Humbled by the Storm

I am definitely prone to overly romantic ideas of storms. As long as I can think, I have loved thunderstorms. It's easy to love a potentially devastating storm for its beauty. To watch the torrential rain, lightening and sulphur yellow clouds; to feel the thunder reverberating in my core. I also tend to be acutely aware of (perceived) dangers around me, overly so. I might even go so far as to call myself a chicken. I'm scared of more or less everything and I definitely worry too much. How do these two mix? I love observing thunderstorms from the safety of my home. If I happen to be outside during one, I do the smart thing and get my behind inside a building or a car as soon as possible. In some scenarios, nature does not favour the bold. 

I haven't experienced any thunderstorms in Iceland; I'm told that they are really rare. However, there are other kinds of storms and Iceland gets more than its fair share of those. When I received my first storm warning a few weeks into my sabbatical, I was super excited and fully intended to enjoy the heck out of it. I all but got popcorn for the event. I intended to settle down in my living room with my favourite TV show and current knitting project and listen to the wind blowing outside. We spend the day preparing for its arrival, tying down the roof of our container, turning the noses of all company cars into the direction of the wind, wedging buses and trailers between buildings, lest they topple over, etc. Needless to say the people around me were slightly taken aback with my excitement. People die in these storms. The potential damage to assets and property can be severe. When evening came around, my roommate left to go to the cinema 25 km away. The road is open; there are no wind breakers, even I, in my childish excitement didn't think that was a good idea. 

So here I was, alone in my container, about a kilometer away from the next human soul. In up to 25 m/s winds. In a conservative estimate, this equals 41-47 knots, a 9 on the Beaufort scale and 75-88 km/h. A few minutes into it, the wind pushed my window open. I was in the living room at the time, and I could not open the door to my room to close the window, the storm was forcing the door against its frame. I started worrying about my stuff. The container, many tons in weight, was shaking. The noise from the wind was so loud that I could not watch my TV show, even with headphones on. My excitement slowly gave way to fear. This was a lot worse than what I had expected. I started googling recommended behaviours. Should I go sit under a table? Wait for an opportunity to go over to the main house, which was made of stones and risk being blown over/away on the way there? Should I call the boss and ask him to come and get me? Am I overreacting? How old am I, 5? Fear gave way to panic. I simultaneously skyped Frankenspouse for moral support and texted the roommate to see if he was on his way home yet. No answer. He's Icelandic and his presence would have definitely reassured me. Frankenspouse did his best to calm me down, dried the odd tear or two over Skype and recommended that I do indeed call the boss if I was scared. I was too proud to do that. Or not scared enough just yet, take your pick. Eventually, after what felt like hours in the loneliest place on the planet, the roommate came home with a big smile on his face. I thanked Frankenspouse for his moral support and told him I'd be OK now. The roommate reported that driving had been a bit shaky, but let me in on how to drive in conditions like that (depending on where the wind is coming from, you drive on the opposite side of the road to avoid being turned upside down) and he seemed unimpressed by what was going on outside. His calmness helped me get my panic under control. He went to the main house and back without being blown away. He also forced the door to my room open and managed to close my window. All my stuff was still there. Together with an additional 5 pounds of dirt. We camped in the living room that night, neither of us able to sleep with the deafening noise. 

This was only my first of many Arctic storms. But the next time, I knew what to expect. Over time, stormy nights became more of a nuisance than panic-inducing events, because the deafening noise would not let me sleep. Over time, I also became calm enough to enjoy the sight of clouds racing by.
And I made sure to exchange some of my cockiness for humility.

Frontier life - When rural is the new urban

I was trying to find a definition of "frontier", a term commonly used when referring to Alaska, but there seems to be no international consensus. What it implies is an area largely without infrastructure and a very low population, think something along the lines of 1-3 people per square kilometer. Or less.

In my perception, if not officially, Skagafjörður with its 0.95 people/km² qualifies.

