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CHAPTER XLIV.
GEIR ZÖEGA

Wishing to see as much of the island as possible during the short time at my disposal, I made application to young Jonasen for information in regard to a guide, and through his friendly aid secured the services of Geir Zöega, a man of excellent reputation.

A grave, dignified man is Geir Zöega, large of frame and strong of limb; a light-haired, blue-eyed, fresh, honest-faced native, warm of heart and trusty of hand; a jewel of a guide, who knows every rook, bog, and mud-puddle between Reykjavik and the Geysers; a gentleman by nature, born in all probability of an iceberg and a volcano; a believer in ghosts and ghouls, and a devout member of the Church. All hail to thee, Geir Zöega! I have traveled many a rough mile with thee, used up thy brandy and smoked thy cigars, covered my chilled body with thy coat, listened to thy words of comfort pronounced in broken English, received thy last kind wishes at parting, and now I say, in heartfelt sincerity, all hail to thee, Geir Zöega! A better man never lived, or if he did, he could be better spared at Reykjavik.

To my great discontent, I found it indispensable to have five horses, although I proposed making the trip entirely without baggage. It seemed that two were necessary for myself, two for the guide, and one to carry the provisions and tent, without which it would be very difficult to travel, since there are no hotels in any part of the interior. Lodgings may be had at the huts of the peasants, and such rude fare as they can furnish; but the tourist had better rely upon his own tent and provisions, unless he has a craving to be fed on black bread and curds, and to be buried alive under a dismal pile of sods.

The reason why so many horses are required is plain enough. At this time of the year (June) they are still very poor after their winter’s starvation, the pasturage is not yet good, and, in order to make a rapid journey of any considerable length, frequent changes are necessary. Philosophy and humanity combined to satisfy me that the trip could not well be made with a smaller number. I was a little inquisitive on that point, partly on the score of expense, and partly on account of the delay and trouble that might arise in taking care of so many animals.

If there is any one trait common among all the nations of the earth, it is a natural sharpness in the traffic of horse-flesh. My experience has been wonderfully uniform in this respect wherever it has been my fortune to travel. I have had the misfortune to be the victim of horse-jockeys in Syria, Africa, Russia, Norway, and even California, where the people are proverbially honest. I have weighed the horse-jockeys of the four continents in the balance, and never found them wanting in natural shrewdness. It is a mistake, however, to call them unprincipled. They are men of most astonishing tenacity of principle, but unfortunately they have but one governing principle in life – to get good prices for bad horses.

On the arrival of the steamer at Reykjavik the competition among the horse-traders is really the only lively feature in the place. Immediately after the passengers get ashore they are beset by offers of accommodation in the line of horse-flesh. Vagabonds and idlers of every kind, if they possess nothing else in the world, are at least directly or indirectly interested in this species of property. The roughest specimens of humanity begin to gather in from the country around the corners of the streets near the hotel, with all the worn-out, lame, halt, blind, and spavined horses that can be raked up by hook or crook in the neighborhood. Such a medley was never seen in any other country. Barnum’s woolly horse was nothing to these shaggy, stunted, raw-backed, bow-legged, knock-kneed little monsters, offered to the astonished traveler with unintelligible pedigrees in the Icelandic, which, if literally translated, must surely mean that they are a mixed product of codfish and brushwood. The size has but little to do with the age, and all rules applicable as a test in other parts of the world fail here. I judged some of them to be about four months old, and was not at all astonished when informed by disinterested spectators that they ranged from twelve to fifteen years. Nothing, in fact, could astonish me after learning that the horses in Iceland are fed during the winter on dried fish. This is a literal fact. Owing to the absence of grain and the scarcity of grass, it becomes necessary to keep life in the poor animals during the severest months of the season by giving them the refuse of the fisheries; and, what is very surprising, they relish it in preference to any other species of food. Shade of Ceres! what an article of diet for horses! Only think of it – riding on the back of a horse partly constructed of fish! No wonder some of them blow like whales.

