The Cold As A Mind Game

So there finishes six weeks of the toughest kayaking I think we've ever done. It's hard to pin down why, the wind blows and either speeds you up or slows you down, concern about landing spots and all the other variables are much the same wherever you go. 

The biggest difference between here and anywhere else we've paddled is the cold. 

In Reykjavik now it's 14° and no exaggeration it feels steamy tropical warm, t shirts and sandals have been broken out from the few bits and pieces we left with Gisli at the start of our trip.

It was a rare occasional hour or two that it was warm or windless enough to paddle without pogies and sometimes on the grimmest of days we'd comment to each other "that would make a good picture" but neither of us was brave enough to take our hands out of their coziness to fiddle with life jacket pockets and camera. We were warm paddling and warm camping, the cold times were stopping for breaks during the day and packing and unpacking at the start and end of each day. Even then it was only a brief chill as we pulled on thermals, once zipped into our drysuits we very quickly warmed up. The chilly breaks during the day weren't the most comfortable but weren't that terribly often either and within 10mins of paddling off we were warm again. The same at the end of the day, there was only a short period of chilliness between getting out of our paddling gear and into dry clothes. More often than not our paddling gear dried overnight too.

The cold was more a mind game than physical hardship.

Every sea kayaker will know the phenomenon of suddenly feeling intimidated by the sea, particularly on wild days, when the sky clouds over and the sun disappears. Nothing much has changed but the lighting but suddenly rather than bowling along without a care in the world amongst the white caps on a glistening sea, it's dark and brooding, the waves seem twice the size and look as though they're planning to kill you.

So the mind game of telling yourself that everything's fine begins. 

Just as your mind is winning over that intimidating looking sea imagine the temperature dropping 10° or 15°.

Another mind game begins.

Occasionally I'd find myself hunched over trying to get out of the wind that was burning my cheeks despite having my hood buttoned up to my nose. 

Sit up straight! I'm warm and the cold and intimidating sea is not going to get to me. 

An Honest Coincidence, Honestly.

Those who have been following our kayak trips on the Misty Hill Blog will be aware that we are partial to a wee dram of whisky as soon as the kayak hits the beach and before the drudgery of carrying gear up the beach and setting up camp. It's a tradition we learnt from Roger while paddling with him and Alan on the west coast of Jura Scotland in July 2013. 

We introduced the concept, with much approval, to paddling mates in Tasmania and worked our way through four bottles of Glenmorangie in eight weeks paddling in Alaska in 2014. Well, it was half the price there than in Tasmania.

And to anyone who disapproves, a regular tot of rum didn't seem to have had any adverse effect on the competence of the Royal Navy over a period of some hundreds of years.

Malt whisky is virtually unobtainable in Iceland, rare and phenomenally expensive so we thought we'd go local, picking up two half litre bottles of duty free 'Brennivin' at the airport for a princely sum of AU$22. Nicknamed 'black death', it was traditionally used to mask the taste of fermented shark flesh at Iceland's mid-winter feast. One friend described it to us as "disgusting". Another had mentioned he has "lost whole weekends on that stuff".

Did I mention that it is so classy it comes in 500ml plastic bottles, the litre bottles are upmarket glass. Classy or not, plastic bottles are perfect for carrying in a sea kayak. 

Days off the water don't count for a sip and some days we simply forgot or the bottle was still in the boat and we couldn't be bothered to get out of the tent and get it. 

We became quite partial to its unusual spicy palate, if it was an acquired taste then we got it. To others I'm sure it would taste like paint stripper. 

Anyway, over the last six weeks we slowly worked our way through our two bottles until last night, when with about 2/3rds of a cap full each we finished the second bottle. 

No more Brennivin. 

It was only later that evening deciding whether to take on the 25km crossing of Oxarfjordur the next morning that the discussion widened to us eventually deciding that we wouldn't paddle any further and this would be the end of the trip.

Timely coincidence or predetermination - you choose. 

And Besides Peanut Butter Stocks Are Low.

And so we run out of puff, unlike the NEasterly winds.