Imagine yourself to be in an area where a hamlet of around 120 people deserves a big dot on the national map. The smaller dots refer to actual individual farms. The little hamlet offers everything you could possibly want, a supermarket in which you can also buy horse shoes and windscreen wipers, a hotel, a swimming pool, a bank, a fire department, a tourist information, a petrol station and much much more. The supermarket has a great selection of food. As long as you don't insist on finding a particular thing on a particular day, particularly meat-wise, but are able to improvise, you do not ever need to leave the area. If you need something more fancy, like clothes, electric appliances or alcohol, you drive 25 km into the fjord's biggest city, Sauðárkrókur. I have been told that once you have used the words "biggest" and "Sauðárkrókur" in the same sentence, you have become truly Icelandic. Sauðárkrókur is home to around 2,500 souls and I have it on good authority that whatever you cannot find in KS (cow-ess) in Sauðárkrókur, you do not need. And this is the mindset that reflects very well what I have experienced. The next bigger town with better shopping is around 100 km away, on the other side of a mountain pass, which might or might not be passable. So the little KS in Varmahlíð and the big KS in Sauðárkrókur are your best and often only chance to get what you need. The mind is a wonderful thing and while initially, you might wonder how you will survive without organically grown tofu bunnies, you will learn to make do with what's there. And more often than not, that tiny little shop actually does offer the elusive ingredient you are after, in my case Japanese rice vinegar and everything else you could possible want to make sushi. Apart from the fish; they had run out that day.
But then, I did not have to buy the fish anyway. The fish for my sushi came directly out of the water. 2 hours before we shoved elaborately rolled maki and nigiri down our throats, that fish was still with its friends. My friend's significant other who does "fish" brought our most important ingredient.  It seems to be similar with meat. People don't seem to buy a lot of meat in stores (and the reason is by no means that they are all vegetarian, far from it), but a lot of people have half a horse or lamb in their freezer or know someone they can get it from in large quantities. Horse is a lot more popular than beef or pork and much less expensive, I guess in an area where there are more horses than people, the ones that don't behave well during training have to go somewhere, after all.
Speaking of animals, I have found that the people around me had a beautiful relationship with their animals. There is mutual respect and reverence, but also an acceptance of some of the baser facts of life. Dogs have more freedom than they could possible want, but biting a human is usually a death sentence. Horses have the most amazing life in the mountains with only a few short months of work every year and unlimited freedom to be horses for the rest of time, but they are expected to take care of themselves and might end up in the freezer, if they are out of commission for one reason or other. In an area that makes most of its annual income during the three short months of summer, a horse that is not working and cannot feed itself on a long-term basis is not sustainable. To me, using it for sustenance is the utmost sign of respect.
Being a city girl, I did find some of these truths hard to stomach at first. But I also experienced that life is hard up north and that there is little space for romanticised ideas of country life with fluffy horsies and kitties and piggies. At some point, my housemate responded to a call for help at 10 p.m. in a snow storm where a friend of his had gotten their tractor stuck in a pile of snow on their way to feed the animals. A group of 6 or more people (I don't remember exactly) spent their whole night outside in a snow storm in early December to dig that tractor out, so that the friend could feed the animals. They also had to change a tire in the process. My housemate returned home around 5 a.m.


It's a wonderful life up there. While initially, I feared the isolation, it allowed me to relax in ways that I hadn't experienced before. Going back to the city with its buzz, smells, lights, traffic, total sensory overload and people, so many people was a hard adjustment to make. I'm sure there is more to frontier life than what's in this post. There might be another post in the future.

Not all ideas in this post are my original thoughts. Some of them I have taken from conversations with other people and stories I have been told.

Weather vs. WEATHER

Every one complains about the weather. Must be genetic or something.

In Luxembourg, the weather is like a tired old dog, blind on one eye, hard of hearing and mostly grey. It has lost most of its teeth. It's not always comfortable, but certainly reliable in its behaviour. Most days, it will not stir from its warm place by the fire, but if it does, it will most likely send us rain. Occasionally, on its more active days, it might shake its shaggy fur and send us some dandruff, err snow. This will be mildly annoying; it makes us late for work and as the temperatures usually stay very much in the centre of the indifference scale, the snow will turn into brown slush in a matter of minutes. The old dog loves lying in the sun, but in order to do so, it will have to drag the heavy grey cloud blanket away with it's toothless gums; a laborious task as Luxembourg is surrounded by hills and mountains, in which the clouds get all tangled up. So in general, the dog is content, if it catches a glimpse of the yellow ball every now and then, there is no need to come out and play with it, as longs as we know it's still there. Luxembourgish weather is meek and tame. Even at its worst, it is more of a nuisance than an actual problem.

