We had decided the day before that we couldn’t follow the instructions in the Hostelling Iceland itinerary for the east fjords, simply because turning onto the side roads to see the fjords would have added 200+ kilometers to the already outrageous drive we had planned. So, we stuck to the main highway and headed directly south.
The highway was good at first and I was “hauling ass to Hofn” at a good 125 km/hr (the speed limit it 90 km/hr). We were all shocked when we saw a sign that said something like “malbik endar” and we suddenly found ourselves on rough gravel. I drove the Yaris like a rally car around – and sometimes over – the millions of pot holes and ruts. The road continued like that for what seemed like a very long time and we were starting to wonder if we’d taken a wrong turn. Just as we were starting to get concerned the gravel road ended and we were back onto the regular tar road. Shortly after that we entered a small town and the signs confirmed we were still on the main highway.
The dreaded "malbik endar":
We were on and off the tar and gravel roads for another hour or two. Eventually we made it to Breithdalsvik, at the south of the east fjords, and began our drive south west toward the Vatnajokull glacier. We reached Hofn by noon and, with the help of the Lonely Planet, found a nice restaurant where we stopped for lunch.
Taking the Yaris 4x4-ing:
Gorgeous stormy beach along the coast:
Mom enjoying the view and the chance to stretch her legs:
After lunch we continued heading south west through the Myrar valley. At the end of the valley was the Jokusarlon lagoon, where the Breithamerkurjokull finger of the Vatnajokull glacier calves off icebergs that float out to sea. As we turned off the road to the lagoon we knew it would be a major attraction because the parking lot was full of tour buses and cars and people dressed in their finest cold-weather outdoor gear.
Zodiak and bundled-up tourists:
The lagoon was amazing. The mini-bergs were blue on the bottom, white in the middle, and often covered with dirt on the top. It made for a strange sight. I tried to take good pictures but I found that the range of my lens just wasn’t cutting it. I really wished I had a wide-angle or a fish-eye lens so I could capture more of the lagoon in each shot.
Three views of the lagoon:
Some tourists got to see the mini-bergs up close on an amphibious bus/boat. The vehicles drove up to a ramp where the tourists boarded. Then they drove off down the shoreline and entered the lagoon. They couldn’t get very far into the lagoon, so each trip lasted less than 20 minutes. However, it must’ve been really cool to get up close and personal with the bergs.
The amphibious bus/boat:
We pressed on, travelling through the Oraefi valley past the turn off to the Skaftafell national park. From there it was a straight shot to Vik, and onwards to our final destination, the Farm Guesthouse Smaratun at Hvollsvollur. Simone was a speeding machine until we got into Vik and she set off what I thought was photo radar. It turned out to be a warning light, thankfully. After gassing up, Simone handed off the keys to me for the final drive to Hvollsvollur.
(Simone here: As we entered the town the posted limit was 50 km so I slowed down accordingly. There was the equivalent of a ‘veloci-meter’ that showed drivers what their speed was as they passed through. I didn’t think anything of it until Rowena exclaimed “It just flashed twice and I think you had your photo taken!” I felt sick. After a whole day of driving (and yes, sometimes over the limit), I was going to get a ticket for doing the 53 km/hr that was on the screen when the flashes occurred. “Poop!” I thought (ok, well not ‘poop’ but you get the idea). It turns out that the ‘veloci-meters’ are merely that - a good visual for drivers to get them to slow down. Phew! It certainly got my heart rate up.)
A few kilometers out of Vik, Simone flipped through the folder where we were keeping the Hostelling Iceland itinerary, various maps, and print-outs of hostel and hotel reservations. Out of the blue, she asked “What day is it?” It was Wednesday the 5th. There was silence for a moment and then she said “It says here that we’re staying in the hostel in Hvoll tonight.” That warranted pulling over for confab.
Sure enough, I’d gotten confused about the date. We were indeed staying at the hostel in Hvoll that night, not at the Farm Guesthouse Smaratun in Hvollsvollur. Unfortunately, we were now a good 200 kms past Hvoll. To make things worse, the reservation sheet for the hostel said that they would only hold our room until 6pm. It was now 4:30pm. I turned the Yaris around and started burning rubber back east toward Vik and Hvoll.
Simone suggested stopping at the Vik hostel to have them call ahead and save our room. Good idea, right? The only problem was that we couldn’t find the hostel. We drove around for a bit and then gave up. Our only option was to speed like we’d never sped before, which we did. We arrived at the hostel in Hvoll a few minutes before 6pm, absolutely wrecked from the long day, which turned out to be longer than necessary.
The hostel turned out to be a large out-building on a working farm. It turned out to be one of the nicest hostels I’ve ever been in, with nice rooms, several private kitchens, and a large communal dining area. Dinner was a camping packet, since we didn’t have time to stop and get supplies in the panic to get to the hostel. We also had some left-over pasta from the previous night. After dinner we headed up to the room. We were shattered and we all hit the sack (or, in this case, bunk) by 8pm.
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