AN ICELANDIC PADDLING ADVENTURE
by Wendy Killoran
I had anticipated this moment for several months, camped at Hornvik’s sweeping beach with an expansive view of craggy Hornbjarg rising majestically half a kilometre straight from the ocean. My paddling companions, six Icelandic men (Baldur Petursson, Gummi Breiddal, Petur Hilmursson, Sveinbjorn Kristjansson, Eythor Pall Hauksson and Halldor Sveinbjornsson), were busy with meal preparations. A soft light filled the sky, even though it was midnight. It was early July and the sun never sets during June and July in the Westfjords of Iceland.
July the fourth arrived cool and cloudy. Hornvik Bay curved in a long sweep, drawing my eyes to the partially obscured Hornbjarg cliffs. Nervous eider ducks frantically flew a few metres farther into the quiet bay as I walked over a dirt trail to observe a neon orange fibreglass emergency shelter. Next to this shelter, resembling a gaudy trailer without wheels, were a few overgrown stone foundation ruins from a homestead long ago abandoned. What would have drawn hardy souls to inhabit the ends of the Earth- the solitude, the grandeur, the bountiful fishing? I could only wonder. What had drawn me here? The excitement of an exotic paddling journey, surrounded by cliffs teeming with sea birds allured me but also the opportunity to paddle with a group of Icelandic paddlers. I would be immersed in stunning, remote nature and into the Icelandic culture.
The plan was to paddle across the calm waters of Hornvik to the imposing Hornbjarg cliffs. After carrying our kayaks to the beach, and donning dry tops, life jackets and spray skirts, we shot the obligatory group photo with the veil of clouds having dispersed to reveal the cliff’s jagged topographic profile in all its splendour.
Deep turquoise waters lapped serenely at the base of dark, towering, vertical cliffs. The shore we were paddling along this day was exposed and landing sites were non-existent. Mysterious shafts of light pierced through the upper reaches of fog, dancing amongst the sharp peaks reaching out to the skies. It looked ethereal, like a stairway to Heaven. We dawdled to absorb the incredible grandeur. Calm water around the notorious Hornbjarg is a true gift from the Gods above.
A cacophony of bird noise filled the air. Above me, thousands of gulls, guillemots, auks, and puffins screeched and flew in winding spirals or purposeful trips out to sea. I’d expected a shower of acrid guano, “skitur,” from such a concentration of bird life, but it thankfully never happened. The cliffs resembled urban skyscrapers with the birds as the resident workers and tenants.
Huge flocks of floating guillemots speckled the water black randomly, along with some razorbills. As our flotilla of kayaks paddled through these concentrations of birds, a flurry of running over the water, frantic dives, and struggled attempts at flight surrounded us. We paddled past towering, vertical sea stacks, black basalt with showers of dribbled guano, where kittiwakes and gulls perched on seemingly impossible nesting sites. Coarse screeching and a putrid guano scent accosted my senses. Paddling through a narrow slot about one hundred metres long, a colony of puffins dove before my kayak. I was certain that my paddle would scoop up one of these attractive yet comical looking birds.
Approaching Blakkibas, a narrow waterfall, a “foss” in Icelandic, plunged directly into the tame dark ocean as clouds and cliffs obscured the sun. Halldor tied on my yellow sou’wester rain hat and paddled beneath the icy shower of water which splattered forcefully. Baldur and Eythor, with a bit of effort, found a small boulder strewn landing site. The rest of us bobbed placidly in our kayaks, snacking on dried fish, a great energy source but also a salty food effective in dehydrating oneself, thus eliminating the urge to relieve oneself.
The return paddle along these towering cliffs reached deep into my soul. To be surrounded by such a profusion of bird life, intoxicating ocean and dramatic cliffs silenced me into quiet contemplation and appreciation. By the time we returned to camp, we had spent seven hours in our kayaks, a record for us all, just like the record Halldor and Eythor had set that day, the first paddlers ever to paddle four times around the imposing Hornbjarg. Apparently, I was the first woman, according to my paddling friends, to paddle this shoreline. The “Big Trip” as this kayaking journey was referred to, was a trip of many firsts.
