Right is a scenic panorama taken from the summit of local Mount Hestur. The mountain, which is little more than a bump by Icelandic standards, is nonetheless the most distinguishable geologic feature within hiking distance of Solheimar. At least, this is the opinion of a kid from the American Midwest, where a wannabe adventurer with altitudinal aspirations rejoices at even the most pitiful of peaks, and has trained him or herself to detect and subsequently overrate even the smallest variations in a uniform landscape. Needless to say, the sculpted, ethereal terrain of Iceland, achieves nearly wet dream status for many wanderlusting young folk from the great plains. I could only contain myself for so long.
Embarking on foot towards Hestur with some CELL fellows one afternoon, I soon found them eating my dust, of which I hold no regrets. Asserting that the fastest way was from point A to point B is a straight shot, I crossed numerous barbed wire fences into ambiguous properties, and waded up to my shins in marsh water, in the rain. Reluctant to relent, I shied away from the path, or in this case, road of least resistance leading more or less to the foot of the mountain until I simply couldn’t go any other way.
My logic failing me once, it was only to be expected that I would use the same faulty logic again, this time, picking a fight, like a belligerent at a bar, with the most immediate and intimidating face I could see, a rockslide of about 45 degrees, instead of simply following the ridge to a gentle incline less than a football field away. Perhaps overestimating myself, it soon became clear that it is unwise to pick a fight with a mountain. In minutes my steady breathing gave way to a syncopation of gasps and puffs, the buried relics of my childhood asthma unearthed for this special occasion. It felt like I was trying to run up a 1500 foot McDonald’s Playplace slide wearing socks.
But even good things must come to an end, I must have thought as I was almost to the top. While entertaining plans to unleash a cry of victory, perhaps rip off my shirt, and congratulate myself atop a “remote and wild” mountain that I alone conquered, a family wearing sneakers and a backpack full of sandwiches appeared, coming up the easy way. Sweaty and somewhat deflated, I bagged the summit silently, and kept my shirt on. On the bright side, they were nice people and compelled me to try some dried fish “famous, from Iceland!”
I’ve been told I never do things the easy way, and that’s right, but my unintentional masochism proves time and again to be ultimately fulfilling. Like a book without a plot, at times the unchallenged life can seem incredibly banal. So I create my own challenges. It was never about getting to the top. The top is fleeting in isolation (what goes up must come down). It was about breathing life into getting to the top, giving it real substance, by weaving a journey, a process, around it.
By Dave Buenneke