Heimaey, Iceland
Latitude 63°26'1" N
September 8, 2011
The Westman Islands had piqued my interest last week as I was drving westward on Highway 1. Black and brooding, these 15 eye-catching silhouettes could be seen clearly miles and miles away. Heimaey, a 30 minutes boat ride from the mainland, seemed a good way to wrap up my Icelandic stay.
And so, an hour out of Vik, on a clear and windy morning, I sailed to this fascinating archipelago formed by submarine volcanoes around 11,000 years ago.
Heimaey, my destination, is the only inhabited island. Its well kept homes were architecturally reminiscent of northern California coastal communites. It was an easy place to spend twoo days.
After settling into a hostel (this time with my own room. The night before I´d fallen off the top top level of a bunkbed.) I set off to explore blood-red Edfel, a 700 foot volcano that appeared out of nowhere on the morning of January 23, 1973.
On my way from town I explored what locals refer to as the "Pompei of the North." Over a period of five months, from January to July of 1972, over 30,000,000 tons of ash and lava poured over Heimaey, destroying 360 homes, burying them in 50 feet of lava. More than 1/3 of the town was destroyed, but all 5,200 residents were evacuated. Five months later, 2/3 of them returned to face a Herculean clean-up operation. Once the fireworks were over, heat from the volcano provide Heimaey with geothermal energy for nine years.
But today, this "Pompei of the North" is a park and trails criss-cross the lava fields, exsposing, at its lowest levels, remains of homes now under archeological excavation.
My second goal for the day was was climb the volcano--a structure that wasn´t there 40 years ago. It was a relatively easy climb up a pebbly trail cut into the soft ash as it snaked its way abover the red, raw crater. The summit, however, was quite another matter. Gail force winds almost pushed me, a no lightweight mortal, off the edge. Once on top, I anchored myself to a set of pilings from a weather station. The views were stunning. Far out at sea I could see the newest addition to the archipelago--Surtsey--which rose from the waves in 1963. It´s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I also marveled at the lava flow that had narrowly missed filling in the harbor. Had it not been for the world-wide effort of firefighters who hosed 6,000,000 tons of cold sea water on the lava. the evacuation would have been permanent. Without a fishing industry, there would have been no reason for the islanders to return home.
That night, the hostel was full of fun people. I had a chance to chat with a Spanish/Irish couple. She spoke no English and it was a rare opportunity for me to speak Castillion Spanish--an accent very different from the one I accustomed to. And for some reason, the more Irish whiskey I drank, compliments of her boyfriend, the better my Spanish got. But that may just be an illusion. I´d drunk way too much (something I rarely do) and slept soundly all night.
Thursday morning I sailed back to the mainland and made my way to Rkykavik. It was my last day with the car. I slowly retraced my steps back to the capital. It´s really only a small city, not much bigger than Burlington, Vermont, but after two weeks in the empty of Iceland´s countryside, I was overwhelmed with traffic and people.
That night I settled into my last Icelandic hostel, repacked my bags, and got ready for the next leg of this adventure.
What a time it had been!
Latitude 63°26'1" N
September 8, 2011
The Westman Islands had piqued my interest last week as I was drving westward on Highway 1. Black and brooding, these 15 eye-catching silhouettes could be seen clearly miles and miles away. Heimaey, a 30 minutes boat ride from the mainland, seemed a good way to wrap up my Icelandic stay.
And so, an hour out of Vik, on a clear and windy morning, I sailed to this fascinating archipelago formed by submarine volcanoes around 11,000 years ago.
Heimaey, my destination, is the only inhabited island. Its well kept homes were architecturally reminiscent of northern California coastal communites. It was an easy place to spend twoo days.
After settling into a hostel (this time with my own room. The night before I´d fallen off the top top level of a bunkbed.) I set off to explore blood-red Edfel, a 700 foot volcano that appeared out of nowhere on the morning of January 23, 1973.
On my way from town I explored what locals refer to as the "Pompei of the North." Over a period of five months, from January to July of 1972, over 30,000,000 tons of ash and lava poured over Heimaey, destroying 360 homes, burying them in 50 feet of lava. More than 1/3 of the town was destroyed, but all 5,200 residents were evacuated. Five months later, 2/3 of them returned to face a Herculean clean-up operation. Once the fireworks were over, heat from the volcano provide Heimaey with geothermal energy for nine years.
But today, this "Pompei of the North" is a park and trails criss-cross the lava fields, exsposing, at its lowest levels, remains of homes now under archeological excavation.
My second goal for the day was was climb the volcano--a structure that wasn´t there 40 years ago. It was a relatively easy climb up a pebbly trail cut into the soft ash as it snaked its way abover the red, raw crater. The summit, however, was quite another matter. Gail force winds almost pushed me, a no lightweight mortal, off the edge. Once on top, I anchored myself to a set of pilings from a weather station. The views were stunning. Far out at sea I could see the newest addition to the archipelago--Surtsey--which rose from the waves in 1963. It´s now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I also marveled at the lava flow that had narrowly missed filling in the harbor. Had it not been for the world-wide effort of firefighters who hosed 6,000,000 tons of cold sea water on the lava. the evacuation would have been permanent. Without a fishing industry, there would have been no reason for the islanders to return home.
That night, the hostel was full of fun people. I had a chance to chat with a Spanish/Irish couple. She spoke no English and it was a rare opportunity for me to speak Castillion Spanish--an accent very different from the one I accustomed to. And for some reason, the more Irish whiskey I drank, compliments of her boyfriend, the better my Spanish got. But that may just be an illusion. I´d drunk way too much (something I rarely do) and slept soundly all night.
Thursday morning I sailed back to the mainland and made my way to Rkykavik. It was my last day with the car. I slowly retraced my steps back to the capital. It´s really only a small city, not much bigger than Burlington, Vermont, but after two weeks in the empty of Iceland´s countryside, I was overwhelmed with traffic and people.
That night I settled into my last Icelandic hostel, repacked my bags, and got ready for the next leg of this adventure.
What a time it had been!
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