When we left the turf-clad hut, a fine drizzle hung in the air, but our mood was positive because we had packed up in warmth and dryness, after having tea for breakfast.
Soon enough, the drizzle turned into a downpour, and then into a full-on soaking
Iceland Cycling - day 8
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Luckily, Andrey had a raincoat stashed away, which came in very handy
At the start of the journey, it's always hard to fire up your body's full power
But eventually the muscles warm up, and the mind gets used to the fact that you have to pedal again
Looks like we just rode into a cloud
It feels like the ground is smoking, just like near Geysir. The beauty is extraordinary. The sun warmed us up, and even the fact that we were soaked to the bone didn't bother us anymore.
And when a glacier glows under the sun's rays on the horizon, it absolutely blows your mind
On either side — a magical, soft, and cozy smoke
Ahead — a magical, bright, and shiny light
Things were going well. Granted, since the very morning, moving along the road, we had seen only one car, meaning the places we'd wandered into were getting wilder and more deserted. Of course, in this case, the universe just had to remind us that we weren't exactly out on a picnic. In the middle of the day, your humble servants ran smack into a river so wide it was almost like a lake. We might have just blindly charged across without thinking about the difficulties, but some quad bikers crossed the river from the other side, and it suddenly became starkly obvious to us what a serious obstacle stood in our way. The river was almost waist-deep. Doesn't sound too threatening, but only to those who haven't seen Icelandic rivers. The thing is, the current in them is very strong, the water is muddy from suspended sand, you can't see the depth, and the bottom is made of small and large rocks — it's unstable and impossible to walk on quickly, let alone with a bike. Add to this the near-zero temperature, and you'll understand why crossing this twenty-meter-wide ribbon seemed to us an impossibly risky undertaking.
The main problem, of course, is the current — it's hard to stay on your feet in it even on your own, and dragging a loaded bicycle along with you is practically impossible. The only option is to cross back and forth several times, ferrying your gear gradually, but after just five meters of that icy, sharp bottom, your legs start cramping and tingling terribly, and thoughts of your imminent demise from pneumonia begin to stir in your head.
The quad bikers made it to our side not without difficulty. They would have been glad to help us, but their exhaust pipes and engines were already barely above the water, and they couldn't risk it, because unlike a bike, you can't pull one of those out of the river without extra gear.
So there we were, twiddling our thumbs on the bank for half an hour: the quad bikers trying to find a shallower spot where they could try their luck, and us slowly slipping into a panic and facing the inevitability of the biggest extreme of the whole trip, save for the storm.
Andrey was already imagining apocalyptic scenes of being swept away by the current, plunging headlong into the icy water, the bike sinking, and the bags floating downstream, gradually unrolling and filling with water, soaking all the contents. That was, apparently, his unfulfilled dream of having kind men and women from the rescue service pluck us from this harsh place to the warm, hipster Reykjavik. But no such luck!
Let me remind you, since the morning we had seen only one car. While we stood by the ford, two or three pulled up, mulled it over, and turned back — they assessed their capabilities soberly. Let me remind you that we are already deep in the island's belly, and there can't be regular cars here, only 4x4s with high clearance. However, the crossing we encountered was so brutal that even the rides perfectly suited for countless other fords were out of place here.
It all ended unexpectedly, and quite miraculously — two buses pulled up to the river from the side opposite to us. To paraphrase a famous saying, what's great for public transport is death to private vehicles.
The buses, however, weren't public ones, but rented or private. One was driven by an Icelander with a large family named Gunnar, and the other — by a slyly smiling old guy with an old lady. Naturally, we flagged down the buses, both of them. The old guy didn't speak English, but from his slightly squinting, wandering eye and his carefree smile, I figured nothing fazed him, and he would have definitely ferried us across. That wasn't necessary, though, because by that time the quad bikers (also locals, Icelanders) had explained to Gunnar that without his involvement we'd involuntarily turn from cycle tourists into boaters without watercraft, which could end somewhat tragically.
Gunnar spat on his hands, kicked out a crowd of young relatives who were staring at us with a mix of surprise at our idiocy and admiration for our fearlessness, and shoved our bicycles into the cabin (the bus had no trunk). Clumps of dirt were prolifically showering off the bikes onto the clean floor, I was already half undressed to ford the river, while Gunnar unperturbedly spun the steering wheel with a firm hand, pressing the gas with his foot without a second thought, paying no mind to how sharply the bus was bouncing and swaying from side to side, as if we had been caught in an earthquake. Not even a couple of minutes passed before we safely found ourselves on the other bank.
For the second time already, the Icelanders showed us a brilliant example of hospitality, mutual aid, and kindness of heart, for which I am very grateful to them. Who knows how things would have turned out without those funny old buses. Or maybe it's a shame we didn't cross on our own, we would have had something even crazier to remember. Either way, it all happened, and we had a whole lotta fun. The day was not lived in vain, and it wasn't even over yet, and new wonders awaited us ahead, which you will learn about in the next chapter of my story.