The next days paddle would be another long bash into the wind including a 25km crossing of Oxarfjordur to the small fishing village of Kopasker. With a slightly too windy for comfort forecast, so another day off the water, we decide we have come far enough. We have about two weeks paddling time left to reach our intended finish at Neskaupstaòur in the SE which should be ample, just, but doesn't leave a lot of time to be stormbound. We also have the crux of the whole trip to overcome - getting around the Langanes Peninsular. 

This spectacular narrow tongue of land juts about 50km NE straight out into the North Atlantic and entails a very committing 60km day between landings around its cliff bound shore. And you've got to get the tide right too. 

The forecast for the next week looks as though we would be off the water for at least two days and with pretty settled weather and sea conditions needed to get around Langanes the two remaining weeks could evaporate very quickly while sitting in the tent waiting for calmer winds and seas. 

Apart from the weather the other problem is the NW of Iceland is remote and lightly populated so the further we head east then south from Langanes the harder and more and time consuming it would be to get us and the kayak back to Reykjavik.

And besides all that, peanut butter stocks are low.

Maybe it's habit, maybe it's because PB is full of fat and a good energy source, maybe because it's so versatile and can be savoury or sweet, (how could one live without peanut butter and honey sandwiches) but we always have a spare tub tucked away in the kayak. Down to that last tub, we pulled into Hūsavik to stock up but, unbelievably, the supermarket didn't have any. I ask you? How could we continue without a spare tub of PB?

So we retreat, 30km back to Hūsavik and make plans for the rest of the trip. 

If time allowed we had always had in mind that we might hire a car and cruise around to see many of the inland sites we've missed from the water and revisit coastal sites we'd passed and it was just too cold to stop and explore. 

Now we've discovered the four pieces of kayak fit in a station wagon (estate car for UK readers) a one way hire from Akureyri to Reykjavik though pricey will provide our road trip and save the cost of freighting the kayak back to Reykjavik.

Our last kayaking campsite. 

We'll see - the next stage begins. 

Bloody Luxury

Today is now the fifteenth consecutive day of N/NE winds. They've forced us off the water for seven of those days including hanging in Drangsnes and then Hólmavik where we were introduced to the concept of necropants. Then two more at Kelduvikurvik where we had landed on the eastern side the Skagi Peninsular; it blew a solid 25-35kns for the whole time we were there. 

   Sitting out the gales at Kelduvikurvik. 

The abandoned farm, now Summerhouse, of Kelduvik, no longer keeps sheep, and with the end of grazing and pasture 'improvement', the profusion of wild flowers was astonishing - including Iceland's floral emblem.

Once on the water again we made excellent progress, crossing Skagafjordur via the impressive fortress like island of Drangey where Grettir The Strong - a bellicose Icelandic outlaw of Saga fame spent his last years. 

http://www.enotes.com/topics/saga-grettir-strong

The Saga is worth reading. 

The island is also home to over a million birds - I (Lynne) was in seventh heaven!

The day's progress was marred by something I had heard happen to other paddlers but never to us - until now... 

opening the rear hatch to discover it full of water. 

The breakdown double has never been a very dry boat. I've searched for holes, fixed some, and I'm certain it's not the bulkhead joins leaking. In the end I'd more or less given up, resigned to sponging out a little water at the end of each day.

This was a bit different and could have very uncomfortable consequences. Having heard of this happening to others, for years now we have lined our roll top bags with a bin liner. However good your roll top bags, and Seal Line Baja bags are the best, if they are immersed for any length of time the water WILL seep in. A few cents worth of bin bag is very cheap insurance against ruined food, soaking wet spare clothes and sleeping bags. 

A few critical things did get slightly wet but it was more of a hassle than anything. The biggest pain was my wellies, my dry onshore footwear, were full of water, so I was doomed to wet cold feet until they dried out. 

To rephrase Keith Bontrager. Socks - dry, clean, warm. Pick two. 

We had a quick overnight in Siglufjörður, nicknamed 'Siglo', at the very conveniently situated campsite right in the centre of town to recharge batteries, stock up on food and spend the morning at the award winning Herring Museum. It sounds about as interesting as watching paint dry but smellier, but the opposite was the case, it was brilliant. Informative, interesting and wonderfully presented. 

We were tempted to dally in Siglo for another night but we knew if we didn't get around the next northerly point that day we'd be stuck in the fjord by the forecast, you guessed it, strong NE winds. Once out of the fjord and heading SE, we'd be sheltered from the worst of the wind giving us options for crossing the next major fjord, Eyafjordur. 