In one respect the traveler can not be cheated to any great extent; he can not well lose more than twelve specie dollars on any one horse, that being the average price. To do the animals justice, they are like singed cats – a great deal better than they look. If they are not much for beauty, they are at least hardy, docile, and faithful; and, what is better, in a country where forage is sometimes difficult to find, will eat any thing on the face of the earth short of very hard lava or very indigestible trap-rock. Many of them, in consequence of these valuable qualities, are exported every year to Scotland and Copenhagen for breeding purposes. Two vessels were taking in cargoes of them during our stay at Reykjavik.

I was saved the trouble of bargaining for my animals by Geir Zöega, who agreed to furnish me with the necessary number at five Danish dollars apiece the round trip; that is, about two dollars and a half American, which was not at all unreasonable. For his own services he only charged a dollar a day, with whatever buono mano I might choose to give him. These items I mention for the benefit of my friends at home who may take a notion to make the trip.

I was anxious to get off at once, but the horses were in the country and had to be brought up. Two days were lost in consequence of the heavy rains, and the trail was said to be in very bad condition. On the morning of the third day all was to be ready; and having purchased a few pounds of crackers, half a pound of tea, some sugar and cheese, I was prepared to encounter the perils of the wilderness. This was all the provision I took. Of other baggage I had none, save my overcoat and sketch-book, which, for a journey of five days, did not seem unreasonable. Zöega promised me any amount of suffering; but I told him Californians rather enjoyed that sort of thing than otherwise.

CHAPTER XLV.
THE ENGLISH TOURISTS

My English friends were so well provided with funds and equipments that they found it impossible to get ready. They had patent tents, sheets, bedsteads, mattresses, and medicine-boxes. They had guns, too, in handsome gun-cases; and compasses, and chronometers, and pocket editions of the poets. They had portable kitchens packed in tin boxes, which they emptied out, but never could get in again, comprising a general assortment of pots, pans, kettles, skillets, frying-pans, knives and forks, and pepper-castors. They had demijohns of brandy and kegs of Port wine; baskets of bottled porter and a dozen of Champagne; vinegar by the gallon and French mustard in patent pots; likewise collodium for healing bruises, and musquito-nets for keeping out snakes. They had improved oil-lamps to assist the daylight which prevails in this latitude during the twenty-four hours, and shaving apparatus and nail-brushes, and cold cream for cracked lips, and dentifrice for the teeth, and patent preparations for the removal of dandruff from the hair; likewise lint and splints for mending broken legs. One of them carried a theodolite for drawing inaccessible mountains within a reasonable distance; another a photographic apparatus for taking likenesses of the natives and securing fac-similes of the wild beasts; while a third was provided with a brass thief-defender for running under doors and keeping them shut against persons of evil character. They had bags, boxes, and bales of crackers, preserved meats, vegetables, and pickles; jellies and sweet-cake; concentrated coffee, and a small apparatus for the manufacture of ice-cream. In addition to all these, they had patent overcoats and undercoats, patent hats and patent boots, gum-elastic bed-covers, and portable gutta-percha floors for tents; ropes, cords, horse-shoes, bits, saddles and bridles, bags of oats, fancy packs for horses, and locomotive pegs for hanging guns on, besides many other articles commonly deemed useful in foreign countries by gentlemen of the British Islands who go abroad to rough it. This was roughing it with a vengeance! It would surely be rough work for me, an uncivilized Californian, to travel in Iceland or any other country under such a dreadful complication of conveniences.

When all these things were unpacked and scattered over the beds and floors of the hotel, nothing could excel the enthusiasm of the whole party – including myself, for I really had seen nothing in the course of my travels half so amusing. As an old stager in the camping business, I was repeatedly appealed to for advice and assistance, which of course I gave with the natural politeness belonging to all Californians, suggesting many additions. Warming-pans for the sheets, pads of eider-down to wear on the saddles, and bathing-tubs to sit in after a hard ride, would, I thought, be an improvement; but as such things were difficult to be had in Reykjavik, the hope of obtaining them was abandoned after some consideration. “In fact,” said they, “we are merely roughing it, and, by Jove, a fellow must put up with some inconveniences in a country like this!”