Towering cliffs on my left made navigation an easy task.
Our second day of paddling brought continued idyllic conditions. At Rekavik, we paddled amongst barren, basaltic rock formations dispersed through the bay. Towering cliffs on my left made navigation an easy task. Huge stacks of dark rock added interest. Our last glimpse of Hornbjarg disappeared as we paddled through thousands of guillemots. One enclave sheltered a beautiful flock of harlequin ducks. At Goltur, a needle-sharp pinnacle stabbed skywards. Fog shrouded the upper reaches of the cliffs and paddling was a joy as calm waters allowed me to focus on the incredible details of my surroundings. Often seals popped their heads above the surface, curiously gazing at our colourful fleet of kayaks.
At Haelavik, a six kilometre wide bay, a slight tail wind stirred. Fannalagarfjall, an imposing ridge of flat-topped mountain, beckoned on the opposite shore. Misty wisps of clouds snaked around the upper reaches as glorious sunshine sparkled on the satiny water and made me feel too warm inside my protective drysuit. I tied my homemade yellow sail to my paddle and let the wind work to my advantage.
An imposing ridge of flat-topped mountain beckoned…
We disembarked for lunch on Haelavik’s western shore. Sveinbjorn with Gummi’s attentive assistance used his prestigious Leatherman multi-tool and flint to ignite some driftwood. Although the landscape is void of trees, driftwood washes ashore from shipwrecks or from logs from Siberia.
The wind picked up as the afternoon progressed but it was a helpful tailwind. Petur tried sailing around the point called Kogurnes. He lurched forward and raced effortlessly past the cliffs.
In Fljotavik, we paddled through a narrow channel of rock. Numerous eider ducks inhabited the bay. We were completely sheltered from the northeastern wind. The bay resembled a millpond, calm as can be, but near the sandy tan coloured beach, mild surf collapsed in repetitive hisses. A few ungainly landings were performed but I felt at ease landing the kayak here as the conditions resembled the wavy, sandy shore of Lake Huron, at the Pinery in Canada where I usually paddle. Gracefully landing and adeptly pulling the kayak from the waves’ reach, I found another stunning valley, sheltered in a sandy bowl, surrounded by impressive mountains. Here four summer houses dotted the grassy landscape.
After paddling 29 kilometres, Sveinbjorn decided to roll his kayak in the bay with a massive quantity of deck luggage. I was most impressed, but Sveinbjorn is Iceland’s 2001 paddling marathon champion.
By now it was well into the evening. Tents were erected on a flat, grassy meadow and a fire pit was built from the rocks strewn above the sandy shoreline. I was hungry enough to eat “peanut butter on a stick,” a first for Halldor to witness squeamishly. Barbecuing meat was the main event, weiners followed by lamb chops.
The following morning, the wind had picked up as spray blew off the top of the heavy surf crashing onto the beach. I roamed by foot, visiting the emergency shelter, a converted house, and followed the beach to Fljovatn, a small lake with a few cottages. I found cobble pavement in the dunes and old whalebone. Returning to camp, it was decided we’d go for a walk.
We visited the last cottage, where an elderly couple was spending three months, having followed a trail through flower-filled meadows with wild geraniums and buttercups. Early homesteaders had left the Hornstrandir area several decades ago due to excessive hardship.
Back at our camp, it was decided that we’d start our paddle, the goal being Adalvik. The spindrift flying off the wave crests pounding the beach, flew out to sea. The wind would definitely be a factor in today’s paddle.
Crossing Fljotavik, the waves came from my starboard beam. They kept building. Soon I was in waves at least two metres in height, wondering about the sanity of being out on the ocean. We kept tight as a group. Several surfed the powerful waves. At Straumnes, a notable headland with a lighthouse, the wind tore from behind, gusting wildly. Rounding the headland, I naively thought I’d be safe from the building wind, in the lee of Straumnesfjall, but it curled around and fought with my paddle, trying to yank it from my grip.