Having escaped Siglo and camped the night on the northern shore of Olafsfjordur the best option was to head straight across from there before the wind strengthened about midday. A local had confirmed we could land at an emergency shelter on the eastern side of Eyafjordur so we were on the water before 7 for the 16km crossing. 

Landings are few and far between all along this section of coast with either cliffs or the occasional steep bouldery beaches pummelled by the 2-3m NE swell. The wind strengthened quite a bit as we sat in the tent having breakfast. 'Here we go' we thought, another slow plod into the wind. As we'd hoped though, the conditions eased once out of the wind funnelling into Olafsfjordur. 

Despite it seeming like really slow going 2 1/2hrs later we off the beach looking up at the 'emergency shelter' at Látur. 

We'd had seen many of these around the coast, small basic shelters painted bright orange. This wasn't small or orange, it was large with an attic room, decking out the front and very new looking, just like one of the many summer houses (shacks) that we found in the remotest of places. Oh well, another day in the tent I thought resignedly as I wandered up to check it out. 

Much to my surprise there was somebody there and I was about to ask if it was ok to camp nearby when again to my surprise the couple weren't locals, they were walkers. Even more to my surprise, gob smacked comes to mind, the 'summer house' turns out to be a public use cabin with gas heating, cooking, mattresses, tables, chairs, flush toilet and all pretty brand spanking new. All for AU$15 per person, an absolute bargain when many of the campgrounds have cost AU$10 per person for little more than a patch of grass. 

So here we are, whiling away the day in luxury, as the wind builds and starts roaring around the house. Tonight will be our second night under a roof since leaving Reykjavik thirty nine days ago.

   Látur our comfy abode for tonight. 

Drying wellies on the Gas heater, oh my, the luxury!

 

We got Around The Skagi Peninsula!

We Got Around The Skagi Peninsula!

Well that was a full value day's kayaking - and we got off the water just in time.

We were paddling out of the bay at Kálfshamarsvik a bit after 8 in the hope of making a bay only about 12km away. The forecast was terribly windy, NE as it has been for about nine days now, and seems set for a good few days ahead too. To make any progress we have to just go for it, plodding into the wind and sea till we've had enough. 

Following the coast north we were sheltered from the worst of the wind by 50-60m high cliffs of columnar basalt that thousands of birds found perfect for nesting. It was a spectacular bit of coast, making up for the visibility of only a km or two. We reached the first headland where we started turning east remarkably quickly and it was obvious by the small band of breakers and overfalls stretching out to sea, why. We had had the flooding tide with us. 

We expected once we turned east for all hell to break loose as we lost the shelter of the cliffs and were exposed to the full force of the wind and NE sea and swell. It wasn't as bad as we expected so after a quick stop ashore we decided to continue onto the next bay a further 10km east, where we were pretty certain we could land. It was slow going with shoreline features seemingly taking hours to reach and disappear behind but eventually we were dragging the boat up the shingle at Manavik and scurrying for shelter from the wind behind a small shed. 

With only another 10km to get around the final headland and turn SE we had a hurried lunch and continued while the going was good. Once around and heading SE we reckoned we could get a sail up and more or less sit back and relax. 

Hah! It wasn't to be. The sail went up all right but not for long. The short steep 1-2m swells rolling in right on the beam and a messy confused sea on the top just made it a bit too interesting. Without the sail distracting us, we were suddenly aware just how vulnerable we were. A kilometre off a nasty lee shore with just about as much wind as we could handle in messy slow sea conditions with an hour or more to a really sheltered landing. If the wind picked up, which was quite possible given the forecast, it would be a stressful and difficult time to get to that shelter.

Just abeam of us was a small cluster of buildings and tiny bay that looked as though it would provide a modicum of shelter to land. Worried about our vulnerability we headed in to look. The closer we got the better it looked, less shelter than we'd hoped but the swells just disappeared into small dumping surf, an easy landing really. 

The hardest bit was getting the boat up what felt like the 45° stony beach. As we heaved the kayak up, so our tenuous footing in the shingle and slippery seaweed slid down. In another world it would have been comical. 

