Iceland´s West Fjords

Isafjörður, Iceland
Latitude 66°04'48" N
September 1, 2011

On the map, the West Fjords look like giant lobster claws snipping away at the Arctic Circle. They’re desolate, off the beaten track and very, very far from anywhere else, which is exactly why we wanted to go there

We left Stykkisholmur on the first of September. A three hour ferry would bring us from the Snǽfellsnes Peninsula to the West Fjord mainland. It was a wet ride, stopping once on the tiny of island of Flatey with a year round population of two! In the summer, though, there are a few more and this boat stop not only dropped off passengers but mail, foodstuffs and newspapers as well. We would like to have lingered, but the port town of Brjanslǽkur, on the south coast of the West Fjords, awaited and we knew it would be a long ride to Bildadura where we planned to spend the night.

It was raining when we arrived and the 90 minute ride to the hostel was challenging. At the beginning we hugged the North Atlantic. It was a rainy day, but there was a bleak, mournful beauty about black deserted beaches, black rocks, and an angry sea. We passed small, rain lashed fishing villages and several times we saw steam emitting from the earth. We were clearly in the land of fire and ice.

At the start the landscape was forbidding and unforgiving. Rain slashed over our car as we made our way up long, sinuous zigzags up steep gravel roads, then drop, frighteningly actually, down 14% grade roads with no guardrails and hundreds of feet below us. We’d then be back to sea level. “Take your time, Steve,” I’d tell him. “There’s absolutely no rush!” I don’t image we were ever very high, but even at 800 feet above sea level this far north we’d be in high alpine conditions. There was cold, black volcanic rock, basalt really, lichen the only plant growing. Not far from the road would be patches of last winter’s snow. It was a lunaresque and I was reminded of being on the high, high plateaus of Tibet and South America at 15,000 feet. Such was life at the 66th Parallel. Another .33 degrees would put us at the Arctic Circle!

It wasn’t always grim. The next day was sunny and sort of clean—clear at least for northern Iceland. There was a lovely pastoral landscape. Sweeping green fields were dotted with sheep. We were forever driving defensively, always on the lookout for errant ewes and rams who lingered by the side of the road.

In the mountains, snow never truly lost its icy grip. Vestiges of last winter lingered still in hollow mountain pockets. At this elevation lava fields, thousands of years old, were covered in multiple shades of green—from soft olive to an almost electric lime.

At sea level, though, especially around the sheltered fjords, late June flowers abounded. Fields were full of tansy, pin cushion flowers and heather. An aromatic variety of Arctic thyme and low lying lupine were everywhere. Grasses, not much higher that 6”, swayed in the soft wind.
In village gardens and around isolated farm houses we say delphinium, daisies, rigosa roses, thistle and bee balm.

It was the fjords, actually, that brought us here. There are many and we stopped often along the road to see them closely. Occasionally a car would go by, but mostly it was quiet. Silent. Not a sound but wind and wave. This silence was astounding, something we rarely experience. By the sea we’d see loons, snow geese and white, wild swans. Once we saw a colony of seals basking on a rock under a cold Arctic sun.

Away from the sea we saw almost tame Arctic foxes, their fur blue/brown this time of year. They were curious and cute, but we kept our distance.

Only 7,900 people live in the West Fjords. Farms were isolated and far from each other. All were sided with corrugated steel, unattractive but durable and water tight against the almost year round harsh weather. Their roofs were often painted bright blues and reds, a nice contrast to the often wet, dreary weather.

The land was wide open. Sometime we saw sod-roofed homes—old structures the current owners had not torn down—reminders of another, more distant and far harsher time when residents of this part of Iceland really had to contend with serious hardships.

Always, there was water. Our greatest treat was to ride on the long side of fjords, round the end then retrace it on the other side. Often, half way, the land would open up to a wide glaciated valley, still snow covered in the distant high peaks. We were, after all, very, very far north.

Away from the sea, in high mountains passes or on the flat prairie-like open spaces, was gushed forth everywhere. It tumbled hundreds of feel off glaciers and fell in long, snake-like cascades off high mountains ice packs. It rambled and rushed off high plateaus in narrow ribbons of silver and white.

It veiled itself off mountain cliffs--torrents falling in into clear, cold Arctic pools and thundered in wide sweeps over 300 yard rocky scarps. It sliced through ancient rock formations, falling in a series of waterfalls. All these waterfalls were amazing!

Both of us are drawn to water, so this West Fjord journey was a journey of liquid magic and wonder.

As we travelled into the northern portion of the West Fjords, the landscape softened. We´d wend our way down and around fjords then climb a mountain road to 500 feet or so, stop the car and admire the view below. The fjord would be cold and blue, massive rock massifs flanking them on each side. Icelandic fjords can be long and wide or short and narrow--blue fingers separating huge cliffs. We were in awe.

Sometimes we´d find a path and walk over moss covered volcanic rock. Tussocks of grass mantled the landscape, clinging to life on this treeless taiga.

On our third day, well above the 66th Parallel, the land opened up, undulated in waves of Arctic grasses or moss covered lava rock. The sky was prairie blue and the almost temperate air felt as if we were in high desert. Wild and free mountain streams tumbled off the plateau in clear, cold rivers. This was a spectacular end to our stay in Northern Iceland.

"Raw," said Steve, as we exited the West Fjords. "Raw and natural, clean and empty. I feel as if I´ve been very, very far away."

It was raw, as well as natural, clean and empty. But to that I´d also add pristine and pure--almost edenic, almost perfect.

We knew we´d return.