We grouped together, a raft of seven kayaks, and in Icelandic, it was decided to continue rather than land at Latravik as conditions would make for a challenging landing. Little did I realize that we were now barely halfway into the day’s paddle. We started to cross Adalvik, with enormous waves rearing from the stern. Meanwhile, Halldor was readjusting Gummi’s deck luggage, but his extensive bungee cord took eons to untie and retie. A group of four, Baldur, Petur, Eythor, and myself rafted together, as the waves pushed us across Adalvik. Nearly forty-five minutes later, Sveinbjorn reappeared with Halldor and Gummi. I concentrated on staying upright as waves raced beneath my hull. It was late in the evening, perhaps 10:30 p.m. when we completed the crossing of eight kilometre wide Adalvik, but the sun was a peachy amber orb, well above the horizon – a real benefit of paddling the Westfjords in Iceland in the height of summer.
Rounding Ryter, a cliff of glowing rock, we rested. The sight ahead awed me. I could see across the twenty-kilometre wide mouth of Isafjardardjup to Bolungarvik, Sveinbjorn’s hometown. Pale violet, flat-topped mountains with U-shaped valleys lined the fjord. Sweeps of grey clouds floated through the sky, hugging the skyline above the far-off mountains. We were in calm water, sheltered from the gusty northeastern wind that had literally shoved us across Adalvik to the lee of Graenahlid. Craggy, glowing cliffs towered skywards but the profusion of bird colonies was lacking. A mellow, lambent light painted a warm hue on everything it touched. I was enjoying the evening, the company of my six paddling companions, and the inebriating scenery, drinking it in unrestricted. What a cohesive group we were – always thoughtfully discussing options, never arguing or tempers flaring, and always enjoying a good laugh.
We paddled for ten kilometres along an endless, impenetrable fortress of vertical cliff, light casting long shadows from clefts in the rock. I was spellbound by the beauty but was starting to feel the fatigue.
Finally, at 1:00 a.m., seven and a half hours after starting the paddle, with no exits from the cockpit, we beached the kayaks at Slettunes, along the north shore of Jokulfirdir. Amazingly, after 38 kilometres of non-stop paddling, I felt fine, a bit tired, but ready and able to assemble camp and eat dinner. We drank in the deep beauty of the land and ate freshly boiled sea trout as the midnight sun painted the clouds hovering over Isafjordur and Bolungarvik, a soft baby pink. Alpenglow illuminated the mountains rimming this extensive fjord. At 3:00 a.m., we retired.
Next morning, a walk to the neon orange lighthouse followed a leisurely breakfast. We came across a shipwreck high above the rocky shoreline. Just beyond, two houses sat in flower covered meadows. We visited the first house, reading the guest book and adding our own entry. Leaving the house just as we’d found it, we followed a narrow path through chest high parsnip plants. Again we made a house visit, comparing the two homes, and again entering a paragraph into the guest book. Relaxation was the priority on the agenda for the brilliant afternoon. Sunshine spilled over the mountains and fjord. Deep purple lupines added splashes of saturated colour. Spongy moss carpets verdantly lined trickling streams and miniature furry pussy willows carpeted the ground. Back at camp, we roasted marshmallows on a beach fire while coals were fired up to grill more lamb.
And then, early in the evening, we set out with moderate port beam waves pushing us across Jokulfirdir and windows of light shining like spotlights on magnificent snowy mountains and the hamlet of Grunnavik. Cliffs plunged over four hundred metres to Isafjardardjup, walling the fjord where we now paddled free of wind. A few waterfalls toppled from enormous heights. Dramatic clouds, some dark and foreboding, others glowing warmly, filled the sky.
Dramatic clouds … filled the sky.
An eerie light luminated the late night sky. Iceberg blue clouds obscured the flat-topped peaks of the mountains on the south shore of Isafjardardjup. Half an hour earlier, while innocently watching a waterfall plummeting from dizzying heights, a sneaky, powerful blast of wind had unsuccessfully attempted to topple me over unexpectedly, but a firm brace had kept me upright.
