the cassandra pages

Road Trip 10: Vatnajokull/Skaftafell: Svartifoss and Stuðlaberg

In the morning, still dark and drizzly, we drove just a few miles from Hof (just off the bottom right of this map) to reach the access road for the Skaftafell wilderness in the Vatnajokull National Park. From the road, we could see the Skaftafellsjokull glacier lying in its valley beneath the giant glacial cap, across the sands and tundra:

The parking lot was full, and tour buses bound for glacier walks were loading, but not too many people were actually around. We went into the visitors' center to look at the trail maps, and get the lay of the land. It was pretty cold and raw, but some native Icelanders in their Lopi sweaters seemed to barely feel it. The Japanese, on the other hand were bundled up in parkas and high-tech rainsuits from top to toe.

Concerned about the weather, we decided to climb up to the Svartifoss waterfall first, and if we had time later, to take the flat trail that ends very close to the Skaftafellsjokull glacier. As it turned out, we only did the first hike, but were very glad we'd made that choice. So we headed out in the opposite direction of the people above, to the north and west, up the mountain.

The mountains are split with gorges, each of which seemed to contain numerous waterfalls, cascading off precipitous cliffs skirted by the trail, mostly without ropes or rails, only an occasional warning:

Once we'd gained some height, we could begin to really appreciate the extent of the glacial outwash plain below, so large that we couldn't really see the sea beyond.

Finally we got our first glimpse of Svartifoss, the Black Falls:

We drew closer.

From the bluff on the right near the falls, a trail led down to its base.

These astonishing rock forms are columnar basalt, which results when an unusually thick basaltic lava flow cools and cracks. It's such an iconic feature of Icelandic landscapes that  national poets have written about it, painters have painted it, and architects have emulated the five-and-six-sided columnar forms in their buildings. But before I saw Svartifoss, one of the most famous and dramatic examples of columnar basalt in the world, I hadn't recognized what I was seeing in less-dramatic places. In fact, one of the drawings I had done a couple of years before was of columnar basalt, but I didn't even know it. (Devil's Tower in Wyoming, and the Giant's Causeway in Ireland are other examples of the same geologic structure.)

From Svartifoss we continued to the left, up the mountain, on steps formed from sections of the basalt, which looked just like ancient ruins.

I found out something interesting when looking for references to the Icelandic Stuðlaberg which is their much more beautiful name for columnar basalt. The word Stuðlar means pillar-stone or basaltic pillar and stafr, which means approximately the same thing. The Old Norse alphabet, or Runic Alphabet, contained straight lines also called pillars or staves. Studul is a characteristic of old Norse song, referring to its rock-fast form that allowed it to be committed to memory. I should ask Language Hat for more about these word origins, in which the early words for these basalt pillars seem to have become terms for unchangeable, steady forms that gave structure to oral Norse poetry and in music. And guess what? Even Icelandic knitting patterns draw their inspiration and name from studlaberg; it's part of the bedrock of Icelandic consciousness. Once I had made the connection, through Svartifoss, I saw it everywhere.

Road Trip 4: a video near Eyjafjallajokull, and a corridor of waterfalls

First, let's backtrack to a video shot near Eyjafjallajökull. I'm hoping this may give you a better sense of scale than the still photographs do. (Best if watched full-screen.)

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After my early morning walk beneath the double waterfall at Kirkjubæjarklaustur, we ate our breakfast, and set off: we had a lot of driving to do that day and were determined not to stop too often. However, the landscape immediately changed yet again: we left the lava fields and volcanic cones behind, and entered an area of dramatically-sculpted green cliffs punctuated by tall, shimmering waterfalls. Captivated, we pulled off the road again and again to absorb some of this beauty. 

The quiet pastoral atmosphere I'd felt during my morning walk persisted until we reached the far western end of Öræfi, which is marked by an iconic mountain called Lomagnupur, a favorite subject of Icelandic painters. I hope to join their company soon.

Lomagnupur, looking east.

Here the scene changed yet again. We stopped at a long bridge, amazed...

Road Trip 3: Kirkjubæjarklaustur

I thought it might be helpful at this point to post a map of the island. Iceland is about the size of the state of Kentucky. You can see Reykjavik, the capital, on the lower left. The road we were driving runs all the way around the edge of the island. We traveled east, through Selfoss, along the southern coast below the big glaciers of Myrdalsjokull and Vatnajokull, not quite as far as Hofn, which you can see on the coast at lower right. Kirkjubæjarklaustur is a little village between those two glaciers (the name is below the word SUDERLAND in the lower center of the map.)

