Brenna, baby Katla and I left the house around 9:30 am and pulled right up to the 10:30 Herjólfur ferry for our boat ride to Heimaey, the mainland of the 14-island Westman Islands (Vestmannaeyjar). I’ve never been on a ferry that transports buses and cars, and that whole thing was strange. Everyone got out and walked up flights of stairs and into the main cabin, where you could get a bite to eat in a café or sit in bus-like seats or on the outside deck. Bren convinced me to sit outside, which I did for about half the ride on the way there and then came back in to the warmth.
The islands were tall and green, wind-swept with sheep but industry, too. We wound down some mostly deserted roads onto a big overview and ate bakery sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies in the car, then stopped at the Puffin Observatory–a wooden building that was bustling with German tourists when I first arrived, but they promptly left and I was alone in the hut, the wind slamming against the wind, no puffins in sight. The Westman Islands are one of the most popular breeding grounds for puffins (from April to August, mainly) and enjoy a rich stock of fish, which is the island's main source of income.
Bren suggested I hike before clouds roll in, so she and Katla relaxed in the car while I hiked the Heimaklettur trail, a 1.2 mile trail with a view of the volcano Eldfell ("Hill of Fire"). I’d borrowed Bren’s wool gloves and was wearing a wool hat and FIVE layers (tank top, button up, zip-up, down coat, down vest), and was just warm enough in the ocean wind.
The trail looked totally intimidating from a distance with vertical ladders, but just like the few times I've rock climbed (at the gym) in my life, I concentrated on putting one hand in front of the other, one foot and then another, and up I went. I don't think I have quite as much a fear of heights as I do a tendency to panic if I think about something too much--like how we go down stairs, or move our hands, or do anything at all. It's easy for my brain to disorient me, which is also why I struggle so much scuba diving and panicked in Aruba during my last attempt.
Thankfully, my analysis of vertical movement didn't overpower me, and I managed the scariest part (a transfer from the ladder to a bolted chain) without stumbling. When the ladders ended, a grassy hiking path lay before me. There were some switchbacks to get to the top, and some seriously slick and muddy spots along the slopes, which had the highest gradient of any hill I'd ever climbed. The higher I went, the stronger the wind got, until I was crouching down and grasping fistfuls of grass, wondering just how likely it was for the wind to whisk me away. I contemplated turning around, but I could see the summit and it looked so close. I keep trying to hone my skills as an independent hiker–what is worth the “risk” (if any?) and what isn’t? The wind was very strong but not dangerous, I finally decided, after turning around twice only to stare back at the summit and say nope, I got this. Worst case scenario I’d just crawl my way to the top or back down?
After hesitating a few times on a particularly windy knoll, I waited for a moment of calm and then bounded up some rubber grates in the slippery mud, sometimes holding on to earth. The higher I climbed, the more sheep I saw grazing, some white and some black and some colors in-between. And then a curious one came close, it crossed my path and observed me from a few feet away, its tangled wooly coat blowing in the wind. I didn't make any sudden moves, unsure whether it could be a rogue type aggressive enough to push me off the edge...
I waited for the sheep to cross and then bounded to the summit, which seemed crazy high but was less than 1,000 feet above sea level. I squatted down to secure myself, peering around at the water and the green and the town. I felt like I shouldn't be there--that no one else was there today, maybe for a reason: there were grey clouds starting to roll in, and I felt like I needed to beat the rain, imagining how dangerous and slippery the path would be when wet. It didn't help that I'd passed a cross at the top honoring someone who died in 2018.
I didn't stay long at the top. I hurried my way down, even though it didn’t end up raining at all; but the sun had completely disappeared and the blustering wind blew black sand in my teeth. I put on my sunglasses to keep it out of my eyes and squatted at times to steady myself, the tall pointed grasses waving furiously beside me and then above me as I climbed down the aged wooden ladders, holding on tight.
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