This lighthouse saved my life.
The wind is so violent that I can barely stand on my feet. Bracing for the next brutal gust, desperately holding onto my tent flapping loose in all directions, I notice in horror that my unattended backpack is being pushed by the wind toward the ocean. If I try to save it I will have to let go of my tent, but if I keep holding onto my shelter my backpack and all its contents will be lost to the raging waves.
You don't want any of that to happen when you are twelve kilometers away from civilization.
Never underestimate the weather in Iceland. This country is known for being the second windiest inhabited place in the world.
There is a golden rule when you plan anything outdoors here: check the weather forecast. When I lived in France, I could look at the weather a week in advance and be sure that the forecast would be the same a week later. In Iceland, you must check until the night before because conditions change rapidly.
So that is what I did to plan my mission to Glettinganesviti while in Bakkagerði, one of the loveliest towns I've had the chance to visit in the east of Iceland, in June 2021.
The day I wanted to hike, a storm was forecasted in a few regions, including the town I was in, and it was an orange warning. But the region I was going to cross to get to the lighthouse had no warning, which was strange. The maximum wind forecasted was 10m/s (36 km/h or 22 mph).
In Iceland, there are three levels of weather warnings: Yellow, Orange, and Red. Yellow asks you to be cautious and forget about your hiking plans, Orange means only get out if it is an absolute necessity, and Red means that you stay indoors at all costs.
I was relieved that there was no warning for the area I was gonna hike, not even yellow, meaning I could keep on with my plans. I was also too eager to attempt to reach Glettinganesviti since I had already given up the previous summer because of cold temperatures and fog.
But now the sun was shining, and it was about 20 degrees (68°F) which is kind of a miracle in Iceland.
The plan was to take my tent and everything I needed to camp for one night by the lighthouse and return the next day. It is a twelve kilometers (~ six miles) hike mostly following the Viknasloðir trail. I could not foresee any difficulties until I'd have to leave the marked trail to go into a valley and walk down the cliffs that separated me from the lighthouse. I knew the height of those cliffs, but my main concern was the type of terrain I would be encountering on my way down. It would be too slippery if it was loose rocks on that very steep incline. I would have to turn back.
But there was only one way to find out.
Stunning view over Brúnavík
So off I went. The weather was stunning, almost too hot for what I was used to. I met a few people on the trail, going in the opposite direction. When I reached the paradise-like bay of Brúnavík and went deeper into the valley toward the mountain pass I had to cross, I was totally alone.
Once up the pass (named Súluskarð) I could see the bay of Hvalvík, meaning I was just a few kilometers away from my goal. That’s when the marked path ended, and I was left with sheep trails. It's easier to walk on a sheep trail than no trail, however, sheep trails can be unreliable and not always lead you where you want to go. But the weather was still clear, and I used my GPS to trace my path toward the lighthouse.
After a steep climb it was finally the moment of truth: was I going to be able to climb down to the other side? I reached the cliff's edge, and 200m down by the shore was standing the orange tower of Glettinganesviti. I did not dwell on this view but immediately checked instead if there was any way down. To my relief, I could see that there were only a few meters of rocks and scree before the slope became grass. I carefully negotiated my descent, which I completed by sliding down on my butt to relieve my tired knees.
First sight of Glettinganesviti
The weather was still beautiful, and I had made it to the lighthouse! The joy I get in those moments is indescribable. Perhaps my addiction to these feelings explains why I keep going to remote places.
I pitched my tent north of the lighthouse, where I'd have the best sunset view, then indulged in exploring the area. There were the ruins of the former lightkeeper's house, the roof had collapsed, but there was still a lot of furniture inside. Then I decided to go up to the top of the lighthouse.
This is the occasion for me to tell you a secret: most remote lighthouses are not locked because they can be needed as an emergency shelter if an accident at sea happens. That means you can step inside and climb up the stairs – or ladder – to enjoy the view at the top.
But the door of Glettinganesviti was arduous to open, so hard that I thought it might be locked. I had to use both hands and all my strength to open it.
At the top of the lighthouse.
After taking in the view from the lantern I went back outside and made sure the door was shut tight behind me. The weather can be really harsh, and an open door would let the elements rapidly damage the inside of the lighthouse for months until the road administration would come for maintenance. So I closed that door very well. Maybe too well.