I woke early at our simple guesthouse (above, beneath a gorgeous double waterfall), and went for a walk by myself along the river. As had been true the day before, I realized I was seeing strange formations, but didn't know what they were. I've since learned that the region surrounding Kirkjubæjarklaustur has been devastated repeatedly by volcanic events, throughout recorded history since the settlement of Iceland (around 900) and long before that.

"Kirk" is the root that means church, and "klauster" ("cloister") refers to two religious foundations - a monastery and a cloister of nuns - that were there long ago. There are stories about impropriety between the monks and nuns, and of good nuns and bad nuns who are buried near significant rocks (above) or swam in the lake above these cliffs.

The Systrastapi (sister's rock) is where two of the convent's nuns were buried after being burned at the stake. One of the nuns was accused of selling her soul to the Devil, carrying Communion bread outside the church, and having carnal knowledge with men; the other was charged with speaking blasphemously of the Pope. After the Reformation, the second sister was vindicated, and flowers are said to bloom on her grave, but not that of the first nun. (Wikipedia)

As was true in many places where Christianity was introduced, pagan religion and folklore became interwoven with the new faith. This persists even now. In one area of strange volcanic cones, the interpretive sign (below) carefully explained the geology, and then went on to caution visitors to show respect because "the hidden people" had been seen near these formations. (You can see the volcanic cones behind the sheep in the last photo of the previous post.)

It all makes sense to me: in such a strange landscape animated by inexplicable and sudden, life-altering events, and where the rocks take human-like forms, I too could believe in elves, trolls, and magic.

This sparsely-populated region has a name, Öræfi, that means "wilderness." For many years it was cut off from the rest of the island; this was the last part of the ring road to be completed. The reason is that this area contains two volcanic sand deserts: huge expanses of black sand that is subject to sandstorms in the summer, and to "glacial bursts": flash floods that arise when water that has built up under the glaciers (melted through the heat of the volcanoes that lie beneath them) reaches a critical mass. When that happens, the glacier actually lifts up, the water spills out, and rushes down across the sands, taking out roads, bridges, and anything in its path. There was a glacial burst a few days after we returned to Reykjavik, making front page headlines, and undermining one of the bridges we had just crossed. As we drove across these vast plains, I thought about the early settlers, crossing on horseback or even on foot: it seems incredible. But it must have been even worse to have to cross a lava field.

Öræfi has been a no-man's land because of its history of catastrophic volcanic activity; the most active volcanoes in Iceland are located beneath these glaciers. To the west of Kirkjubæjarklaustur is a huge lava field that was laid down during the 1783 -1784 eruption of Laki, or more correctly, the Lakagigar, a volcanic fissure that's part of the Grimsvotn volcanic system. This eruption was absolutely devastating: it released clouds of poisonous hydrofluoric acid and sulphur dioxide that killed 50% of the island's livestock, and the resulting famine killed a quarter of the population. Basalt lava flowed over a huge area, 14 cubic kilometres. The eruption caused a drop in global temperatures that caused crop failures in the Northern Hemisphere and possibly as far away as India; it changed the monsoon patterns and caused a famine in Egypt that killed 1/6 of the population there. It's estimated that six million people died as direct result of the Laki eruption, making it the most deadly eruption in recorded history. I only learned this after we traveled through that lava field, now covered with thick moss that makes it, ironically, very beautiful.

Still winter...but there's hope

This picture is for my friend Leslee in Boston, who writes, "The snow here is all bunched up (and dirty) between buildings, as I imagine it is in Montreal." Yes, you're quite right, Leslee. Today is still frigid - minus 14C - but I did go out to Little Italy and the Jean-Talon market yesterday to do some shopping, and managed to take my gloves off long enough to take this photograph. It was OK in the sun, but the wind was straight from the arctic and very strong, blowing my furry hood off my head whenever I turned to face it and sending clouds of dry light snow whirling off the roofs of buildings.

Some of us are still pouting, curled up in wool and fleece...

But others, like me, are starting to feel the pull of outdoors and the increasing intensity and healing power of the sunlight. The lack of light up here is really no joke. Canadian are all urged to take Vitamin D because we tend to be deficient simply by virtue of our latitude, and a lot of people suffer from SAD (seasonal affective disorder) and are helped by special lamps. Nearly everybody is affected one way or the other by the sheer length of the winters, let alone the extreme cold like we've had this year. I just begin to go stir-crazy with what we always called cabin fever in New England, and no matter what, I have to get outside and moving. I miss downhill skiing, and wish my knees had held up so that I could have continued!