The great beast of Icelandic weather is wild, untamed and full of energy. It is gloriously beautiful, moody and very playful. Unlike the tired old Luxembourgish weather dog, it has several rows of very sharp teeth and it doesn't just use them in self-defence. Given the chance, it will kill. It might lull you into a false sense of security with clear skies and a temperate breeze, only to send a blizzard 20 minutes later. If it caught you off-guard, i.e. without proper attire, it might nibble on your toes and fingers - or devour you altogether, while you desperately search to find your way out of the whiteout. It might also do that with proper attire, by the way. Snow does not fall in Iceland, thanks to the ever-present strong-gale winds, the beast's icy breath, it grows from the ground up in a blurry flurry. On the continent, we measure snow in centimeters, in Iceland, it grows where the wind blows it, hip-deep, knee-deep, ankle-deep, all within a few meters. If the beast is angry, it might blow you over, dismantle your buildings, turn your car upside down and prevent you from leaving the house for days. When in the right mood, it might send down some spectacular northern lights, making you chase it, while it slowly sucks the heat out of your body.
During the summer, the beast is generally in a better mood and does not rear its mighty head quite so often, but you still need to be on your guard. While it's hardly ever really hot, the sun is very strong and hangs around for 19+ hours. It will burn you relentlessly and because of the wind cooling your face, you will not notice until it is much too late.

The weather in Iceland is far from nice. It's wild, exciting, amazing, brutal, terrifying, awe-inspiring, beautiful, scary, feral, gorgeous and potentially lethal. Managing it (and by managing it I mean managing yourself in accordance with it) is an important part of everyday life. Vedur.is with its detailed weather maps and Vegagerdin.is with its real-time information on road conditions and live web cams of tricky passages are invaluable tools for survival. The web cams even count how many people drive into a tricky passage, so that if you don't come out on the other side, the rescue team knows where to go look for you.



It's very important to understand that you are not the boss. The beast is. And it will exploit all your weaknesses without so much as flinching. You cannot plan ahead as you do on the continent. You can make long-term plans, of course, but you can never decide to do this and that on that particular day. Or if you do, be prepared to scrap your plans. You do what you can, while you can. And if the beast is acting up, you try not to get in its way. Many tourists underestimate the power and brutality of Icelandic weather. Respect the beast. Stay safe.

Rookie Mistakes

Iceland requires a steep learning curve in more or less everything.

I took my first trip in June 2013. I had told some friends that I was considering a trip to Iceland to go riding and for my birthday, they gave me some material along with this card.

On the back, they were wishing me a happy 18th birthday (*cough*) and that I would get to travel to the land of the elves and the smelly puddles one day.


At that point, I didn't care so much about the smelly puddles, snow powdered peaks or elves. I wanted to go riding. I had recently rediscovered horse riding after a 16-year long break and had been dreaming of going on a multi-day riding tour since I was a kid. I had also heard of the mysterious tölt, a gait exclusive to Icelandic horses, allegedly very comfortable. The material my friends had given me showed remote and at times desolate, at times fertile landscapes, huge rock and lava formations, cute little puffins and fluffy Artic foxes as well as otherworldly light conditions. Seemed like a good place to explore on horseback.
Frankenspouse couldn't care less about riding, so my best friend, whose partner wasn't even remotely interested either, and I set out to an all girls trip. We had some good laughs when the lady whom we'd be staying with proudly stated in an email that they were only about 30 km away from the Capital of the North, the second biggest town in Iceland. We looked up said capital, Akureyri, and laughed even harder, to us, the place we were going to was way beyond the middle of nowhere, think "north of the wall". For Icelandic standards, we were in an metropolitan area. Akureyri is a lovely place with some of the best ice cream in Iceland and a whooping 18,000 inhabitants. It's supposed to be the friendliest town in Iceland as well and all its red traffic lights are shaped like red hearts. It's small, cute and reasonably urban, but 30 km north, where we were staying, was a different story altogether. First rookie mistake: applying my standards (the area I'm from is among the most densely populated in Europe) to frontier land. Later that week, my friend and I were fantasising about a glass of wine, to be enjoyed while basking in the midnight sun. Surely we could buy some in the supermarket in the little town about 5 km away? Uhhhhhm, no. Alcohol is heavily controlled in Iceland and only sold in special stores, the next of which was in Akureyri. What do you mean I have to make a one-hour round trip to get a bottle of wine? Idea abandoned, lesson learned: Stock up on booze before leaving civilisation.

Now, aside from the isolation, how do you prepare for the Arctic, if you have never been? The internet recommended thermal underwear (but I'm going in the end of June?) and all kinds of things you would ordinarily need in winter, at least where we lived. I did buy the thermal underwear. I packed two fleece jackets, riding gear and six shirts, one for every day. After all, I was going horse riding, not fashion modelling. Some scarves, some regular underwear, some socks, a winter coat, boots.