There were people in one of the houses, so within minutes of wandering over to check it was ok to camp, they were offering 'kaffi' and biscuits and we were explaining where we'd come from, from Tasmania through to where we had camped last night. The couple were there for the weekend, a three hour drive each way, that they seemed to do most weekends, to spend time in their summer house.

As we sat on their decking chatting we could see from the water in the little bay that the wind had picked up, quite a bit too. We looked out to sea and were very glad we weren't out there still. 

But we had got around the Skagi Peninsula. 

Wind, Necropants and Tilberis.

The shield of arms for the county we are in - Strandir. The magical sign Ægishjálmur. The Helm of Awe or The Helm of Ægir, the God of the sea. 

The land definition of Beaufort Force 7 is -

'Whole trees in motion. Effort needed to walk against the wind'

I'm not sure 'trees in motion' is quite relevant in Iceland but coming back from the beach at Drangsnes to the campsite against the wind was certainly an effort. In the campground, rounding the corner of the amenities building towards our tent into the full force of the wind made you lurch drunkenly sideways downwind. Every bloody time. We never seemed to remember it was coming and brace accordingly.

The forecast lull we were anticipating looked like Monday night from about midnight through to 6am Tues. But as Monday rolled on we found ourselves looking at the weather on our phones probably a lot more than was necessary. Sure enough our lull was still there but only just, at some point in the afternoon it was pretty clear that the wind was going to drop - but not enough. There was still a sizeable blue patch of 16-20kns smack bang in the middle of our crossing to the Vatnsnes Peninsula. The sea of course was in upheaval as it had been blowing 20-30kns for upwards of three days.

We resigned ourselves to a longer wait. 

Just about dinner time whilst sitting in the tent, we both suddenly realised the tent wasn't shaking, we couldn't hear the wind in the 'forest' on the bank behind us and a quick look at the bay showed few white caps. It was peaceful, it was, almost, calm. 

This was our lull, earlier and with less wind than forecast.

Suddenly the cobwebs of inaction were blasted away. We could go, we could be on the water by 10pm, what wind there was, 10 maybe 15kns was a sailing wind, we could be across in less than four hours. If it picks up then we can just bear away and go with it.

There was some tidying, there was even some preliminary packing. 

Then the doubts, the sea of course would still be in upheaval mode and on the beam, but it wouldn't be that bad. Would it? The forecast, usually so reliable, still showed that blue patch through the 'night', more wind than than we were comfortable with especially when so far offshore. We could bear way if it picked up, sure, but if that happened anywhere near the middle it would mean a 20+kms wild downwind run before we hit land. No fun. 

And almost as bad...we could pack up, carry everything down to the beach and pack the kayak, just in time for the wind to pick up too much and have to unpack, carry everything back up to the campground and set up again. 

Twice I walked across the campground and the adjoining football pitch to the edge of the cliffs and peered nervously out across Hunafloi. Do we go or do we stay?

Hang on we thought, if we make it across, what then? Given the general strong N/NNE system we seem to be stuck in the middle of, is there any point?

No. Having made it across, the winds on Tuesday and Wednesday were such that absolutely no progress would be made. 

Earlier that day we had decided that if we didn't cross that night we'd head further into Steingrímsfjordur to Hólmavik. With five times the population there would be a bit more going on, there would be a supermarket instead of the tiny shop at Drangsnes and as Lonely Planet informed us there was also the Museum of Icelandic Sorcery & Witchcraft with necropants on display.

Hopefully you can read the small print in the photos below. 

And tilberis are even weirder. 

I'm really not sure what drugs these people are on but it's not alcohol. The Government bottle shops 'Vín Búdin' have very restricted opening hours and fairly ordinary 3l casks of red cask wine between AU$50-60. 

Hanging In Drangsnes

We declined the 41+km crossing of Hunafloi from Gjogur light to Kaifshamar light or thereabouts largely because we are here to see Iceland not plug away for hours on end with nothing but sea to look at, we can do that at home. Also the weather would need to be perfect and it wasn't. 