To carry all these burdens, which, when tied up in packs, occupied an extra room, required exactly eighteen horses, inclusive of the riders, and to bargain for eighteen horses was no small job. The last I saw of the Englishmen they were standing in the street surrounded by a large portion of the population of Reykjavik, who had every possible variety of horses to sell – horses shaggy and horses shaved, horses small and horses smaller, into the mouths of which the sagacious travelers were intently peering in search of teeth – occasionally punching the poor creatures on the ribs, probing their backs, pulling them up by the legs, or tickling them under the tail to ascertain if they kicked.

At the appointed hour, 6 A.M., Zöega was ready at the door of the hotel with his shaggy cavalcade, which surely was the most extraordinary spectacle I had ever witnessed. The horned horses of Africa would have been commonplace objects in comparison with these remarkable animals destined to carry me to the Geysers of Iceland. Each one of them looked at me through a stack of mane containing hair enough to have stuffed half a dozen chairs; and as for their tails, they hung about the poor creatures like huge bunches of wool. Some of them were piebald and had white eyes – others had no eyes at all. Seeing me look at them rather apprehensively, Zöega remarked,

“Oh, sir, you needn’t be afraid. They are perfectly gentle!”

“Don’t they bite?” said I.

“Oh no, sir, not at all.”

“Nor kick?”

“No, sir, never.”

“Nor lie down on the way?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

“Answer me one more question, Zöega, and I’m done.” [This I said with great earnestness.] “Do these horses ever eat cats or porcupines, or swallow heavy brooms with crooked handles?”

“Oh no, sir!” answered my guide, with a look of some surprise; “they are too well trained for that.”

“Then I suppose they subsist on train-oil as well as codfish?”

“Yes, sir, when they can get it. They are very fond of oil.”

I thought to myself, No wonder they are so poor and small. Horses addicted to the use of oil must expect to be of light construction. But it was time to be off.

A cup of excellent coffee and a few biscuit were amply sufficient to prepare me for the journey. Our pack-horse carried two boxes and a small tent – all we required. Before starting Zöega performed the Icelandic ceremony of tying the horses in a row, each one’s head to the tail of the horse in front. This, he said, was the general practice. If it were not done they would scatter outside of town, and it would probably take two hours to catch them again. I had some fear that if one of the number should tumble over a precipice he would carry several of his comrades with him, or their heads and tails.

CHAPTER XLVI.
THE ROAD TO THINGVALLA

It was a gray, gloomy morning when we sallied forth from the silent streets of Reykjavik. A chilly fog covered the country, and little more was to be seen than the jagged outline of the lava-hills, and the boggy sinks and morasses on either side of the trail. The weird, fire-blasted, and flood-scourged wilderness on all sides was as silent as death, save when we approached some dark lagoon, and startled up the flocks of water-fowl that dwelt in its sedgy borders. Then the air was pierced with wild screams and strange cries, and the rocks resounded to the flapping of many wings. To me there was a peculiar charm in all this. It was different from any thing I had recently experienced. The roughness of the trail, the absence of cultivated fields, the entire exemption from the restraints of civilization, were perfectly delightful after a dreary residence of nearly a year in Germany. Here, at least, there were no passport bureaus, no meddlesome police, no conceited and disagreeable habitués of public places with fierce dogs running at their heels, no Verbotener Wegs staring one in the face at every turn. Here all ways possible to be traveled were open to the public; here was plenty of fresh air and no lack of elbow-room; here an unsophisticated American could travel without being persecuted every ten minutes by applications from distinguished officers in livery for six kreutzers; here an honest Californian could chew tobacco when he felt disposed, and relieve his mind by an occasional oath when he considered it essential to a vigorous expression of his thoughts.

It seemed very strange to be traveling in Iceland, actually plodding my way over deserts of lava, and breathing blasts of air fresh from the summit of Mount Hecla! I was at last in the land of the Sagas – the land of fire, and brimstone, and boiling fountains! – the land which, as a child, I had been accustomed to look upon as the ultima Thule, where men, and fish, and fire, and water were pitted against each other in everlasting strife. How often had the fascinating vision of Icelandic travel crossed my mind; and how often had I dismissed it with a sigh as too much happiness to hope for in this world! And now it was all realized. Was I any the happier? Was it what I expected? Well, we won’t probe these questions too far. It was a very strange reality, at all events.

