Iceland in winter is not as cold as most people think. This is especially true, I think, on the south coast where the relatively warm Gulf Stream moderates things. Always seemed like a high of 2° and a low 0f -1° (that’s Celsius, by the way); not really any more variability than that. Certainly not as cold as western Nevada. However, the windchills get absolutely crunchy cold. And today, Iceland’s first winter storm of 2018-2019 dished it out.
But no worries, Thor and Nick were on schedule (via email) and I left Bill to head to the airport for the workshop’s opening rendezvous—Bill flies back to the States later in the day. Returning the rental was easy and after the usual forensic check for dings and scratches—Iceland roads can be rough on rentals, and the final inspections are clinical, I was back in the terminal and wandering like any other newly arrived photo-tourist. The arrivals area isn’t that big and I quickly noticed a couple guys sitting with tripods and sporting that experienced backcountry look. Robert, Jeremy, and I loiter near the exits. “Where ya from?” “Been on any other workshops?” The early banter of a growing team. Quinn arrives. And soon Thor is there with the van. Spot-on, on-time.
We have a couple stops to make. A guesthouse in Keflavik where Erno, Randy, Mike, and Ian loaded in. Nick, to his and our relief, appeared just about human and had commandeered Thor’s smaller 4x4 Nissan. Into Reykjavik downtown where Cindy and Ken seemed to wait on random street-corners. That was it. Now we were ten sheep and two wolves, as Thor immediately clarified the taxonomic workshop hierarchy. The captive barnyard of new friends turned into the storm.
The plan was to drive toward the Snaefellsnes Peninsula in the western region. The benefit of having Thor, our native Icelandic co-leader, was readily apparent. He can call friends at the road service and has mobile connection to several obscure but locally significant weather assets. He contacts the night’s hotel and gets conditions on their porch, nothing lost in translation. On Iceland’s ring road heading west, scudding clouds blocked the horizon and our van leaned into the wind. We took a lunch break at a truck stop where the burger and sandwich selections had names of US cities. Do I order the Reno?
As we traveled along the southern coast of Snaefellsnes, with the ocean curtained by blowing snow and low clouds, the volcanic scarps of the sudden mountain-fronts reminded me of the northern Basin and Range. In the stormy twilight, the dispersed groups of small buildings could be mistaken for Oreana or Beowawe, Nevada. Tan pastures and haybales, mossy lava flows skiffed in snow, black, stratified uplifts backing every winter scene—it did not seem too far from home. But as darkness of the afternoon lowered, the storm intensified; this wind and driven snow had teeth that where somehow sharper than any Great Basin gale. The stout 4x4 Sprinter rocked and drove forward.
We passed occasional structures that slowly transformed into cold, blue-white drifts. They looked abandoned for the season, or maybe forever. In a momentary lull, our leaders, communicating by two-way radio, thought maybe we had a location worth shooting. With that suggestion made, however, a white-out gust blocked any forward movement. We turned around. The once-talkative van was silent.