But in the studio, our plants are clearly telegraphing the message of lengthening days:

That's not just a forest of avocado plants, but a batch of cherry tomatoes that came up from seed that must have been hiding in the planter, a gift from my gardening friend Eric F. back in October, and are now spilling over. I've thinned them and am pinching them back. On the left, the four-year-old lantana is bushy and vigorous after I cut it way back around Christmas. On the right is a geranium I rescued from a neighboring studio after they moved, along with this massive cactus:

And the bougainvillea is still pumping out its gorgeous blooms, delighting me up every morning when I walk into the studio...

...and reminding me that soon, I'll be here:

And when we return, it really will be almost-spring.

How are you holding up, if you're in the north? And if you're in a warmer climate, what are your first signs of spring?

Boulder, Stream, and Mossy Rocks

Boulder, Stream, and Mossy Rocks. Acrylic on gessoed paper, 10" x 9".

Over the past few days I've finally had time to do a little artwork, inspired by our recent stay in the mountains. This isn't a literal interpretation but it gets across the feeling of a particular spot. I'd like to do some more explorations of this composition, maybe using different media. I was fascinated by the huge glacial erratics in the middle of the woods -- poised so precariously, it seemed, but actually very solidly positioned right where they've been since the glaciers retreated -- in contrast to the flowing stream, but the forms had their own abstract interest that I've only begun to explore here.

Below, a few preliminary stages in the progress of this painting.

 

 

 

Messing around in the Milkweed

While parking the car at the studio today I spotted this snail in the milkweed forest that's growing between the parking lot and the Canadian Pacific railroad tracks. At first I thought it was a monarch caterpillar, curled up, but when I got close I saw it was a snail. It's a fairly large one, and not familiar to me.

I haven't seen a single monarch butterfly yet this year.

But there were more antics going on below.

"Let me call you sweetheart..."  But I'm wondering: is this an interracial insect couple, demonstrating against the odious, recently-proposed Quebec Charter of Values? And are those eggs, or tiny aphids? Guess I need to go back and take a closer look, but maybe someone (Dave?) can enlighten me about the identities of these beetles.

The Quirkiness of Memory

When I came across this watercolor from the late 1980s I still liked it, but had no recollection of the scene. It reminded me of twisted trees I saw last year along the coast of Florida, but I knew that couldn't be it. I studied and studied the painting, and then suddenly it came to me - these were the branches of a Siberian peaberry in our Vermont garden, and the ferns that grew underneath them. When we sat on our terrace in back of the house, you'd see this view up underneath the branches. I must have been trying to capture the energy and busy-ness I found in the mixture of foliage. Once the memory snapped into place, I was right back there.

The painting also reminded me of a recurrent dream: I am seated at the piano, or preparing to sing, but the music in front of me is a painting or picture, not a score. I have to "play" or "sing" the painting.

This watercolor looks like music to me! The rhythmic punctuation of the spiky vertical foliage at the top; the twisting branches could be chordal structures; the curving ferns a repetitive, looping pattern of melody. Last night at choir we worked for two hours on works by Stravinsky for our upcoming annual fundraising concert, November 2. We worked hard on a piece called Credo, which has a complex rhythmical structure that our director parsed for us; we went rhoguh,marking our scores, then saying the words in rhythm, then singing them. It took a lotof concentration, and it's no wonder that my mind went in that direction this morning even though the dreams were a while ago.

My bedtime reading lately has been a book called The Great Animal Orchestra: Finding the Origins of Music in the World's Wild Places, by Bernie Krause. Krause is a musician, recording engineer, and scientist with a PhD in bioacoustics who has spent a great deal of time making recordings in very wild places, capturing and studying their particular "sound signatures." In a lot of ways, his premise seems pretty obvious to me, and has since I was a child - of course music came from the natural world, of which we (and our voices, our talent for mimicry, and our ability to make sounds with tools) are an intrinsic part. I read the first half of the book, and skimmed the rest. Of course, Krauses' book is all about animals and the natural sounds of water, wind, and rain -- he doesn't say anything about playing or singing inspired by foliage or rocks! But visual rhythm and pattern exist everywhere, and I see no reason why they too can't be translated into sound, music, dance and movement.

 

Iceland from the Air

Sandro Santioli spent 70 hours in flight over Iceland, taking some astounding photographs of this otherworldly landscape. I'm fascinated, of course, since I'm immersed in Iceland-on-the-ground these days. (Hat tip to Marly Youmans for the link!)

Tiny House Envy

Longtime readers of this blog may remember that I've written before about the tiny house movement -- a proposition for radically downsizing and building houses with a very small footprint - no larger than, say, 300 square feet. A lot of them are much smaller than that - less than 100 square feet - usually with a loft for sleeping and clever solutions for bathrooms, kitchens, and power.

