Home Again 
Conclusion of “A newbie on the Laugavegur” 

Author: Gerrit Marks, Mount Airy, MD

Part 8: The Last Stretch
Although this was the longest stretch, it was relatively easy – being a wide, flat path with little in the way of obstacles. We made it to the next camp around two in the afternoon, well ahead of the other hikers. I wasn’t taking any chances on having a bed snatched away from me, so I made straight for the warden’s cabin.

This time it was an Icelandic man named Óskar with an enormous long-haired German Shepherd lazing outside his little office. I asked Óskar about accommodations. He told me he had no bunks – the huts were full. With a moment’s hesitation he informed me that he had one tent available. I did not know this was even an option, the tent.

“Yes, one tent,” he repeated. “We had eight of them, but four were destroyed in the wind. And now three are rented.”

“I’ll take it,” I said, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice. I felt he might change his mind, and decide the tent wasn’t worth renting out after all.

It was slightly damaged by the storm and the black sand that gets into the zippers. This further reinforced the idea I’d formed about this wild place: That people really didn’t belong here, and nature would do everything in her power to make them go away.

But the tent was fine; it would hold on for at least one more night. With a big sleeping mat just like in the huts, and even a kind of foyer to stow packs and other gear, this would be the best night on the trail.

This night was calm, no wind. There was some snoring from a neighboring tent but not enough to make it bothersome. This would be the last night; with the next day’s hike we’d be closer to the south coast and arrive at the Þórsmörk campground.

We set out extra early because Will and Ed had a bus connection they couldn’t miss. After this, they were off to Greenland for another trek. My bus was scheduled for 2:30 the next afternoon, but I’d be coming into camp a day early. I was somewhat confident that I could get a seat – with just a touch of anxiety thrown in for good measure.

We had another swift river crossing and soon after entered the greenery of the birch mini-forest. Now the trail was closed-in, much like the Appalachian Trail back home, with branches brushing against us as we hiked through the trees and wild blueberry bushes. This was in stark contrast to the desolate landscape we’d left behind – and now there were even birds flitting here and there. Up in the heights of the trail we had views of a wide delta far in the distance that hinted at the south coast. We were getting closer.

We arrived in Þórsmörk around 1:30 in the afternoon, plenty of time to catch the bus. One of them was parked on the gravel lot, high up on its big tires – a reassuring sight.

We made our way to a camp store that offered up some choices of snacks and I quickly bought a package of Maryland chocolate chip cookies. This is one of the quirky things about Iceland: they have Maryland brand cookies that are wildly popular and about the cheapest thing the supermarkets sell. Can’t get them in Maryland, though; these cookies are made in Great Britain and as far as I know Iceland seems to be the main consumer of them. They are in all the stores.

I shared the cookies with Will and Ed and went to talk to the bus driver. I asked about a seat. Was there room?

“I think so,” he replied. “I have to pick up ten more people at the next camp.” He told me when he’d be loading passengers, and that I should check back then.

I went to have some more Maryland cookies with my trail buddies since I now had a few minutes. I could get my goodbyes out of the way and let them know what was going on with the bus. They’d booked their transportation with the other bus company, otherwise we’d all be riding together. I wished them a good trip in Greenland and was on my way.

For good-byes, I like them to be as brief as possible, even: “I’m leaving now. Bye.” And just go. It seems they are always a bit too protracted, with added things thrown in that have nothing to do with leaving. In fact, they stand in the way of leaving. I headed to the bus, saw that there was plenty of room and got on board.

Part 9: The Ride Back
The trail was behind me, and I’d soon see the camp of Þórsmörk receding as the bus bumped along the river and water crossings.

This is the southernmost point where most people finish up their trek. I was fatigued and a little sore from all the climbs and descents. My pack, although much lighter by now, was weighing on my shoulders. I was glad to shed it along with my hiking poles.

It was a rough ride, as the bus once again dipped into the river and drove up over the rocks on each side. For a time, the road was in the river itself, and we followed the water like that.

The rules in Iceland for back-country driving are strict: Follow the roads only, no matter how bad they are, or if they require you to drive in the water. Just stay on the road. The fines for taking off cross-country are hefty – and the damage takes years to repair.

From the bus window, the landscape was every bit as fascinating as the one I’d just hiked through; there was a vast area of giant boulders the size of a house. But they were scattered randomly, occupying their own space, with the nearest neighbor some distance away, and little else in between. Each giant rock stood on its own – a barren plain of monoliths. Another hour took us into Reykjavík.

A backpacker was sitting in the little shelter where I’d transfer to the city bus. He turned out to be an American from New England. I proudly told him I’d just hiked the Laugavegur Trail.

He congratulated me most sincerely on that accomplishment, then told me he’d just hiked the whole country from north to south, including the trail I’d just been on. Three hundred and seventy-five miles. It took him thirteen days and a few hours. This represented a record time for that particular feat, for those who follow news of this kind. He was a “super-trekker,” someone who trained extensively for this.