The weather forecasts from Icelandic Met Office have been brilliant, generally very accurate, even a few days ahead. This what we look at a couple of times a day.

http://en.vedur.is/weather/forecasts/elements/northwest/

It's very like the Australian Bureau of Meteorology 'Met Eye' except the wind strengths are in meters/second. 1 m/s equals 1.94 knots so easy to convert to the more familiar knots, though we've virtually stopped doing so.

We had hoped to get to Drangsnes on Friday, with northerly winds forecast to give a hoot of a downwind run all the way from our camp in Norðurfjörður. Unusually though, the winds were stronger than forecast, 25+kns and very steep confused seas on top of a 1m swell had us pulling ashore in Kaldbaksvík having covered the best part of 30km in 2 1/2hrs! We know it's windy when things are getting a bit out of control in the double with only one sail up, so down it came and even then we were hitting 10kph at times!

We found a campsite just in case we needed it, had lunch and lounged around for a few hours in the sunshine until sure enough, the sea looked a little less white as the wind eased off a bit. So we continued hurtling south, surfing at times for 100m or more. As the sea built again and maybe the wind picked up, down came the sail again and our frayed nerves calmed as we returned to usual steady paddling rhythm. 

It was still about 15km to Drangsnes and we had to cross Bjarnarfjordur and get around the next point. The sea was not looking any less white so we pulled in to the first beach with some shelter from the wind and some flat ground for the tent.

With a more reasonable strength northerly on Saturday morning and with both sails up it was another fast, but more controlled run, and we were pulling the boat up the beach at Drangsnes at 9.30. 

So here we hang, plenty of time to wash bodies and clothes as from here the crossing of Hunafloi is about 28km and the 20kn northerly doesn't look like abating until Monday night/Tuesday morning.  

Red line 41km crossing of Hunafloi, purple our 28km crossing. Roughly. 

The boon of 24 hour daylight especially as the wind often dies away during the 'night' is that we can just go when the conditions are right and we only need a four hour lull. 

So we've a comfy camp out of the wind, squeaky clean bodies and clothes and free hot tubs right on the shore of the village. 

We're camped in what we've nicknamed the 'Forest of Drangsnes',  some of the biggest trees we've seen out of the city. With the earth bank they make up the windbreak for the campsite, thank goodness!

Yes tacky as hell, but to be fair the little houses are for the elves. http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2015/mar/25/iceland-construction-respect-elves-or-else

Internet trolls eat your heart out, you got nothing on this lot. 

Ah, bliss. One of the luxuries of being ashore near a shop. And no it isn't a Brennivin cocktail. 

The kayak waits on Drangsnes Point. The mountains in the distance, centre, are the next destination, about 28 km.

Hours in the free communal hot tubs on the shore!

Coffee and Seal Flippers

Even though it was some kilometres out of our way the lure of the hot tubs at Reykjarfjordur drew us into the bay. 

A sandy beach on the point before Reykjarfjordur had provided a quick stop for a wee and a few muesli bars as it had been three hours solid paddling from our camp at Hrollaugsvik. The headwind had been intermittent, ranging between unnoticeable to pesky, just our luck to hit a few days of easterly weather pattern just as we turn East. The low overcast sky had slowly cleared from the west so at least we had some grand views of the mountains and the Drangajókull icecap. The forecast for tomorrow is much the same. 

The quick stop was very welcome, a lovely white sand beach in a cove bounded by rocks, very reminiscent of the West Coast of Scotland. The wind had picked up a bit though, probably only 8-10knots and despite the sunshine it was cold, my fingers numb inside my pogies as we paddled away from the beach.

A quick three or four kilometres and we landed next to a little wharf at Reykjarfjordur, and after a quick bite of lunch, we wandered inland, dive-bombed by hundreds of nesting Arctic terns, towards the few houses dotted through the dunes about a kilometre from the beach. The the steam rising off the hot pool was visible long before we reached the houses. At one of the houses two women were busy at large sink. We said our hellos and queried them about the swimming pool and hot tub. "No problem go ahead and help yourself" they replied. By this time though we were intrigued by what they were doing - washing seal skins! They told us later that they hunt only four per summer - the silky soft fur sold for women's handbags. 

There are no words that can describe soaking in water that is just a bit too hot after three weeks kayaking. Lynne left me semi comatose in the small hotter tub and swam lazily around in the larger swimming pool taking pictures. After a while I summoned enough energy to drag my parboiled body out of the tub and laid out on the boards, in the sun, out of the wind, and fell asleep for an hour. 

