Beyond the Map: My epic trek to Straumnesviti. (Part 2/2)
Before you dive into this last part of my Journey to Straumnesviti, make sure you’ve read the first part: Here.
The relentless splashing of the waves comes and goes, marking the passage of time. I try to focus on this sound; otherwise, my mind will spiral into overthinking the situation. Patience, I reassure myself, it will arrive soon. A Black Guillemot bobs its head out of the water, having caught a sea worm. I think I hear the distant hum of a motor, but it's just the wind.
An hour late. I've been waiting at the dock for an hour now. With no cellphone reception to check what's going on, my anxiety grows. Resisting the urge to look at the clock on my phone again to conserve its battery, I assess the situation: Here I am, on the remotest corner of Iceland, with no means of communication, and my ferry back to Ísafjörður doesn't seem to be coming.
What am I going to do? How many nights will I have to spend here before another boat arrives? I realize I only have a couple of dried hiking meals left in my backpack. And the weather is about to change. This place will soon lose its welcoming charm.
As the door of the lighthouse creaks open, the rusted lock remains in my palm — proof of the harshness of the elements on this aging building. Stepping inside, I'm greeted by the familiar scent of old engine oil and damp walls. The interior sprawls before me like a cathedral, yet it's a scene of decay. A rickety ladder, corroded with rust, leads up to the lantern, but I won´t be going up. Instead, I study the walls, stained with streaks of rust, and search for the names of those who've ventured here before me: maintenance crews, 4x4 enthusiasts (how they managed to bring their trucks to Hornstrandir remains a big question for me), and a handful of kayakers.
The weight of today's achievement settles upon me—a solitary figure amidst this vast, unforgiving wilderness. I'm aware of my vulnerability yet equally conscious of the strength required to reach this place alone. And amidst it all, I'm struck by a profound realization: this feeling of exhilaration, this sense of being dwarfed by nature's grandeur—it is addicting.
After writing the date on the wall, July 30th, 2022, and my name, I step outside in search of the perfect point of view to capture the lighthouse on paper. It's time to fulfill the purpose of my journey.
Starting with a blank sheet of paper is always daunting, but over the years, the dread has faded, and I no longer let the voices of doubt take hold. With my tools spread out on the grass, I swiftly immerse myself in my composition. Although I should use an easel, I prefer being grounded, becoming one with the landscape.
I am so well camouflaged that, after completing the sky, a small dark figure catches my peripheral vision. Lifting my gaze from my watercolor, I spot the arctic fox, probably drawn by the fishy scent of Harðfiskur in my backpack. She calmly circles me, filling my heart with joy at her presence. After about 10 minutes, she disappears up the hills.
I had just finished painting the sky when I heard them: a chorus of small, angry yelps from the shore, about 200m from where I was painting. Grabbing my binoculars, I saw that the mother arctic fox had returned and... she had three pups! Freshly caught Fulmar in her mouth, she fed it to them. It felt like being in the middle of a wildlife documentary: the pups fought over the bird, and one quickly emerged victorious, claiming sole possession of the food. Witnessing this was a stroke of luck. If I could tell the little nature enthusiast I was in my childhood that I would experience this one day, she would have thanked me. So, as my layers of paint dried, I continued to observe those precious lives brimming with energy. This memory will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Seen through my binoculars! Arctic fox pups having their diner.
A cold northern wind had picked up, and after two hours of stillness, I began to feel the chill. My painting was nearly complete, but it was time to move and start the long journey back. Sometimes, I can't finish my watercolor entirely on location; the weather dictates that for me.
Reluctant to leave the lighthouse, I still hurried to regain warmth in my stiffened limbs. One last glance at the towering structure felt like a silent farewell to an old friend before I returned to the rugged shore.
Heading back up the mountain wasn't something I looked forward to, so, I decided to first venture toward the heart of the narrow valley, eager to make sense of what I had spotted earlier with my binoculars.
As I ventured deeper into this valley, I realized it was a place where no human belonged. For centuries, boulders the size of cars had tumbled down the jagged cliffs looming over me. I felt dwarfed by these rocks and threatened by the possibility of witnessing one hurtling towards me. However, I didn't have to venture deep to understand what I had spotted from afar: first I saw rusted barrels, then metal fragments, wooden planks, car tires, and even a cooking pot—all scattered among the rocks. These objects stood out unnaturally against the backdrop of lush wildflowers and rock piles. I came to realize this valley once served as the junkyard of the former military station, which likely discarded these unwanted items off the cliffs. I felt both fascinated by them and saddened by how they spoiled the beauty of this supposedly untouched wilderness.