At Sandeyri, a tempestuous fury of wind raced from the Drangajokull glacier in the remote Hornstrandir area of the Westfjords. One moment, calmness surrounded me as I sucked in the late night beauty, dramatic skies, vertical cliffs, and dozens of graceful whooper swans in flight. The next moment, as I fumbled to raise my rudder near the sandy beach, a powerful blast punched my front side and, like a child’s flotation toy, I was drifting away from land at an alarming rate, even as I dug in with my paddle with all my strength and energy. Where had such a fury come from? How was I going to safely paddle to shore?
Fortunately I was paddling with six strong Icelandic men who were highly skilled, competent paddlers. Halldor Sveinbjornsson noticed my situation. I had even tried to attempt back paddling to shore as the wind had turned my stern. With a few furious strokes, Halldor grabbed my bow with his left elbow and attempted to paddle us to land, as a relentless blast of wind pummeled us as it plummeted from the heights above. As I attempted to paddle, blade digging in to grab the water with all my might, we started to inch forward. There was hope that we’d be all right, that we weren’t going to be blown sixteen kilometres across Isafjardardjup to the town of Isafjordur, our final destination.
With two towropes firmly knotted together, a throw bag was tossed to us, landing within a metre of my kayak. Reaching, I was able to grab the line. Instantly, the five men now safely ashore, hauled us to land, pulling us so fast that no amusement park ride could compare. Icy salt water splashed my face. The ride of my life was over in seconds. Never had I been so relieved to set foot ashore from my kayak. I leaned at a forty-five degree angle into the wind, which simply wouldn’t abate. Even now the katabatic wind wanted to blow me away.
After securing the kayaks in the nearby dunes, we walked two kilometres back to the Sandeyri emergency shelter. Emergency shelters dot the Icelandic landscape in remote areas. The wind was not relenting. I felt small and vulnerable in this profound wilderness. I felt secure knowing that I could count on my paddling companions, people I’d met only four days previously. I felt grateful that Halldor and his friends had rescued me. I felt such a mixture of emotions. I felt in awe of the raw power of the nature that surrounded me. No wonder all homesteaders had left this remote pocket of wilderness by the early 1960s. Its harsh reality would have made life a continual battle with the elements.
Sandeyri Emergency Shelter
Inside the emergency shelter, a place measuring about six metres by two and a half metres, we pulled off our dripping wet dry tops and dry suits, boiled water and revived ourselves with hot chocolate.
While Baldur and Gummi bivied in the lee of a stone fence, the remaining five of us settled for the evening in the hut that rattled and shook from the wind that stormed throughout the night. I slept fitfully, having had my share of adventure and thrills.
The following morning, sullen skies darkened the fjord. A strong wind still blew from the mountain out across the fjord. Even a small pond of water rippled and bristled like an angry dog’s neck fur as the wind streaked across. White cotton grass bobbed madly like a ping pong ball in play. I roamed the sandy meadows and the stony beach, on a treasure hunt for small rocks with holes going right through from one side to the other for making necklace pendants. I found several but also a smooth, shiny rock that looked like a small particle from a meteorite.
Back at the Sandeyri emergency shelter, we packed up and returned to our kayaks. With a strong tail wind, we rafted for a short while and the farther we got from shore, the less menacing the katabatic wind became. It was a local phenomena. Leaving Snaefjallastrond, we paddled to Vigur, an island nine and a half kilometres across Isafjardardjup. Waters calmed along the southern shore of the fjord. Eythor had to leave the group, accompanied by Sveinbjorn, but the rest of us paddled along the western shore of Vigur, surrounded by thousands of puffins, birds that come to shore during the summer months, spending the remaining nine months far out at sea. The water was a pewter gray sheet of satin. A few sheep and cows gazed from the verdant green slopes of this agricultural island, which is also a bird sanctuary.
