Season of Red

Okay, it's going on two months that I came back from Iceland, and despite the fact that I still have scribbles of journal entries, I also can't avoid my experience of the best season on the planet right here on American soil. Fall in the city is so fleeting that it can pass by without notice. Back home, in lovely Jersey, we had an excess of fall in our tree-enveloped backyard. It was a clutter of oak and elm and the now-chopped-down Japanese maple's blood red and rust canopy that made our little suburban plot border on the exotic. By November, the exotic quickly morphed to nuisance for my father, who would be the main victim of raking and bagging leaves. There were so many leaves that he eventually developed the duty to an art--a very rhythmic and disturbingly calculated system of raking, stopping and quite gracefully, with his arm opening up to the fall wind as a matador waving his red cloth, shaking open the enormous brown bag distributed by the township of Verona. He would then systematically gather and dump the leaves in perfectly timed intervals. It was his ritualistic leaf dance. He's a very systematic man. As kids, we would rake up leaves just large enough to make a fine pile to run and jump into, surrounding ourselves with the smell of fall--the dry cracking, the soggy, the sap-strewn leaves. Driving up the horseshoe of East and West Lincoln Street, there would be a barrier of full-to-the-brim leaf bags, all identical except for some houses with young kids. Here there would be large orange bags with jack o' lantern faces. Walking down the sidewalk, the air would be rich with the the smell of chimney charcoal and wet leaves.

Back at home, you pretty much never miss out on fall.

But I digress. Living in Queens and spending most of my week indoors in an office, if I don't at least take a trek to Central Park, it's depressingly easy to avoid the highlights of this season. Last year, it just seemed to blink over from summer to winter, despite my empty promises to engage in foliage hikes, hayrides, and long strolls through Central Park sipping cider. So this year I am determined to make the best of the season.

My friend Christine, travel photographer extraordinaire, told me about the organization, Dynamic Outdoors, an NYC group offering guided hiking trips throughout the NY area; they also organize international treks to destinations such as Egypt, Honduras and Peru. (After my hike, I have decided that my next major adventure will most definitely be the Inka trail.) It's ideal for city people, who usually don't have a car or the time and desire to plan a getaway themselves. 

So last Sunday at 9AM, a DO van picked us up at Union Square and headed for the White Cliffs of the Harriman Highlands (part of Harriman State Park  upstate) where it was the peak weekend for foliage. All together, there were about 40 people in the group, plus one puppy, which was unusually large by their standards. (Because there were so many of us, we were jokingly told to say we were a "church" group if anyone asked. I was asked, by a man guiding some Muslim men through the woods, and my confused stammering of "uh..church?" made me appear quite idiotic and rude, in an unintentional sort of way...) We hiked from a little after ten to a bit after five, stopping for lunch on some flat rocks with an inspiring vista. It was what they deemed a light-to-intermediate hike (which makes me feel terribly out of hiking shape), and yes, I got my first fill of foliage. An added bonus--after the hike they provide snacks, and better yet, beer! I did, not happen to engage in the latter, however, due to an overextended weekend.

Group shot in front of the lake. I'm second to last on the left back, row. Colin and Christine are right next to me. 

On our merry way.

This makes it well worth the uphill. Eventually we made our way down to that lake.

Mountaineer.

Tired moutnaineers.

Sea of red.

I almost hugged it.

The trip also included about 30 minutes of optional rock scrambling, which I unfortunately opted out of due to my impending cold and slight hangover. Colin was a good sport and participated, making his way to a hidden rock cave. 




As for me, I made my way to a mountainous bed and daydreamed with the sun pounding down on my face about scrambling, about the Inka trail, and then about the dumplings I would order later that night. It was a surprisingly comfortable rock.

The Blue Lagoon

The Blue Lagoon is located on Reykjanes Peninsula and is actually en route to Reykjavik from Keflavik airport; the Airbus can take you straight there after landing. It is surrounded by stretches of sleek lava fields that make up most of the peninsula. Lonely Planet describes this area as possibly looking like the "flattest, bleakest, most disheartening place on earth." My experience of it was similar to that of traveling through the interior--craters, miles filled with black and grey, rust-colored and faded yellow-green patches of withered plant life. 

Amidst the muteness, the Blue Lagoon  sneaks up on you. After about 30 minutes on the bus from Reykjavik, lost in storm cloud and lava formations, I noticed a pool of light blue water, especially emphasized by the grey-black rocks enclosing it, and we were suddenly turning into the spa. I was shortly thereafter running into the ladies locker room trying to decipher the odd electronic locks, and dodging various breasts in a crowded room of naked women. All of Iceland's pools require that you shower in the buff before entering; they are pretty strict and explicit about this as well, providing signs of the exact "problem" areas they would like you to cleanse. For a more detailed explanation of this, and an actual diagram (in case you were unsure as to what constitutes a problem area), feel free to read Reykjavik Swimming Pools: The Naked Truth, from the Iceland Express Weblog, How Do You Like Iceland?

