THAR SHE BLOWS!

We awoke to bright sunshine. The weather in Iceland is always on the move, and it plays a huge role every day. Because when it sucks, it really sucks. And it’s usually a cold and windy kind of suck. Several people told us the last two days were the nicest of the summer. It was sunny and cloudless, with temps in the mid-50s and a 12 mph breeze. That said, we always wore jackets and hats. But I remained a bold and proud man and kept wearing shorts. In fact, I might have been the only person with bare legs in the whole bloody country.

We left our hotel at ten and crossed a long landfill bridge at almost water level across Eyjafjörður Fjord. There were few support structures and it resembled a road atop the water. I guess the water level of the fjord remains constant. Let’s hope!

We climbed along the east side of the fjord with some outstanding views of Akureyri and soon came to the only toll road in Iceland, the 4.6-mile Vadlaheidar Tunnel—or maybe it’s called the Vaðlaheiðargång Tunnel—this all can get rather confusing because it appeared to have several different names, which seems to happen a lot in Iceland. On a map, it’s called one thing, but on a sign, it’s something different.

The tunnel blasts through a big bronze, metal-looking rock mountain whose walls seem to have been sculpted by hand—really big hands. There are pullouts and phones every kilometer. But here’s the wacky part. You have 24 hours to pay the toll online before a penalty kicks in and compounds every day. I logged onto the tunnel website at our hotel at the end of the day. But I was dumbfounded when they only charged me 1.99 Icelandic Króna, which is about $1.50. I think…

Our next stop was the Godafoss Waterfall. It’s impossible to miss Godafoss, the “Waterfall of the Gods”. It’s just off the Ring Road and from over a mile away you can see the spray rising up from the waterfall like smoke.

The waterfall was named after Iceland’s violent conversion to Christianity in 1000. The legend says that when Þorgeir Þorkelsson (the best name for a guy ever!), a local chieftain, and law speaker, made the tough decision to convert the country from the old Nordic gods to Christianity in order to prevent a war, he threw the carved replicas of the old gods into the falls to symbolize the change to a new way of doing bidness.

https://www.facebook.com/reel/3329754687320214

If you ask me, gods and waterfalls just don’t mix.

There are trails all over both sides of Godafoss and a very cool bridge, and we did our best to hike them all, each offering a slightly different perspective. And even though there were gobs of tourons and tour buses, everyone ended up spreading out on the many trails, so it didn’t feel crowded even when it really was.

We would have liked to hang out at Godafoss a bit longer, but we had to go see a man about a whale in the town of Husavik, the “Whaling Capital of the World”, where we had booked a 3-hour whale-watching excursion with North Sailing ($95 per person).

We left the busy fishermen’s wharf at one, aboard the good ship Nattari, a handsome vessel indeed. We were wearing our bulky yellow and black, insulated storm suits provided by the company, so we looked foolish and slightly badass, and we headed north toward the Arctic Circle. And, see, right there, I don’t even like the sound of that last sentence. Mind you, it was probably the nicest, warmest, and calmest day of the year—in fact, the chatty marine biologist on the PA system kept spouting that nonsense—but it was still frigging cold.

We followed a swarm of trawlers and human-packed, super-charged ribs until we found three humpbacks about 25 miles south of the Arctic Circle.

See, there I go again with the Arctic Circle. But let me just say that the ocean is different that far north. On the calmest of days, there were these gigantic swells rolling southward that resembled the humble beginnings of a tidal wave. And when they hit the cliffs at Husavik, they literally exploded about fifty feet into the air. The ocean was clear blue and disarmingly inviting, but you wouldn’t last a minute in that water.

We chased those poor whales for the next hour. We were like a relentless pack of hungry hyenas.

And each sighting was the same.

First, a flat black back about fifteen feet long slowly broke the surface. All hands on every boat started freaking out like squealing piglets. The speedy ribs rapidly attacked like they were going in for the kill. Then the whale exhaled loudly from its blowhole, air rising like steam into the air. The watchers screamed with collective joy. The whale glided along the surface for a minute or so and then began a deep dive, ending with its tail fluke aimed up into the sky before dropping gracefully below the surface. It was actually kind of sinuously elegant, like a Chinese diver at the Olympics.

Then we waited a few more minutes, scanning the water for another sighting as if our lives depended on it. Someone eventually yelled, “There’s one at nine o’clock”, and we were off to the races again.

After three of these blessed encounters Inna and I had seen enough. By that point, several seasick people were hanging off the side with death grips. The cheerful biologist was teaching us about all sorts of happy science stuff, like the difference between toothed whales (killer whales) and baleen whales (humpback), and how whales sequester CO2 in their big bodies and then release it back into the ocean sinks when they die. And we were also congratulated for helping with whale conservation by buying our tickets, a portion of which did something to help whales.

The clouds started rolling in on a brisk wind. Enthusiasm was waning. And—well, let’s just say that Inna and I were happy when we started surfing back toward Husavik on those mammoth Arctic waves.

After our whaling expedition, we found a yellow gem of a restaurant called Naustid tucked away from the fried fish joints by the wharf where we gorged ourselves on their specialty seafood soup, fresh bread, French fries, and Viking beer.

The drive to our hotel was through glacial valleys and lush farms, interspersed with ancient brown lava fields.

We were staying at another Berjaya Hotel. They are a Malaysian hotel chain that is predictably hip and clean with a fine restaurant and bar. Think, Holiday Inn.

Our hotel had a cute white Lutheran church with a tidy cemetery right next door. I went for a stroll at sunset (9:30), and was delighted to find the place of worship unlocked.

As I opened the door, I was greeted by the enchanting sound of a piano. And there by the unadorned altar was a blonde-haired young man playing “Let It Be” by the Beatles.

What a perfect way to end another wild and wooly day!