First impression upon arrival: it's fresh and cool, but not that cold, what was all the kerfuffle about? It felt like a crisp spring morning in late April, one of those where you can wear a jacket, but don't have to. We arrived at the farm, had a lovely welcome, met our fellow group mate as well as our guide and settled in.

The next day, we set out to our first ride. The horses were short and stout and had incredible hair styles. They were friendly and cooperative, even though, having done nothing but Western riding for 2 years, my horse and I were a bit lost in translation at times. Soon after setting out, we did indeed get to try the famous tölt and I think it's safe to say that every rider who ever got to experience it must absolutely love it. It can be a bit tricky to get into, but once you've hit the right button, it is definitely the most comfortable gait for long distances, certainly for the rider, the horse might disagree. I won't bore you too much with the mechanics, but it's a four-beat gait resulting from a genetic mutation. Even though it can be ridden at high speeds, unlike trot or canter, it doesn't have a suspension phase, so the rider bounces about much less, this is what makes it so comfortable.

But back to rookie mistakes. That first day, I was wearing my thermal underwear, riding breeches, boots, one of my shirts, a wonderful new discovery called buff and a fleece jacket. And I was teeth-shatteringly cold. It's not actually that cold, it's that ominous (or not so ominous, after that day) wind chill factor that drains the heat out of your bones, even in early July. The wind is ever-present and of a different quality to most winds in mainland Europe. As there are no trees in Iceland (I kid you not, their number is negligible), nothing really stops the wind from rushing over mountains and plains. It is very strong, as in "Every day is your worst hair day" strong and it's also pretty darn cold. In addition to sun burn and its less known brother snow burn, in Iceland, you can also get wind burn.

We made it back after an amazing first day of riding along the Eyjafjörður, thawed out over coffee and homemade pastries and had learned an important lesson. A day-long ride in Northern Iceland is not like that crisp April morning in continental Europe, when you decide to walk to the office without your jacket for the first time this year.

The next day and every day after, I wore my thermal underwear, all six of my shirts, my fleece jacket and my winter coat. I looked like the Michelin man. So did everyone else.

And I developed a fierce love for Icelandic weather.

The sign

When you step of the plane in Keflavík airport, there is a sign

Velkominn heim
Welcome to Iceland 

When I first saw that sign, I noticed the English was not a translation of the the Icelandic text. The English was directed at foreigners, visitors. The meaning of the Icelandic, however, made a much stronger impression on me. While this is not the rule, there was some resemblance to German here, so I was able to figure it out.

Now, Icelandic is not easy to understand, if you don't speak it. It's not one of those languages where you intuitively understand a bit and and can usually figure out the rest. It belongs to the Germanic language group and is supposed to be similar to Old Norwegian. Icelandic is said to have not changed much since the first settlers, so even modern Norwegian seems to be quite different. I wouldn't know, as I speak neither. As a linguist, I'm usually able to figure out a few things that I see written down in most languages, but generally, like everyone else, I have no chance in hell to understand what the conversation or text is about, unless I have at least moderate knowledge of the language. Icelandic is no exception here. This sign, however, I understood.

In 2013, when I first set foot on the island, and every time I have gone back since, this sign makes me choke up a little. It is welcoming me home.

Fire

Holuhraun lava eruption, December 2014

I love fire, always have, always will. And the idea of earth's molten core exploding all over the place, the sheer devastating force of nature behind it and the unrelenting flow of lava rolling over everyone and everything in its way makes me feel like a four-year old in a candy store. I'd rather not know what that says about my personality.