On the outskirts of the Lagoon. 

A shot from inside the atrium, looking out on the lagoon. 

I couldn't have dreamt up a more perfect setting for myself than the Blue Lagoon. It was a place of warmth and possessed all elements of intrigue--heated, powder blue pools of water possessing so many minerals that you can float on the surface without much effort. Actually, it makes walking kind of difficult, as though you're having that annoying dream of being chased but not being able to run fast enough and instead float upwards with each step. Although there was nothing exactly nightmarish about the lagoon, once submerged in the water and the mist flies up off the surface, so much so that at times you cannot really see in front of you, it does invoke a sensation awe. Its design forces a surreal, ancient effect that is reminiscent of a Roman bath house-Dead Sea setting. As I have never actually experienced either of these things, what it may invoke the most is imagination. With the bleak sky and lava rocks strewn through throughout the lagoon it, for a fleeting moment, is a bit overwhelming to find yourself  alone in a more desolate area, surrounded by steam and unable to see the edges of the pool. (In such cases, you may also run into lovers cozying up to each other, as this is supposed to be one of the most romantic places in Europe.) But despite the border-line ominous effects, if none of this were manmade, it would be somewhat like heaven on earth, even for one who tinges on the agnostic-to-atheist side. 

Lost in the mist. 

Notice there is a windshield wiper on the "life-guard" booth. 

We didn't splurge on any spa treatments--there are numerous rooms for various therapies inside the building, and outside there are areas reserved for massages. Yes, you can be massaged right in the lagoon. But we didn't find it necessary (or fiscally responsible...). With general admission you have access to steam rooms and saunas; you can massage your back under a heated waterfall; you can saunter about, digging into buckets of silica placed in various wooden bins throughout the lagoon. You can imagine how bizarre it looks with everyone floating around, slow and zombie-like, smeared with silica. 

Ha. 

Not the most flattering of shots, but just to give you an idea of what everyone looked like...

While swimming in the lagoon, you also pass through various hot spots in the water--places where at certain rocks or generators the temperature gets even more toasty. At one point, we swam to the back of the lagoon which looked out over the lava fields of the penisula; it was one of the warmer areas, but not excrutiatingly hot. The water was shallow enough here that we could half sit down, half float. We stayed here for a while, with our heads partially dipped in the water, just letting ourselves be enveloped by the warmth.

Obviously, it was hard to take pictures here while actually swimming. The following pic from med-owl.com gives a better aerial-type view of at least the front of the lagoon (in somewhat better weather), and the actual building, where spa rooms along with a variety of relaxation areas and conference rooms, and a couple places to eat are located. 

I think the Icelanders got it right with their geothermal worlds--nothing feels better or healthier than floating around in heated, mineral rich water. While the Blue Lagoon is definitely the pinnacle of Iceland's geothermal lifestyle, it seems as though every town has a heated pool, usually indoor and out, with a variety of hot pots and steam rooms. These are the social hot spots; it's where people come after work to catch up with each other, where kids come after school, where families may gather on a weekend, and definitely the first places many tourists want to experience--the geothermal pools are enjoyed by all ages, most of them open until 9 or 10 in the evening.

Relaxing inside afterwards, not so happy to leave. 

So to sum up the Blue Lagoon--touristy? Yes. Did I care? No. While I believe the numerous, purely natural phenomena of Iceland will always be its main attraction, the Blue Lagoon was definitely a unique and beyond pleasurable experience; it's a place of healing for mind and body. The spa, especially the Blue Lagoon Clinic, is actually renowned for it's natural psoriasis treatment and a full line of natural products. To see more about the Blue Lagoon, as I know many people are interested in it, they have a pretty extensive Web site. But, despite the fact that I did not receive any formal, clinical treatments, I at least enjoyed a night of baby-soft skin and inner peace. 

Northern Exposure

For us, Akureyri and our experience of the North was a time of luck. Waking up on our second day in the seaside city, the rain had completely let up. You cannot imagine how happy we were for the sun, finally. I know, I act as though we were gone for ages, but even just a couple of days of cold rain and exposure to the harsh elements could make one day feel like one week. Again, it's amazing how some sunlight brings the entire landscape to color and life; it moves from depressingly dramatic to just plain beautiful. It's also amazing how it numbs those tinges of agitation that may arise from the constant moving and the constant chill.

View of Akuryeri from across the harbor.



Side street close to city center.