I’d been feeling pretty good about myself up to that point. That is, until I met him.

“How long for Laugavegur?” I was almost afraid to ask.

“One day.”

I was dumbfounded. Given the climbs, the descents, the scrambles up steep and loose paths – some of them almost vertical – the slogging through snowfields, the river crossings, soft volcanic sand – all that – he had to be traveling at a breakneck speed.

I noticed he was without hiking poles. These are always on my mind.

“I snapped them,” he said. Of course you did.

We talked a bit on the bus, compared notes. He said he’d passed over 500 people on his trek. I didn’t volunteer that I hadn’t passed even one – or, if I did, maybe they’d stopped to tie their shoelaces.

And he shared that there was new snow in the northern highlands. Not the snowfields from last winter, but a fresh snowfall greeted him when he rose one morning.

Had he passed me, I would have remembered him – a determined blur of a hiker on a quest for speed. It is very possible that he blew through the camps at night, while those inside the huts were sleeping – or otherwise engaged.

I took my leave, got off the bus along with one other passenger. This was the final part of my trek.

Out on the street I heard someone call out, “Gerrit!” I turned, and there was the young man who had two cats I’d been admiring about a week ago. It’s rare that a cat escapes my notice, and he had two siblings who were the best of friends. They cavorted, played hide-and-go-seek, and generally carried on.

How or why he would remember my name is beyond me, but this being Iceland, it is not entirely surprising. It is like one big small town, and everyone after a while gets to know each other. And Icelanders love cats.

I told him of my hike, spoke some more about cats, which is an inexhaustible topic for me – and told him I’d soon be heading back home.

Now it was close to ten o’clock in the evening, and the street was dark except for the light at the bus stop. I’m fond of these late evening streets because it’s at these times that the night belongs to the cats. They come out, socialize, seek out their neighbors across the hedges, and make the most of their time together.

At the bus stop there was a building that appeared to be vacant, with no lights ever shining from the windows. Sure enough, at the corner, where the streetlight cast a shadow, was one of his cats waiting for him. Seeing his Siggi exit the bus, he came to him, rubbing against his leg in greeting. 

Part 10: Home Again
I’d be back home with my two cats soon enough, in bed where I’d wiggle my toes like I had in the river. And hopefully they’d be dry and not wet from a cold Icelandic rain.

I made my way back to the loft where I had my room waiting – past the town’s cemetery where the grave markers would be decorated with lights for Christmas. I put my pack and sleeping bag back in my room. There were still some provisions, a few food items in there. My tent and other camping equipment.

For the gear I’d bought – the tent, now broken but easily fixed, my sleeping bag and big backpack and some other things – they could stay in Iceland. Maybe they’d hit the trail again without me. My host took these things, said he’d pass them on as this equipment can be quite expensive in Iceland. I saw this as an attractive alternative to tossing them into a closet or attic where they’d be forgotten for years.

I’d done the Laugavegur Trail but didn’t see myself doing it again. Or anything like it.

Back home my gear would languish in an attic or closet probably for years – until someone discovered it during a clean-out.

“Hey look! Camping equipment! Who in the world ever camped?”

I liked the idea of everything remaining in Iceland. Someone there could use it, and when I put the question to my host, he said he’d pass it on to someone who needed the things.

I wouldn’t be giving away my trekking poles, however; they’d helped me prepare on my hikes along the green and steamy Appalachian Trail back in Maryland. Besides, they collapsed to a convenient traveling size. They’d stay with me.

I’d return home with my one small suitcase. My backpacking days were behind me. I kept my hiking poles; I still knew how to walk, after all.

Since I was a day ahead of schedule, I had some time to kill before heading to the airport. I took walks around town, always on the lookout for cats. The weather was phenomenal – with sun and dry conditions – although the Icelanders complained of the cold summer. Since I’d walked these streets many times with ice spikes strapped to my shoes, I felt I had no room to complain about the current weather conditions. The weather was fine.

Back home it was a different story. Wearing my light Icelandic jacket, I was overdressed for the hot and humid August night. I forgot: Maryland isn’t Iceland.

It was well after dark when I finally came up the driveway. Both cats were waiting for me; they knew it was about time. My big orange tabby’s eyes were glassy; he looked like he was ready to cry. That night, in an uncharacteristic show of affection, he jumped on the bed and slept alongside me.

I was home.

This is the last of four instalments. It was edited for publication by Katrín Níelsdóttir, who hopes it may encourage others in our community to consider contributing their own stories and perspectives to Lögberg-Heimskringla.  “Whether your connection to Iceland is through travel, family history, or cultural curiosity, there is room for many voices in our pages,” Katrín writes. “I hope this thoughtful and often humorous reflection on hiking Iceland’s famous Laugavegur trail will inspire others to write, share, and celebrate their experiences.”