Iceland has roughly 37 active volcanoes. One of them was acting up while I was on Sabbatical and I had the fantastic opportunity of flying over the ongoing volcano eruption. My significant other (hereafter known as Frankenspouse or FS) and I booked not one, not two, but three dates to give the stars every possible chance to align. I'm not exaggerating here, the trip involves a 45 min flight (each way) over the highland plateau, a notoriously hostile environment with  some of the harshest conditions on the planet  - including lots of wind. So first of all, you have to have perfect weather between the airport and the eruption site for the tour provider to even consider taking the trip. You also want to keep a close eye on the weather and road conditions in you area (in our case a 100 km drive away). Iceland is fairly microclimatic, so sun and warm temperatures in one area are no indication that there isn't a blizzard going on one valley over. On our drive to the airport, we had to go over a mountain pass, so we had to make sure it was, well, passable, which it often isn't in winter. Checking weather and road conditions seems to be one of the favourite past-times in Iceland and I fully embraced that philosophy. To make things more complicated, the pilots of these private machines may only fly in daylight, which gives you a window of about five hours at the end of December.
On the first day we had booked, we received a call early in the mourning, cancelling due to bad weather conditions. In our valley, the weather was picture perfect, but you gotta trust the pilot on this one.
On the second day, we received another call, cancelling the trip due to bad weather. The flight was my Christmas gift to the FS, so at that point, I started panicking that it might not happen at all, since he was bound to leave for Luxembourg in a few days. I tried to book more dates, but apparently everyone and their brother wanted to go on that trip and they were fully booked for the next three weeks.
On the final day, the stars aligned. We drove to Akureyri and frantically searched for a pharmacy, as the tour operator recommended taking something for travel sickness and neither of us has the most stable of stomachs. We took the pills, met our fellow passengers and folded into the tiny six-seater standing on the tarmac. The flight was incredibly bumpy, even with perfect weather conditions. The wind tossed our little plane about and it became pretty clear pretty soon, why they explicitly recommended medication against travel sickness. Shortly after we took off, while we were flying over the breathtakingly beautiful highlands, the girl next to me (the FS and I didn't get to sit next to each other, guys in the front, gals in the back for optimal weight distribution) started looking really bored. And she continued to look bored, even as we were flying over boiling lava, feeling the heat of the volcano in our faces and staring into the gates of hell. I wanted to punch the B1@tch in the face for being so indifferent to this once in a lifetime, bucket-list experience and taking the spot of someone, who might miss out because the stars didn't align for them.
Of course there was no punching and I kept my opinions to myself. Later on, I found out that the poor girl did enjoy the trip, but that she was feeling gawd-awful and desperately trying to hold on to her stomach contents by singing loudly to herself (we were wearing headphones to cancel out the noise, so I couldn't tell at the time). And, oh boy, can I relate, I was still nauseous, hours later, so 'Dear girl next to me, please accept my sincere apologies for the hostile thoughts and kudos for your creative coping skills'. Eventually, not all passengers managed to keep their breakfast down, but the plane was well equipped for that and apparently, this happens on almost every flight. Still glad it wasn't me.

Anyway, if you find yourself near a volcano eruption, go and look at it. It's humbling. And beautiful. And primal. And such an adventure.

The cat's out of the bag

T -47 days

So, I guess this is happening. I'm leaving my cozy office job and comfortable life in Luxembourg to move north. Right now, it's really hard to remember why, but I'm sure I had good reasons back when I made that decision. 

I used to love working in an office and was convinced that I had truly found my calling counting commas and correcting other people's grammar. I felt that the right use of language is really important and that every sentence was worth fighting for. That is until I took a break from my office life to move to Iceland for three months.

Up north, in winter, in almost complete isolation, somehow, priorities shift and life is of a different quality. Not better, certainly not easier, just a lot more intense. Back in Luxembourg, I would often spend months on end in my routine, without noticing the seasons pass. In Iceland, nature makes you feel alive every day. Not necessarily in a good way, by the way. You might be so cold that you start worrying about your outer extremities or the ever-present strong gale winds force you to lean into them making your face go numb in the icy spray. Or they might simply blow you over. You might slip on the ice and bang your everything for the umpteenth time. You might have to drive through a snowstorm with literally no visibility, only to get stuck in a heap of snow 500 m before reaching your destination. Most likely you will get stuck in yet another heap of snow two days later, forcing you to have someone come and rescue you yet again (at which point you might start carrying a shovel with you wherever you go, so you can dig yourself out of the smaller messes you get yourself in).

But you might also get to lie in a hot tub under the night sky, all by yourself. If you've been good, nature might switch on the crazy light show and treat you to the elusive northern lights, which are so pretty to look at and so hard to capture on camera, forcing you to be in the moment, because they might be gone again at the blink of an eye. You might appreciate a cold evening beer as the ultimate luxury, because you know how arduous it was to come by. You might have the privilege of spending time with Icelandic horses, who are wonderful companions and are completely unfazed by the harshness of the weather and their surroundings. You might also find that the tiny, close-knit community you find yourself in is full of warm, welcoming people, who are looking out for each other at all times.

So while I still love counting commas and annoying the heck out of people by correcting their grammar, while I enjoy my job and my life in Luxembourg, they do not make me live in the moment. Iceland does. This is why I am going.