Akureyrarkirkja church sits at the top of the hill and is the focus of the area, just as in Reykjavik. It is the work of the same architect, Guojon Samuelsson. Unfortunately, Reykjavavik's Hallgrimskirja was covered by scaffolding the entire time we were there, so I was unable to witness its sublime effect. Below is an image that I found, courtesy of Trey Radcliffe. I just happened to stumble upon his site, Stuck In Customs, (he has another at www.treyradcliffe.com) and what a treat! Kind of puts anything I took to shame....but here is Hallgrimskirja below, sitting in Liefr Eiriksson's wake, in all its glory:

On this particular day, we decided to pay for a guided tour to the Lake Myvatn area. Turns out with our bus passport we got a pretty decent discount. I must say, this excursion was the highlight of our trip. We were skeptical of guided tours as the first one we took, visiting Pingvellir, Geysir, and the waterfall Gullfoss, included a disgruntled, death-obsessed American tour guide, with a sick fascination for a female drowning pool. Think Phil Hartman's Alcatraz tour guide character from So I Married an Axe Murderer. Having the need to extensively discuss the effects of natural disasters, he took us past the site where a family of sheep were killed by boulders in a recent earthquake. There were 50 casualties. Long, dramatic pause. None of them human. (Colin does a wonderful, raspy impression of this.)

But much to our delight, our tour guide for the Myvatn trip was a laid back Icelander with a shy but constant smile, who did not have the need to point out every casualty, whether human, ruminant mammal, arthropod, etc, from every natural disaster. I remember him best from the conclusion of our trip, when driving back into the center of Akuryeri we saw crowds of people gathered by the water and cars pulled over to the side of the road. Two whales had ventured into the harbor! (I was exceptionally pleased since due to over-extended funds, we had reluctantly decided to rule out Husavik, the prime spot for whale-watching.) "Ahhh, is beautiful," he sighed into the microphone upon seeing the whales emerge. The group did not leave the bus without giving him a very generous applause for a day that will never be forgotten. As a side note, I was delighted to see the two whales on the nightly news as I curled up, satisfied and exhausted in the quaint common room of that night's guesthouse.

Below is a pic that Colin managed to take in the bus. You can see the hump of one of the whales.

I realize that I have been neglecting my New York trekking and need to get back to life here eventually. So instead of boring you with verbose descriptions of landscape (I can go on, for pages and ages, trust me), let me just show the highlights of this trip via our pics. At least I will try to do that. Note that some of these may have already been posted.

We travelled from the northwest to the northeast through Myvatn to Kafla mountain. En route, we stopped at the waterfall Godafoss, which literally means the waterfall of the gods. The effect of this waterfall was in stark contrast to Gullfoss, in the southwest. Again, I believe the weather played a considerable role in the sentiment. Here is Gullfoss, from our first tour:

Yeah, we have matching red jackets. So what.

My thoughts on Gullfoss, from the trip:

The endless fall of a short-lived nightmare,

Exploding to a sprawling bloom,

Of ghosts fired into frenzied flight.

Now, compare this to Godafoss:

It was far too nice out to be poetic. The sky was somewhat clear. No ghosts present.

Here is some scenery from Lake Myvatn. It's unbelievable, and obviously differs greatly from the gloom of our bus ride up.

And, one of the highlights of this trip for me and my obsession with geothermal areas, was Viti crater, the footprint of a violent 1875 eruption. The water inside is naturally heated. Unfortunately, I was unable to swim here, despite my compulsive urge to leave the group and dive right in, the Icelandic way.

Of course, en route to Viti, we passed yet another power plant, driving up Krafla mountain.

At the sight of Dimmuborgir (apparently meaning dark fortress or city in old Norse), east of Myvatn, we not only viewed fields laden with natural lava sculptures, but got to stand over a slight rift between the tectonic plates of North America and Europe, technically putting us in two continents at the same time. (That is a loaded statement. If only it were that easy...)




At Haverarond, the smell of sulfur took on a whole new, steaming character. It was a little too concentrated, even for my newly acquired taste. I noticed Colin walking around with his jacket over his face. The ground here bubbled with light gray mud, oddly the same color of the basement walls of my elementary school. I had a hard time believing this was purely nature. It looked like someone had just dumped paint or clay into a large boiling vat. The scenery here was very Twilight Zone-esque. Again, simultaneously otherworldly and ultra worldly.

Very hard to grasp this is real.

Unsure as to why I am posing like a Power Ranger.

Colin, escaping the deadly sulfur.

The tour concluded with a stop at the Myvatn Nature Baths, what the Northerners deem their answer to the infamous Blue Lagoon. I definitely appreciated the simplicity in comparison to its more themed and uber touristy southern counterpart. But the surreal effect of the Blue Lagoon, in my humble opinion, is unrivaled, tourist trap or not. With that said, I guess next post I owe you some pics, and at least a brief account.