Most of these houses are owner-built; some are constructed from prefab components; some from recycled or free materials; some are even built on trailers so that, like a turtle, you can take your house with you when you decide to live someplace else! All are just waiting for handmade innovations and off-the-grid, and low- or no-tax living.

As for many people, these buildings appeal to me not so much as a primary dwelling but for their hobbit-house-like coziness, their energy efficiency and environmental sanity, and the privacy of having one's own minimal but comfortable shelter in the woods. They seem like the epitome of less-is-more.

Lately I've been looking at what people have done recently, and I've found there's a lot more on the web about this than when I first got interested. The guru of the tiny house movement is arguably Jay Shafer, who has been building and extolling the virtues of these little houses since the late 1990s. His company, Tumbleweed Tiny Houses, sells plans and already-built houses of less than 140 sq ft.

Michael Jantzen's blog Tiny House Design and associated newsletter, Tiny House Living, is the best place I've found to keep up with what's happening in this movement. For instance, here's a post on his design for a free house made from recycled pallets.

 The New York Times even got into the act recently, with this feature on small houses including a gingerbread cottage makeover of a hunting cabin (left) which is way too twee for me.

I was most pleased, though, (and amused) to see the video embedded at the top of this post, about Vermont tiny house builder Peter King. Peter is soooo Vermont, and it makes me happy to see and hear him extol the best of what makes/made my former home state unique.

Drowning

It's time, I told myself. You really should read some of these reports in detail, not just the headlines. You should look at more of the pictures, read the eyewitness accounts. So this morning I did. Or at least I tried, until I got so depressed I couldn't continue. That took maybe half an hour, maybe even less.

Over the last month, J. and I have been watching David Attenborough's amazing multi-episode nature programs for the BBC, "Planet Earth" and its predecessor, "Blue Planet," which is about the oceans. In both, Attenborough and his team made a conscious decision to focus on the beauty and wonder of the natural world rather than harping on the problems. Global warming, threats to biodiversity, endangerment, environmental pressure, habitat diminishment and species adaptation are all mentioned, but in the context of, for example, a near-starving polar bear having to range much much farther in her quest for food and becoming exhausted swimming in open water - something she never used to have to do. Still, the focus is on the creatures and plants themselves and the worlds they inhabit, which include many places few people visit and most of us will never have the opportunity to see. In general, I think it was an effective strategy: the despair and numbness I felt after only a few minutes of looking at environmental disaster is almost paralyzing, but look we must. What I'm thinking about this morning is the contrast.

"The Blue Planet" taught me, a woman who's lived most of her life far from the ocean, so much about the seas. I watched in utter amazement as the videos revealed so much more than I'd ever known about the migrations of herring; the electric creatures of the blacks depths; the intelligence and play of dolphins; the songs and journeys of the great whales; the vast forests of giant kelp and astounding color of coral reefs; the teeming colonies of tube worms living on deep-ocean volcanic vents untouched by the light we always thought was necessary for life; the unbelievable camouflage that's evolved to protect fish, crustaceans, invertebrates and given rise to creatures stranger than science fiction; the bloom of plankton so extensive that it colors the oceans when seen from space; and above all the endless struggle to eat and to reproduce in a ruthless watery world of hunters and the hunted. 

Last night I began reading "Champlain's Dream," a biography by David Hackett of the French explorer who mapped and greatly influenced most of the places I've lived in my life. The frontispiece of the book is a map of "New France" drawn by Champlain himself in 1612, and I noticed his labels and drawings off the coast, including figures of whales and cod along the Grand Banks. It reminded me of the teeming abundance of the untouched oceans, the wonder of the first explorers, and the almost immediate exploitation of that abundance by human beings convinced both that the resources were theirs for the taking and that whatever it was - fish, forests, seals -- couldn't possibly run out. Without any oil disaster at all, how much has changed off our own coast since Champlain's time! How dare we have the audacity and hubris to disturb the complexity and balance of such an ecosystem? What's happening in the Gulf is an underwater Hiroshima, and as much as I deplore the economic cost to those whose livelihood depends on industries like fishing and tourism, I can't help but weep more for the creatures who live there, and who I've recently come to know and love even more.

The emotions we feel when we see a whale breach and dive, or a flock of seabirds lift into the sky, are not merely wonder but awe. And awe, I think, is an emotion that is meant to include recognition of our own smallness. How far we've come from both Old Testament fear and aboriginal wisdom! Our scientific and technological prowess allows us to think there's always a solution, a mechanical finger for the leaking dike, but what I see this morning are waves crashing over our own heads, full of wrath.