For the first eight miles the weather was thick and rainy; after that the sun began to dissipate the gloom, and we had a very pleasant journey. Though a little chilly in consequence of the moisture, the air was not really cold. As well as I could judge, the thermometer ranged about 54° Fahrenheit. It frequently rises to 76° at Thingvalla during the months of July and August; and at the Geysers, and in some of the adjacent valleys, the heat is said to be quite oppressive.

Notwithstanding the roughness of the trail, which in many places passed for miles over rugged fields of lava, full of sharp, jagged points and dangerous fissures, we traveled with considerable speed, seldom slackening from a lope. Zöega untied the horses from each other’s tails soon after passing the road to Hafuarfiord, as there was no farther danger of their separating, and then, with many flourishes of his whip and strange cries, well understood by our animals, led the way. I must confess that, in spite of some pretty hard experience of bad roads in the coast range of California, there were times during our mad career over the lava-beds when visions of maimed limbs and a mutilated head crossed my mind. Should my horse stumble on a stray spike of lava, what possible chance of escape would there be? Falling head foremost on harrows and rakes would be fun to a fall here, where all the instruments capable of human destruction, from razors, saws, and meat-axes down to spike-nails and punches, were duly represented.

In the course of our journey we frequently overtook pack-trains laden with dried fish from the sea-shore. The main dependence of the people throughout the country, during the winter, is upon the fish caught during the summer. When dried it is done up in packs and fastened on each side of the horse, something in the Mexican style; and each train is attended by three or four men, and sometimes by women. About the month of June the farmers and shepherds go down to Reykjavik, or some other convenient fishing-station on the sea-shore, and lay in their supplies of fish and groceries, which they purchase from the traders by exchanges of wool, butter, and other domestic products. After a few days of novelty and excitement they go back to their quiet homes, where they live in an almost dormant state until the next season, rarely receiving any news from the great outer world, or troubling their heads about the affairs which concern the rest of mankind. Those whom we met had in all probability not seen a stranger for a year. They are an honest, primitive people, decently but very coarsely clad in rough woolen garments manufactured by themselves, and shaped much in the European style. On their feet they wear moccasins made of sheepskin. Whenever we met these pack-trains in any convenient place, the drivers stopped to have a talk with Zöega, often riding back a mile or two to enjoy the novelty of his conversation. Being fresh from the capital, he naturally abounded in stirring news about the price of codfish, and the value of lard and butter, wool, stockings, mittens, etc., and such other articles of traffic as they felt interested in. He could also give them the latest intelligence by the steamer, which always astonished them, no matter whether it concerned the throwing overboard of three ponies on the last voyage, or the possible resumption of operations on the Icelandic telegraph. In every way Zöega was kind and obliging, and, being well known every where, was highly appreciated as a man possessed of a remarkable fund of information. At parting they generally stopped to kiss hands and take a pinch of snuff.

The first time I witnessed the favorite ceremony of snuff-taking I was at a loss to understand what it meant. A man with a small horn flask, which it was reasonable to suppose was filled with powder and only used for loading guns or pistols, drew the plug from it, and, stopping quite still in the middle of the road, threw his head back and applied the tube to his nose. Surely the fellow was not trying to blow his brains out with the powder-flask! Two or three times he repeated this strange proceeding, snorting all the time as if in the agonies of suffocation. The gravity of his countenance was extraordinary. I could not believe my eyes.

“What an absurd way of committing suicide!” I remarked to Zöega.

“Oh, sir, he is only taking snuff!” was the reply.

“But if he stops up both nostrils, how is he going to breathe?” was my natural inquiry.

Zöega kindly explained that, when the man’s nose was full he would naturally open his mouth, and as the snuff was very fine and strong it would eventually cause him to sneeze. In this way it was quite practicable to blow out the load.

“But don’t they ever hang fire and burst their heads?” I asked, with some concern.

“Why no, sir, I’ve never heard of a case,” answered Zöega, in his usual grave manner; “in this country every body takes snuff, but I never knew it to burst any body’s head.”

It was really refreshing the matter-of-fact manner in which my guide regarded all the affairs of life. He took every thing in a literal sense, and was of so obliging a disposition that he would spend hours in the vain endeavor to satisfy my curiosity on any doubtful point.

