Helgafell

When it comes to taking a holiday I am either ridiculously over-prepared—I’m talking a binder filled with things to do and see and directions on how to get there from the hostel, possibly even a planner telling me what to do on which day—or hopelessly flying by the seat of my pants. My second visit to Iceland found me somewhere in the middle of the preparedness spectrum—I had a few ideas roughed out and vague directions, but would soon find myself terribly lost. On two separate occasions I found myself wandering the various paths of Elliðaádalur in search of Heiðmörk, an area that promised to provide a nice day adventure, but according to some locals, was actually a place for teens to go to fool around and buy drugs. In retrospect, it’s probably a good thing that I missed out on that experience, but crossing various highways and trekking through countless neighbourhoods guided only by my cell phone’s compass app wasn’t the best way to spend my time.

My second hike was supposed to take me to Úlfarsfell and, once more, said it had fairly clear instructions. I don’t know about anyone else, but getting off a bus on the side of the highway and being in the middle of an industrial park isn’t a clear instruction. No one appeared to be around as I trekked past various greenhouses and rental companies looking for directions. At the end of the road I found a dead end and turned around to reluctantly catch the bus back into the city to find something else to do. Not really willing to give up so easily, I found a path that took me underneath the highway and along a dirt road to what was essentially a giant building site but I’m sure is now a new neighbourhood on the far fringes of Reykjavik. There was a mountain in the distance beyond the building site, however, and possibly that was Úlfarsfell.

The weather by now was a typical Icelandic autumn day: just enough rain and wind to make you cold but not enough to pack it in. I made my way to a large dirt area where a few cars were parked—one of which I noted was packed with gear and looked as if it had been there quite some time. There was also one of those chunky built picnic tables that are usually found in campgrounds off to one side that was covered in discarded and now damp clothing. A sign at the top of a little worn down dirt path indicated I had finally found the start of my hike. The entire stretch of flat land had me looking around for an easier way up the mountain—after all, the information I’d found on the hike had promised to be easy, but the closer I got to the base of the mountain, the steeper it was looking. I could see a few other slightly worn areas up the mountain off to the side of the path but knew it was bad practice to wander from designated paths in Iceland, as doing so causes damage to the vegetation and only monsters don’t respect the rules of the country they’re visiting.

As a result, my only way up was incredibly steep and I was not looking forward to having to climb back down—finally realizing just how handy hiking poles would be. I ended up giving up after climbing a particularly difficult part and seeing that harder terrain lay ahead. By now the rain had picked up and was obscuring my glasses, making it difficult to navigate any sort of path, let alone the narrow one that wound along the side of the mountain and would cause potential hazard to my safety. I slid down the tougher parts of the path on my bum and headed back to the road in shame. I was determined to complete my third and final hike later on in the week.

The morning of my third hike—an ambitious 7 km walk to the base of the mountain followed by a 2.5 km ascent—was unseasonably sunny and lovely. The fact that it was also my birthday made me even more determined to have a successful hike; everything was setting up for a perfect day. I was heading to Helgafell where, legend had it, if it was your first time climbing the mountain you must not speak or look back on your way up and, when you get to the top where the ruins of an old church lie, you should face east and make three positive wishes which would then come true. You were also not to tell your wishes to anyone. It did not state when they would come true and a few testimonials from tourists revealed that their “wishes” most likely would have come true with or without the ritual. That being said, I was traveling alone and thought ‘how hard could it be?’ Answer: very hard because I got lost and backtracked and talked to myself all the time. I had carefully written out directions on how to get to the mountain, along with my three wishes, well in advance.

Side note about these wishes:

I am not stupid. Enough fantasy novels have taught me that you have to be very specific in what you wish for so nothing goes horribly wrong but you also must not place a deadline on that wish (in retrospect there’s one I should have made a deadline for). It is also good not to be wholly selfish with wishes. Anyway, moving on.

I prepared my gear for the day—completely forgetting my protein bar—and headed out, stopping for coffee and breakfast along the way. I caught the correct bus and quietly rode out of the city to Hafnarfjorður—though silence was only required for the actual hike. Once at the main bus exchange, I checked the schedule for the connecting bus only to discover it would be a three hour wait. Being a newly savvy Icelandic bus rider, I luckily thought to check the schedule and found two other buses stopping where I needed to go, one of which had just arrived. Success! Or so I thought, but of course with my luck when it came to hikes lately, nothing was clearly laid out once getting off the bus. I saw a hill up ahead and guessed what direction to go, hoping I hadn’t already started the hike as I was constantly looking around to ensure I was going in the right direction.