Outside, still warm and windless, I could wear only a T-shirt until late evening, which I thought was unusual. I enjoyed this fair weather, gazing at the midnight sun that doesn't disappear behind the horizon during the summer.
Midnight sun at the lighthouse.
However, an hour or two after I had slid into my sleeping bag, what felt like paradise turned into hell.
It was as if someone had turned on a switch titled « STORM »,
I lay wide awake for a moment as the tarp of my tent was shaking violently, in total denial of the mistake I had made, just hoping for the wind to calm down as fast as it had arrived.
Until a stronger gust made its way under my tent and lifted me a bit from the ground. That is when I decided to get out and assess the situation.
The wind violently welcomed me like a slap in the face, and that’s when I realized how strong it was: Probably between 25 m/s and 30m/s (90 to 100 km/h or 56 to 67 mph)
The structure of my tent was holding well, but it was very exposed to the wind: the pegs were slowly getting loose from the ground, meaning I would constantly have to resecure them during the night, so no sleep for me.
I decided to pack my stuff, unpeg my tent and move it behind the south side of the lighthouse in the hope that I would be a bit less exposed to the elements and be able to grab some sleep.
If only I had known how difficult it is to pitch a tent in a storm!! Every time I would stick the second peg to the ground, the wind would tear out the first one. A single mistake and my shelter would fly away like a kite. It occurred to me that it could drag me along if this was to happen, so I’d lay on top of my tent at each gust, wide-eyed.
How could the situation get worse than that? Well, that nasty game with the wind got to a new level when I noticed in the corner of my vision a red object rolling toward the ocean. It was my backpack being pushed by the wind. A few more gusts and it would be gone.
That’s when my mind turned off. I became pure action. Still holding onto my tent with one hand, I ran to the lighthouse's door and grabbed the handle with my free hand.
It was too hard to open. No, no no no, and no ! A quick glance at my backpack, still dangerously close to the water's edge, while the wind was still tearing my tent away from me. This can't be happening! I summoned all my strength, and with a rush of adrenaline, I opened the door, threw my tent in the entrance, and ran to my backpack right before the next wind gust would push it into the raging waves.
Back inside the lighthouse, I closed the door behind me and finally exhaled: I had been holding my breath the whole time.
It took me a minute to calm down and assess the situation: I had broken my tent's pole in my desperate attempt to open the door. Other than that I had all my stuff, and most importantly: I wasn't injured.
I was lucky that this lighthouse was unlocked. I can't imagine how my night would have turned out if I had not been able to get in.
This is where I finished my chaotic night.
I think I should be honest with you here: It was my third summer doing this project, and I wasn't new to hiking in Iceland. Therefore I felt terribly ashamed to have made this «beginner's» mistake of going on a hike despite an unstable weather forecast. Because the truth is, Iceland is so small that if there is an orange warning in a neighboring region then there should be a storm where I am even if there is no warning in that area.
The wind doesn't stop at a regional line arbitrarily drawn on a map.
I had seriously fucked up.
The shame was so strong that I almost thought about not telling anyone about this. After all, I was alone and no one knew what I had just been through. But then I thought: What's the point then? There is no authenticity in what I am doing if I appear flawless and don't make any mistakes. Making mistakes and learning from them is how people improve themselves.
So what is the lesson here?
The weather is no joke in Iceland. Check the weather forecast and adapt your plans to it. But also use your logic: at the slightest hint of bad weather a few kilometers from your location, assume the conditions will be similar where you are even if the weather map doesn't say so.
I’ve now grown even more cautious when planning my hikes, shortening my trip or canceling it if necessary.
An adventure I will never forget.
Another lesson I got is that I should paint the lighthouse as soon as I reach it because I don't know what might happen next.
That is something I should have already known after the scariest night I've ever had in Galtarviti's lightkeeper's house, but apparently, I needed a reminder at Glettinganesviti: I am not very good at painting plein-air when I've had a terrible night of sleep.
In the morning the wind calmed down quite late, and I attempted to paint two watercolors which I had to re-do after returning from this trip. I am still not satisfied with the last one, but here it is :
This painting feels quite ironic to me because it looks so peaceful compared to the chaotic night I’ve had there. It is also far from good in my opinion, but I’ve come to accept the fact that I will never be totally satisfied with my art pieces. I just have to keep practicing again and again.
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