“Why, Zöega,” said I, “this is a monstrous practice. I never saw any thing like it. Are you quite sure that fellow won’t kick when he tries to blow his nose?”

“Yes, sir, they never kick.”

“Tell me, Zöega, are their breeches strong?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“That’s lucky.” I was thinking of an accident that once occurred to a young man of my acquaintance. Owing to a defect in the breech of his gun, the whole load entered his head and killed him instantaneously.

The gravity of these good people in their forms of politeness is one of the most striking features in their social intercourse. The commonest peasant takes off his cap to another when they meet, and shaking hands and snuff-taking are conducted on the most ceremonious principles. They do not, however, wholly confine themselves to stimulants for the nose. As soon as they get down to Reykjavik and finish their business, they are very apt to indulge in what we call in California “a bender;” that is to say, they drink a little too much whisky, and hang around the stores and streets for a day or two in a state of intoxication. At other times their habits are temperate, and they pass the greater part of their lives among their flocks, free from excitement, and as happy as people can be with such limited means of comfort. The uniformity of their lives would of course be painful to a people possessed of more energy and a higher order of intelligence; but the Icelanders are well satisfied if they can keep warm during the dreary winters, and obtain their usual supplies during the summer. Sometimes a plague sets in among their sheep and reduces them to great distress. Fire, pestilence, and famine have from time to time devastated the island. Still, where their wants are so few, they can bear with great patience the calamities inflicted upon them by an all-wise Providence. Owing perhaps to their isolated mode of life, they are a grave and pious people, simple in their manners, superstitious, and credulous. They attend church regularly, and are much devoted to religious books and evening prayers. No family goes to bed without joining in thanksgiving for all the benefits conferred upon them during the day. Living as they do amid the grandest phenomena of nature, and tinctured with the wild traditions of the old Norsemen, it is not surprising that they should implicitly believe in wandering spirits of fire and flood, and clothe the desolate wastes of lava with a poetic imagery peculiarly their own. Every rock, and river, and bog is invested with a legend or story, to the truth of which they can bear personal witness. Here a ghost was overtaken by the light of the moon and turned to stone; there voices were heard crying for help, and because no help came a farmer’s house was burned the next day; here a certain man saw a wild woman, with long hair, who lived in a cave, and never came out to seek for food save in the midst of a storm, when she was seen chasing the birds; there a great many sheep disappeared one night, and it was thought they were killed and devoured by a prodigious animal with two heads – and so on, without end. Nothing is too marvelous for their credulity. One of my most pleasant experiences was to talk with these good people, through the aid of my guide, and hear them tell of the wonderful sights they had seen with their own eyes. Nor do I believe that they had the remotest intention of stretching the truth. Doubtless they imagined the reality of whatever they said. It was very strange to one who had lived so long among a sharp and rather incredulous race of men to hear full-grown people talk with the simplicity of little children.

About half way on our journey toward Thingvalla it was necessary to cross a bog, which is never a very agreeable undertaking in Iceland, especially after heavy rains. This was not the worst specimen of its kind, though; we afterward passed through others that would be difficult to improve upon without entirely removing the bottom. A considerable portion of Iceland is intersected by these treacherous stretches of land and water, through which the traveler must make his way or relinquish his journey. Often it becomes a much more difficult matter to find the way out than to get in. Along the sea-coast, to the southward and eastward, some of these vast bogs are quite impassable without the assistance of a guide thoroughly acquainted with every spot capable of bearing a horse. On the route to the Geysers we generally contrived to avoid the worst places by making a detour around the edges of the hills, but this is not always practicable. In many places the hills themselves abound in boggy ground.

The formation of the Icelandic bog is peculiar. I have seen something similar on the Pacific coast near Cape Mendocino, but by no means so extensive and well-defined. In Iceland it consists of innumerable tufts of earth from two to three feet high, interwoven with vegetable fibres which render them elastic when pressed by the foot. These tufts stand out in relief from the main ground at intervals of a few feet from each other, and frequently cover a large extent of country. The tops are covered with grass of a very fine texture, furnishing a good pasture for sheep and other stock. So regular and apparently artificial is the appearance of these grassy tufts, that I was at first inclined to think they must be the remains of cultivated fields – probably potato-hills, or places where corn had grown in former times. Nor was it altogether unreasonable to suppose that groves of wood might once have covered these singular patches of country, and that they had been uprooted and destroyed by some of those violent convulsions of nature which from time to time have devastated the island. Dr. Dasent produces ample testimony to show that, in old times, not only corn grew in Iceland, but wood sufficiently large to be used in building vessels. Now it is with great difficulty that a few potatoes can be raised in some of the warmest spots, and there is not a single tree to be found on the entire island. The largest bushes I saw were only six or eight feet high.