I didn't stay longer than necessary; an exhausting ascent awaited me.
It took me quite a while, and the higher I climbed, the colder and windier it became. Exhaustion had caught up with me by this point, leaving little energy for the journey back.
After over an hour of struggle, I’d reached the cairn atop the ridge. Thick clouds obscured the flat summit of Straumnesfjall, plunging me into fog for the remainder of my journey. Yet another reason to be grateful for my GPS and its tracking capabilities! With the day growing late and hunger setting in, I decided to head to the ruins of the station for a meal break and exploration. Though exhausted, I found solace in knowing that the most challenging part of this expedition lay behind me.
Dear reader, you know that feeling when you're watching a horror movie and you find yourself yelling at the characters for their foolish decisions that will inevitably lead to their death?
Well, you might yell at me here... Picture this: It's around 8:00 in the evening (fortunately, it's not dark yet because it is summer), completely shrouded in fog, and here I am, all alone and weary atop the most remote mountain peak, heading towards spooky ruins. Can you visualize it? Can you grasp just how reckless this is?
And yet, head-on I went.
First glimpse of the station through the fog.
Giggling like a mischievous child who knows she's breaking the rules, I caught a glimpse of the decaying buildings suddenly emerging through the fog.
Perched atop the windswept cliffs of Straumnesfjall lies the haunting ruins of the Straumnesfjall radar station. Built in 1953 by the United States Air Force, this station served as a critical surveillance outpost during the height of the Cold War. Its strategic location provided the visibility to monitor potential Soviet aircraft activities in the North Atlantic. Abandoned in 1960, the station now stood before me as a silent remnant from an era of geopolitical tension.
Five elongated main buildings aligned parallel to one another, with a few more aligned askew across the road, windowless, roofless for the most part, and crumbling. The atmosphere was reminiscent of an apocalyptic horror movie, with intermittent wind gusts shrouding the structures in fog, causing them to vanish and reappear like ghosts. Opting to settle near the first building, I began preparing my dinner. The biting cold urged me not to linger, and my imagination kept me on edge, half expecting zombies to emerge from the glass-less windows. As I waited for my stove to boil water—a process prolonged by the low temperatures—I couldn't help but wonder once again how brutal and lonely winters must have been atop this mountain.
Spooky diner!
A sudden slamming door jolted me from my thoughts, though I reassured myself it was just the wind. Quickly slurping my noodles, I remained vigilant, giggling at the surrealism of the moment. Defiantly peering inside the imposing buildings, I can only see that they are devoid of any remnants hinting at past human presence aside from a rusty wood stove. Empty and crumbling, they offered no clues—no furniture, no abandoned personal effects. Time had erased all traces of life within their walls.
The cold in my bones prompts me to get moving again, leaving this desolate place and its solitude. With roughly 10 kilometers ahead of me to reach my tent, I cast a few wary glances over my shoulder, half-expecting a shadow to follow me until the station fades into the fog entirely.
Despite the eerie ambiance, my visit to the ruins proved uneventful aside from the chill in the air. It's fascinating how our minds can be influenced by sensationalized stories we hear in the media, often serving as subconscious warnings that restrain us from venturing beyond our comfort zones. However, from a rational perspective, there was no real danger present at the ruins. They were simply concrete structures, devoid of any imminent threats or lurking dangers. This is the undeniable reality of something that I have learned during my numerous expeditions: Sometimes what I have to fear the most is in my own mind.
To be honest with you, the final stretch of my return journey was remarkably monotonous in the fog. With visibility limited to just a few meters ahead, the landscape consisted primarily of rocks, rocks, and more rocks, punctuated occasionally by patches of greenery.
The military station is situated on top of the mountain on the left of the picture.
However, this strenuous trek got concluded by a breathtaking reward: as I began my descent from Straumnesfjall toward the campsite, the most exquisite sunset I've ever seen was happening. Now that I was below the blanket of clouds, the sun's radiant glow bathed the fjord in warm hues, casting a fiery light upon the mountains in the distance. It was a scene of such unparalleled beauty and once again such a stroke of luck. Had I begun my return hike earlier or lingered longer at the lighthouse, I would have missed it. This gave me enough energy to propel me on the final hundred meters to my awaiting tent.