Eventually we got changed and started back towards the kayak, I still felt so lethargic that I wondered whether I'd make it to the beach let alone paddle the kayak anywhere. A couple sunning themselves in the lee of their house called us over and asked if we wanted 'kaffi'. Of course, thank you! Cake appeared too! The chat soon returned to the seal skins, which then quickly developed to what use was made of the rest of the seal and before we knew it there was a plate on the table with two boiled seal flippers on it and one of the women was slicing pieces off for us to try. 

Coffee, cake and seal flippers, surreal, especially as I was still feeling slightly spaced out from being parboiled. 

Well, I know what you are dying to know - slightly fishy, very fatty and not unpleasant at all. Reminiscent of mutton birds without the red meat and full of little bones. 

Fjallaskagi Lighthouse

After an hour and half or so plodding into a headwind, crawling along the inhospitably rocky southern shoreline of the Þingeyri Peninsula, the hut at Fjallaskagi was just too tempting. 

It had been a grey cold day with poor visibility. Two crossings, of Arnafjordur and Dyrafjordur with nothing else but the compass to look at, and we hadn't stopped much either as once ashore even out of the wind we got cold too quickly. 

The hut was a bit tatty. We'd passed over some sheets of tin from the porch in the shallows as we approached the beach and one of the windows had blown out but we soon made ourselves at home by stringing damp thermals all over the place and putting the billy on. There were beds too, with real mattresses!

The low cloud slowly cleared in the late afternoon/early evening, bathing everything in lovely sunshine though it was still cold in the wind. 

It was a great spot, its remoteness demonstrated by the lack of entries in the hut log book. Only three entries in 2010, only one in 2011, two in 2012, only two again in 2013, one of which was Gudni, one of the paddlers we'd met in Reykjavik on his circumnavigation. 

Gudni's entry in his solo paddle around Iceland. 

There were no entries in 2014 and we were first in 2015. 

The lee side of the Fjallaskagi headland was dotted with the remains of turf huts and boat storage shelters, the low stone walls now well overgrown but in its day it would have been quite a community of incredibly hardy folk. 

The bright orange lighthouse on the point glowed in the low sunlight, so for a short time it became the most photographed lighthouse in Iceland.

We both sheltered in the lee of the tower looking back at the coastline we'd paddled, but hardly seen, earlier that day.  I didn't even try the door, thinking of the signs on similar lights in Australia warning of dire consequences if you so much as think about touching Government property. Lynne did and it opened!

With a whoop of delighted surprise we were in and ascending the three flights of stairs to the small lantern room. Further flurries of photos were taken, of the view of course and the amazing polished glass prisms that magnify the tiny array of halogen globes into a light that according to the chart can be seen from 12 miles away. 

It proved to be a busy night in the Fljallastagi hut - we were the first foreigners and visitors this summer, but only by a matter of hours. At about 3am the crunch of footsteps sounded on the rocks outside. I thought at first it was a dream, but no, there on the doorstep was a young couple who'd had to wait until low tide to get around the shore, 7km from the road end. It would have been bloody hard walking! They were from the Czech Republic and had only one big backpack between them. They started cooking a meal, and after packing away our laundry and drying maps, and gear spread over every surface, Lynne and I went back to bed, despite the glorious pinky orange glow on the snowy mountains in the distance from the low sunlight.  I am sure we disturbed them in the morning as we had breakfast, packed up and left but they didn't move. 

It has been heartening to hear from the locals that we aren't the only ones feeling the cold. Many people were telling us that summer was late, about month late. "Look at all the snow on the mountains" one women had exclaimed "there is not usually anywhere near that amount at this time of year." To be fair though it has been a lot milder the last couple of weeks, perhaps summer has now arrived. We've had some calm warm periods where we've even paddled without pogies, but usually not for long as the slightest of breeze on wet hands chills them very quickly. At times in the sun when there's little wind we've been getting a bit hot and we've started regretting the layers of thermals under the drysuits, then the wind picks up or as has happened now a few times the fog rolls in and all of a sudden we are most definitely not too hot any more.  

The hut (at left), looking back where we'd paddled.