A singular fact connected with the bog-formation is that it is often found in dry places – on the slopes of mountains, for example, in certain localities where the water never settles and where the ground is perpetually dry. I was greatly puzzled by this, and was scarcely satisfied by the explanation given by Zöega, my guide, who said it was caused by the action of the frost. In proof of the fact that they are not of artificial formation, and that the process by which they are developed is always going on, he stated that in many places where they had been leveled down for sheep-corrals or some such purpose, a similar formation of tufted hillocks had grown up in the course of a few years.

I was continually troubled by the circuits made by Zöega to avoid certain tracts of this kind which to me did not look at all impracticable. Once I thought it would be a good joke to show him that a Californian could find his way through the strange country even better than a native; and watching a chance when he was not on the look-out – for I suspected what his objection would be – I suddenly turned my horse toward the bog, and urged him to take the short cut. It was such a capital idea, that of beating my own guide about two miles in a journey of little more than half a mile! But, strange to say, the horse was of Zöega’s opinion respecting roads through Iceland. He would not budge into the bog till I inflicted some rather strong arguments upon him, and then he went in with great reluctance. Before we had proceeded a dozen yards he sank up to his belly in the mire, and left me perched up on two matted tufts about four feet apart. Any disinterested spectator would have supposed at once that I was attempting to favor my guide with a representation of the colossal statue at Rhodes, or the Natural Bridge in Virginia. Zöega, however, was too warmly interested in my behalf to take it in this way. As soon as he missed me he turned about, and, perceiving my critical position, shouted at the top of his voice,

“Sir, you can’t go that way!”

“No,” said I, in rather a desponding tone, “I see I can’t.”

“Don’t try it, sir!” cried Zöega; “you’ll certainly sink if you do!”

“I’ll promise you that, Zöega,” I answered, looking gloomily toward the dry land, toward which my horse was now headed, plunging frantically in a labyrinth of tufts, his head just above the ground.

“Sir, it’s very dangerous!” shouted Zöega.

“Any sharks in it?” I asked.

“No, sir; but I don’t see your horse!”

“Neither do I, Zöega. Just sing out when he blows!”

But the honest Icelander saw a better method than that, which was to dismount from his own horse, and jump from tuft to tuft until he got hold of my bridle. With it of course came the poor animal, which by hard pulling my trusty guide soon succeeded in getting on dry land. Meantime I discovered a way of getting out myself by a complicated system of jumps, and presently we all stood in a group, Zöega scraping the mud off the sides of my trembling steed, while I ventured to remark that it was “a little boggy in that direction.”

“Yes, sir,” said Zöega; “that was the reason I was going round.”

And a very sensible reason it was too, as I now cheerfully admitted. After a medicinal pull at the brandy we once more proceeded on our way.

I mentioned the fact that there are dry bog-formations on the sides of some of the hills. It should also be noted that the wet bogs are not always in the lowest places. Frequently they are found on elevated grounds, and even high up in the mountains. Approaching a region of this kind, when the tufts are nearly on a level with the eye, the effect is very peculiar. It looks as if an army of grim old Norsemen, on their march through the wilderness, had suddenly sunk to their necks in the treacherous earth, and still stood in that position with their shaggy heads bared to the tempests. Often the traveler detects something like features, and it would not be at all difficult, of a moonlight night, to mistake them for ghostly warriors struggling to get out on dry land. Indeed, the simple-minded peasants, with their accustomed fertility of imagination, have invested them with life, and relate many wonderful stories about their pranks of dark and stormy nights, when it is said they are seen plunging about in the water. Hoarse cries are heard through the gusts of the tempest; and solitary travelers on their journey retreat in dismay, lest they should be dragged into the treacherous abode of these ghostly old Norsemen.