At the southern tip of Vigur, a small colourful settlement, which includes Iceland’s only remaining fully intact windmill, appeared beyond the pebble beach. It is really the farmstead of a single family. Tour boats frequent the island during the summer months, anywhere from one to eight boats a day, but we’d arrived late in the afternoon and beached the kayaks without tourists roaming about.
Iceland’s only remaining windmill.
Baldur, Petur and I walked by the small windmill, a heritage site, and then headed along the eastern shore of the two and a half kilometre long island. Terns screeched and dive-bombed us. Thousands croaked in the cloudy sky above in disapproval. One pecked my cap off my head and immediately another stabbed my head with its knife-sharp beak. These birds had no fear as they defended their territory and we carefully watched each step we planted as the ground was covered with speckled, camouflaged eggs. Eider ducks by the hundreds floated off shore and the water was speckled black with innumerable puffins. Each step along the grassy fringes of the island required concentration as the ground was riddled with puffin burrows.
At the summit, just over forty metres above sea level, I looked west towards Arnarnes, where a wall of cliffs lined the shore. Sombre clouds draped over the flat peaks and dramatic bursts of light shafts sparkled silvery on the gray water. To the south, the dominant 536 metre high mesa-like mountain commanded my attention. It looked so mysterious. To the north, the snowy mountains flanking Drangajokull reminded me of my struggle with the wind. The 360 degree view was filled with dramatic topography. Stunning.
We returned to our kayaks and easily paddled the two and a half kilometres to Folafotur, a sheltered campsite with a small, white, sandy beach, a gently sloping grassy meadow and a sculpted rock garden. It was an impressive site, with incredible views of the setting sun.
Just as I was about to nod off, snuggled within my down sleeping bag in my tent, Halldor’s voice from about ten metres away suggested I look at the midnight sun. There it was, as promised, a glorious, fiery ball well above the horizon, spilling a trail of golden sparkles across Isafjardardjup. I slept contentedly. How could I not? Days were filled with vigorous paddling and numerous surprises. Iceland was casting its spell on me. The magic of the land, the generosity and friendliness of its people, the natural wonders which never ceased to amaze me. I could easily understand why these men were content to paddle in their own backyard.
Our final morning was a morning sent from Heaven. I awoke early and found a herd of about a dozen wild Icelandic ponies grazing on the ridge just above my tent. Beautiful, full manes blew freely in the gentle breeze. Sunshine gave definition to their rippling muscles. A brief look in my direction and they quietly disappeared over the first ridge. I walked east towards Tjaldtangi, a grassy meadow filled with stone ruins.
At camp, lazy camaraderie prevailed. Sunshine radiated warmth. I replaced my wool tuque and three layers of fleece with a bathing suit! We sipped expresso and soaked up the moment – the sun, the grandeur, our friendship developed when working as a co-operative team in demanding conditions. Gummi rolled Halldor’s kayak as stunning colours on the water mesmerized me. Deep aqua blue, with black rock and snowy white mountains. Nature was performing a spectacular encore. After a short walk, just like that, Halldor stood up, proclaimed that it was time to move on, and camp was disassembled spontaneously.
The wind picked up and we paddled the last twenty-five kilometres against the wind. Across the first fjord, Seydisfjordur, we came to yet another cliff-lined shoreline but numerous jagged boulders were dangerously spread along the shallow waters. It was here five years ago that Halldor had guided J.F.K. Jr. beyond the dangerous rocks to a safe landing site in Sudavik
The final paddle was a slog for me. A road hugged the shore as onlookers gawked at our colourful, hard-to-miss flotilla. The wind tired me and the “Big Trip” was coming to an end. Before I knew it, we were approaching the town of Isafjordur, tucked on a sandy peninsula in Skutulsfjordur, flanked by a U-shaped wall of imposing mountains. I’d followed my dream, to paddle the Westfjords of Iceland. It was everything I’d hoped for, and more, a remarkable experience with a remarkable group of people.
The Group
Wendy returned to Iceland later in the summer to compete in the Hvammsvik Marathon..