By midnight, I collapsed inside my shelter, utterly exhausted yet overflowing with happiness. I had accomplished my mission and returned.
Or so I believed...
The beautiful bay of Aðalvík under the midnight sun.
The following day, after a restful night, I meticulously added the final touches to my watercolor from the comfort of my tent. With plenty of time to spare before my scheduled boat ride to Ísafjörður at 17:00, I indulged in a slow afternoon, even sneaking in a brief nap. As the time approached to pack up and make my way to the dock, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. The weather was slowly but surely shifting, with the moody atmosphere signaling the arrival of cold rain. Thankfully, I had timed my expedition perfectly to coincide with the brief weather window, avoiding what the northern winds I had encountered the day before were about to unleash.
Raising my gaze to the cloud-shrouded mountains across the bay, I contemplated the unexplored trails leading to Hesteyri—a journey reserved for another time, perhaps. But as minutes stretched into nearly an hour past the scheduled departure time, the reality dawned on me: the ferry might not arrive. With no means of communication due to the absence of cellphone reception, I suddenly found myself powerless.
Amidst my spiraling panic, a soft "Hæ" interrupted my thoughts...
I turned around.
"Are you waiting for the boat?" a man standing behind me inquired in Icelandic.
That's when I discovered that this person had arrived with his family a few hours earlier, via the very ferry I awaited. He explained that the captain had opted to depart for Aðalvík ahead of schedule to avoid the looming storm. They had apparently searched for me around 15:30—exactly the time I had been napping inside my tent, just 200 meters from the dock.
Now that I knew what was going on, the realization of being left behind by the boat triggered a silent anger within me.
The shock of this news must have been evident on my face to Gunni, the man who had approached me. Sensing my distress, he kindly offered shelter at his cabin with his family. He mentioned a spot in their garden where I could possibly get cellphone reception to contact the ferry company.
Accepting his generous offer, I followed Gunni to his cabin.
That’s when I got my second shock: upon reaching the ferry company by phone, they informed me that no boats were scheduled to arrive at Aðalvík for the next THREE DAYS. Their only advice was to call back the following morning. I was mortified.
However, the warmth of the cabin eased my anxiety and brought clarity to my mind.
I cannot overstate the generosity of this family for welcoming me into their home. Initially, I felt guilty for intruding on their holiday plans and contemplated hiking to Hesteyri the next day to catch an earlier ferry. Yet, with unfavorable weather in the forecast, the thought of a cold, wet, and arduous 12km hike across a mountain pass with my heavy backpack was daunting.
So, I chose to embrace the situation and let go of the need for total control. It was a valuable lesson in accepting the uncertainties of life.
The following morning, after another call to the ferry company, I received the news that they had arranged a trip back to Ísafjörður with another ferry company scheduled for the next day.
There was indeed a silver lining to this misadventure—I found myself spending two extra days in Hornstrandir with wonderful people in the comfort of their cozy cabin. Had Gunni not noticed me waiting at the dock, I would have endured at least two miserable, rainy days in my tent with barely enough food to sustain me.
With some spare sheets of paper on hand, I picked up my brushes and employed my skills to paint a watercolor portrait of the cabin. A gift to express my gratitude to them.
That is how my expedition to Straumnesviti ended, reminded of the beauty in embracing the unknown. Despite the unexpected challenges and detours, I found solace in surrendering to the flow of events beyond my control. From the rugged landscapes to the boat that left without me, each moment taught me resilience. Each challenge was followed by a reward: the lighthouse, the foxes, the sunset, the warm encounters.
I was also reminded of the kindness I've encountered not only during this expedition but throughout my entire project of painting every lighthouse in Iceland. While I've embarked on this endeavor solo, the progress I've made wouldn't have been possible without the support of countless strangers who believed in me along the way.
And something tells me that you believe in me too…
Dear reader, thank you for joining me on this journey where the only certainty is the beauty we find in stepping into the unknown. Until next time, may we all find the courage to push our limits, knowing that there will be rewards awaiting us.
And here is the portrait of Straumnesviti I’ve painted:
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