I had not, evidently, as a series of paths had me following the power lines and emerging at some sort of stable. Continuing down the road, I headed towards a mountain in the distance, reminding myself that I was a 7 km walk from the bus stop to the base of Helgafell and that despite being a terrible judge of distance, that could very well be it. My suspicions were confirmed when I asked a man on a bicycle if I was headed in the right direction. “Straight ahead, just keep going,” he laughed “I’m headed there myself,” then proceeded to pedal off into the distance. Bolstered with the confidence that I was actually going the right way, I set off down the road—which I feel I should mention was almost too narrow for two cars to pass and surprisingly busy. On either side of me stretched vast, empty fields of dead grass, flat mounds of rock, moss, and low bushes as far as my eyes could see. Above me the sky was divided by a line of fluffy white cloud running parallel to the road—a celestial highway to Helgafell.

I have no idea how long I walked for—being a terrible judge of the passing of time—but seeing the little gravel area set aside for a car park filled me with a sense of “oh thank Odin I made it to the start of the hike” as well as the knowledge that if I took a break from my 7 km walk in I might not stand back up to climb the mountain. I took a deep breath and paused a moment at the two large rocks that marked the beginning of the hike—from here on out there was no more talking, and no looking back. I headed out across the vast and rocky lava field feeling like I was caught in a cross between taking the ring to Mordor and Dune, while also mentally reminding myself not to talk. Large piles of stones spaced maybe twenty feet apart—I’m bad with distance, remember—kept me on the right track. Looking ahead I could see the steep incline of the mountain and thought it might be unsafe to do this alone, but it was my birthday dammit, and I would make my wishes.

I put my camera away at the base of the mountain and began to climb, reminding myself at the difficult part—and boy, were there difficult parts—that people I knew had climbed it without trouble and that little old ladies climbed this for church ages ago (I’m making up that last part, but I assume something along those lines is true given that there are ruins of a church at the top). There were more than a few moments where I wondered how the hell I was supposed to get back down as I stopped to take photos to record my accomplishments. At one point I had thought I’d reached the end as I could see no path leading me farther up, but I was clearly not at the top. A circling crow overhead alerted me to the continuation of the path and this is where I may have looked back—if only to double back and correct my path—before resuming my climb.

Eventually I made it to the top, found east to face, and managed to whisper out my wishes amid a torrent of tears that suddenly decided to spring up for reasons I cannot be certain of. Relief that I did it? The overwhelming beauty of the landscape? The fact that I’d barely slept the night before? Fear that I now had to climb down? Whatever the reason, there they were, along with the feeling of being full of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on but might be akin to love. From the top of the mountain I could see buildings in the distance, but couldn’t hazard a guess at what town it was. Off on another side was a cloud of steam rising up from another area of the mountain; while below me were the dark green patches of moss interspersed with shades of grey from rocks. Though I’m sure the barren landscape is not to everyone’s taste, the vast stretch of earth tones and untouched land left me breathless—a feeling I’ve often felt in this country and seldom anywhere else. Of course the wind picked up and threatened to blow me off the edge and I, determined not to fall down another mountain in Iceland, thought it best to climb down and start the long trek back to the bus stop.

My descent was half walking upright, half crouched or sliding on my bum—I won’t lie. I was fully aware on the climb up that the climb back down would be difficult and that I would risk injuring myself. I was careful; I took my time, and I was elated to be back on the ground without a scratch. Naturally at this point I was frozen and had been on the go for 5 hours without a break, but I dragged my sore and tired self back down the road for 7 km before luckily finding a bus stop that did not require me to cross the hill with the power lines again. I also managed to find a road marker for Heiðmörk in the process, much to my annoyance.

It’s been just over a year since climbing Helgafell and I still find myself thinking back to it fondly as one of my proudest achievements. I’ve since forgotten the specifics of my wishes, but in general I think two of them came true, or are at least in the process of it. I’ll admit that part of one of my wishes was being able to climb back down safely, as that descent is stuck firmly in my mind as a constant reminder of why I need to purchase some hiking poles before my next major excursion. Needless to say, Helgafell is holding its own special place in my heart and I cannot wait for the opportunity to climb this mountain again—this time being able to talk to myself and look around as much as I like.