The Call

Another early morning was due, and I was hopeful about catching the sunrise on the black sand beaches of Vík before another storm rolled in. Despite the early mornings, I was yet to see the sun cast its golden light across the landscape as it rose up from its slumber. I’d visited Dyrhólaey and Reynisfjara before, but each time had been the same, hailstorms and dark skies blocking my view of the ocean, as well as the famous sea stacks that sat not too far out from the shoreline. Legend has said that these stacks were formed by two trolls as they tried to drag a three-mast ship to shore during the night. The ship was heavy, and the trolls could only work slowly as the powerful waves crashed around them. But, the night did not stay for long, and soon the sun started to peep over the horizon. Sunlight was not a friend to the trolls, and they were turned to stone instantly, frozen forever in time to haul in their ship.

My headlights were like an old oil lamp, dim as they tried to cut through the darkness. I kept hoping for the clouds to blow over and reveal a hint of dawn to me, and I almost lost that hope as I passed through Vík.  The air was dense as it hugged the ground, and the wind gusts were quickly climbing up to 100mph. I decided to park up for a while anyway and listen to some music. Maybe the weather would clear up in another half hour. I was tired too; the past several days of constant driving, early mornings, and long nights had started to take their toll on me. I closed my eyes and listened as the wind blew debris into my car. I could hear music from the vehicle beside me, and I wondered if they were hoping for the storm to pass too. Another car arrived and parked next to me; someone's head popped up for a split second before quickly ducking back down into safety. The wind kept growing stronger, and I tried to peer out at the beach in my rearview mirror, unsure of whether I should give up and head back to Reykjavík. I checked the weather forecast and saw it was due to get progressively worse throughout the day - even the capital was going to be hit later tonight. 

Last February, I’d come unprepared for the violence of the weather and learned my lesson the hard way with numb legs, purple hands, and ice frozen to my cheeks. Before I left this time, I’d invested in some skiing clothes, but most importantly were the goggles. They saved my eyes from the ice and grit that blew upwards to greet my face. I rummaged around in my bag and quickly donned my warm clothes, preparing for cold that seemed to cut through the air. Bracing myself for the wind, I took one last deep inhale and stepped out into the storm. The sheer power of it still managed to take me by surprise, and I had to hold the door handle to stay upright. The air was ripped from my nostrils, emptying my lungs as I opened my mouth to gasp. Throughout my travels, I’d never found another place that made me feel the way this country always makes me feel. Everything here is alive, humming with deep and ancient energy that I find almost spiritual and overwhelming.

Slowly, I made my way towards the beach and found my mind thanking me (for the umpteenth time) for investing in a pair of goggles. My cheeks, however, were quick to redden as they always did in the cold, my scarf constantly slipping down from my cheekbones to leave my skin bare. Above even the sound of the wind, I heard the waves. Huge, colossal white waves crashing angrily into the sand and the cliffs to my left. I knew not to get close, these waters were unpredictable and powerful at the best of times, and it was known that tourists had almost drowned here because they’d underestimated the sea. They’d ventured out whilst taking pictures and ended up being dragged in. I didn’t doubt that people would die if the same thing were to happen today. Crouching down, I tried to take it all in, completely mesmerised. Watching the brute force of the elements sent a twang of apprehension, even fear, down my spine. I was struck once again by the untameable power of this place, and I knew that was why I kept coming back.

Fighting against the wind as it took my feet out from under me, I eventually made it back to the car. I was hungry now, and my food supplies had run out the night before. I knew Vík was just a few miles down the road, and the shops would open soon, as well as the toilets. Turning on my lights and switching to 4-wheel drive, I set off again to find some food and plan the journey back.

A big truck drove towards me, its wheels somewhat over the centre line as it flew past. I turned my steering wheel to avoid the truck and instead hit a patch of ice, my car slid, and I knew it was hopeless to try and stop it. I attempted to keep my wheel straight as the car juddered to a stop and sank deep into the snow on the verge. I cursed to myself, exasperated immediately at this turn of events. I looked in my side mirror to see if the truck had stopped, but they’d just continued on as if nothing had happened.

Grabbing my gloves, I yanked on the door handle to assess the damage. Good news: the car was not damaged at all. Bad news: the wheel arches on the right-hand side were completely submerged in snow. I looked around to no avail. I didn’t have a shovel with me, and I cursed again as I made a start by myself. Trampling the snow in front of my tyres, I attempted to compact it down for better grip. With my hands, I dug out the snow in front of my bumper and tried to scoop the snow out from underneath. A car passed me but didn’t stop. I kept digging. Another 5-10 minutes went by, and I was still no closer to escaping - the right side had simply sunken too far. I saw another car approaching, it was driving a bit slower, and I managed to flag them down. Luckily, they were both locals, and they gave me the number of a recovery guy who lived in Vík. I thanked them with the little Icelandic I knew and rang the number. The line rang out, and my anxiety threatened to spill over. A couple of minutes passed, and I tried again. This time, someone picked up.

I took a slow breath and looked out at the mountains, trying to comprehend the irony of this situation. I was on my way to work with the search and rescue team, and here I was, stuck by myself, in need of rescuing. When the recovery guy arrived, I was sure he must have been thinking, ah, another stupid tourist getting stuck in the snow. It took him all of a few minutes to yank my car from the verge, and I was charged 10,000 ISK (about £60) for the inconvenience. Taking a moment to gather myself, I reasoned that it could have been much worse before heading down to the small village and picking up some supplies.

I was halfway back to Reykjavík when my phone rang; my contact from Landsbjörg, Icelandic Search & Rescue (otherwise known as ICESAR) was ringing to let me know where I’d be spending the weekend. They gave me two options, one being first aid on the far east of the island, past Höfn, which is where I’d just driven from these past few days. Alternatively, I could join one of the teams from Reykjavík since I was headed there anyway. Numbers exchanged, I pressed on towards the capital and made it within the hour. I fumbled with the chargers for all of my equipment and rushed to shower and pack for the weekend ahead, texting Björn - the leader of this particular ICESAR team - to ask what I should bring. My stomach was full of butterflies as I set off for their base, unsure of what to expect but more than excited to head into the Highlands for a weekend.