Zero day at Nyidalur hut, no hiking
I stare down at the swirling box on Keith’s phone, watching the weather forecast write our fate in greens and purples, snow and rain and wind. Keith has a plan and as much as I dislike it I can see the logic in it. He proposes that we skip the next 60 miles of the hike and hitch down to Landmannalaugar hut. The logic being that if the season really is shutting down and we only have a few days of good weather left for us, we might as well skip to the southern portion of the trip which is supposed to be the most beautiful. Still, I so badly wanted to thru hike across Iceland that I am resentful of this new idea even though I ultimately relent.
The weather swells in menacing whorls, the wind slamming the building like a freight train, working its tendrils through the cracks in the walls like so many dozens of mice.
Out from the cold, soaked and snow-dusted come fellow hikers who have either walked here or else been collected by the ranger of the hut, all making the wise decision to flee the oncoming storm. They drape their wet gear around the bunkroom, warming hands and feet by the gas heater and we get to exchanging stories. Stories of waking and walking in the rain, stories of heavy bags and tents that collapse on you in the middle of the night, but also stories of far-flung adventures and dreams. I find that these are the people who share the same heart as I have inside my mammalian chest. One which beats in longing for the new and novel. And isn’t this new and novel, to see what is in the interior of Iceland and the people who, like me, wish to see it? Even with the disappointment of missed miles I am still walking Iceland. Still placing one foot in front of the other and seeing where it takes me.