side.  The room was long, with sleeping platforms on either side and a dining table in the middle.  The platforms were covered in thin mattresses which essentially delineated the space you had to lie in without snuggling up to your neighbours.  I chucked my stuff down and hoped for the best.  It was all a lot more intimate that I had bargained for, which isn’t exactly my comfort zone.  At least we had a bit of space to spread out, even if there was nowhere really to put your bags.  Five nights of this kind of thing was a worrying prospect.

HD came up with lunch (bread, ham, cheese, fruit) which we sat around snacking on as he gave us an introduction.  His full name was Halldór Dagur Jósefsson but we could call him HD.  Each of us then went round giving a brief introduction.  Naturally I forgot half the names immediately.  We had a mix of Brits, Yanks, Canucks, a Cloggie and an Aussie.  The Sydneysider, Simon, turned out to be friends with ex-Sale Sharks fly-half, Mike Hercus.  It’s a small world.

Halldór (HD)

After the introductions, it was time to saddle up and go for a walk.  Our target was Bláhnúkur (945m) just by the huts.  At the start of the climb, HD gathered us together to explain how he would marshall us.  The first ‘jæja’ he would say would tell us to start getting our stuff together; the second ‘jæja’ meant we were leaving; the third ‘jæja’ we probably wouldn’t hear as he would already be gone (‘jæja’ kind of means ‘yeah, yeah’, but the semantics depend on context and intonation, so it means anything from ‘whatever’ to ‘yes, please’).  Next came the fearfully tough ascent which left me doubting myself.  I thought I was fit, I thought I was one of the fast walkers, how come I was blowing out of my backside already?  This was my first lesson in not underestimating the effort of hiking in Iceland.

Things got easier on the descent as we hit scree slopes, bread and butter terrain after spending so long in the Lake District.  The views of the rounded rhyolite hills and their many ridges and valleys were pretty amazing.  At the bottom we had our first lesson in river crossing.  We paired up to support each other (my partner was Sophie from NYC), then put on our special shoes and shuffled our way across.  It wasn’t too cold and it wasn’t too tricky, but then this had only been a practice to try out the techniques.

The route back was through a 700 year-old lava field that overlay the rhyolite.  It reminded me in some ways of Dimmuborgir up in the north, without being quite so huge.  With the wind and the rain I was starting to feel a little cold, which was another handy lesson in making sure you’ve brought enough warm layers with you.  Another way to warm up was to head for the eponymous hot pools back at Landmannalaugar.  Most of our group were heading that way so I joined in too, despite it being a 300m scamper along wooden boards then a freezing step into the pool once you had hung your coat up.  The busy pool was fed from a hot stream, the nearer to which you got, the hotter it felt.  It was only shallow so you had to lay back somewhat.  The floor was gritty with bubbles rising up from it now and again.  The floor was also rather hot so you couldn’t sit on it too long, meaning we were all shuffling around all the time.  Getting back out wasn’t an attractive prospect but we had little choice in the end, it was getting on for dinner time.

The hot pools at Landmannalaugar

For our evening meal we sat at the tables in the kitchen, crammed in with another party.  HD had rustled up pasta with cheese sauce and freshly carved smoked salmon.  It was rather tasty and demanded second helpings.  We all mucked in with the washing up and had a good laugh round the table, getting to know each other, being shocked by how many famous films Coen, the Dutchman, hasn’t seen.  Back in the room, three or four extra bodies, French folk, had been assigned to our room so it had got even cosier.  I chose to sleep ‘the wrong way round’, with my head at the foot of the bed, rather than gazing into Karl’s eyes to one side or a random Frenchwoman’s on the other.  I read for a while but none of us was late going to sleep.