I’m going to Sørvágsvatn (also known among other names as the Slave Lake and the Hanging Lake Above the Ocean), the Traelanipan cliff, and then to see the nearby Bøsdalafossur waterfall.
Legend has it that
the Vikings tossed slaves off Traelanipan cliff to their deaths when they could
no longer handle doing the labor forced upon them. The area is an attraction
now for tourists because from a certain vantage point on the cliff the view of
the lake causes an optical illusion that makes it appear as if the lake is
floating above the ocean.
From the information I’ve found online, this hike is said to be 4.22 miles roundtrip and ranked as Easy.
Easy sounds nice right about now. Nothing sounds even better. I’m not really a fair-weather adventurer, but today I wish I were. I’m still a bit worn out from my trip to Nólsoy two days before and the six-and-a-half-mile hike I did there (a glorious day with sunshine, fresh air, wild wind, and my first on-the-ground experience with the dramatic views I came here to see). It’ll take me a bit of time to get back into proper shape for long hikes. But I’ll get there. Soon enough. Now, though, sitting in the comfort of the bus, feeling the effects of the wind even from inside, I wonder what I’m doing. I have two months here and there’s no need to cram all these trips in one right after the other. Several times as the minutes tick on, I consider staying on the bus until it makes the full circuit back to Tórshavn.
The overcast day
and the drizzle aren’t helping my motivation either. But, as one of my Airbnb housemates
says, “This is the Faroe Islands, it rains every day.”
The weather on the
Faroe Islands is changeable and dramatic. Rain and sleet storms can blow
through with barely a moment’s notice and then sometimes be gone again just as
quickly. Snow can feather down, though the temperatures don’t stay below
freezing much, at least not this time of year. Fog can also descend, obscuring
trails and visibility. The winter days are short with the sun setting now
somewhere between four-thirty and four-fifty. And then there’s
the wind.
Today has been
forecast as windy and overcast but not rainy (though it might rain a little even
so). For whatever reason, I had felt like I needed to take advantage of that. Some
little whisper of Go, Go, Go. Do, Do, Do.
I’ve packed extra warm gear if I need it, snacks, water, a headlamp, and a battery pack to recharge my phone. I’ve also got in mind some of the words from the Safe Travel pamphlet I picked up at the visitor center.
It is recommended to hike with a local hiking guide
Be prepared for all types of weather
Refrain from
walking too close to cliffs – no picture is worth dying for
Having heard stories
of tourists who died from lack of preparation, bad luck, and stupidity, I’ve
made a pact with myself to be extra smart here. If it seems unsafe for whatever
reason, it’s okay to go back. Like Han Solo says to Luke after Luke takes out a
TIE fighter as they escape the Death Star, when on an adventure I often tell
myself, “Great kid! Don’t get cocky,” even though I’ve been backcountry skiing
solo or hiked hundreds of miles in many different places. After a Colorado
hiking experience last summer where I got off trail, ran out of water, and
nearly lost myself, I know firsthand how easy it is to get turned around and
how quickly something like that can lead to making a stupid, fatal mistake. Each
place comes with its own risks and learning curve. And I’m going to do my best
to be both safe and smart while venturing out into this glorious land with its
stark landscapes, fresh sea air, and views. All the views.
Soon enough, too soon perhaps, the driver pulls over at the Miđvágur stop and tells me to go past the church, past the white house after it, turn left on the street after the white house, and then after a bit to turn right to find the trail.
I thank him and
head off
Now that I’m on my feet, now that the fresh air fills my lungs, I feel better about being out. Indecision happens behind the windows, but this is life, this is living.
It’s not raining
and while the overcast sky may prevent me from seeing the optical illusion at
the end of the trail, it’ll still be worth the walk.
With the driver’s directions and the directions I’d looked up earlier, I find the trailhead and I’m on my way.
The trail takes me past gently rippling waterfalls, over trickling and flowing rivulets, past sheep, and alongside grassy knolls. Then the lake is there off to my right. The sky is hazy with clouds, not quite fog, but a thin, descending veil of white.
Even with other shoeprints in the mud, I feel like the only person in the world. The ground beneath my feet, the sky above me, the place all my own. Just as I’ve thought this, as I’m exhilarated by the allure of isolation, a helicopter flies over the lake and I laugh. After all, there are 54,000 people on these islands and who know how many winter-loving visitors like me.
Still feeling a
bit of glorious solitude, I continue on.
Up ahead a mist rises like steam from the sea beneath the now visible cliff. I stop in my tracks for a moment to watch it. Until this point, my way has been easy. Just as advertised. But as I approach the cliff and the charming bench set in place in front of it, the wind pushes against me. Not far in front of the bench is the open air, a drop, and then the sea below. Perhaps this is where the slaves were thrown from. The wind blows in the direction of the sea, forces me to step towards the cliff.
The wind doesn’t feel like some malevolent being out to get me, but it is a force of its own.
I retreat.
After a bit of self-convincing, I shoulder my way to the bench. The strength of the wind is uncanny. The power behind its push is more than enough to make me remember my pact. Don’t be stupid. Is it stupid to continue on? I know I’m not far from the viewpoint, but am not sure exactly how far. Old brain survival instincts urge me to go back the way I came. My sense of adventure allows me to maneuver myself so that I’ve got the back of the bench between me and the potential for a long fall down. Thus held in place, I take out my phone and hold it tight in both hands as I take a picture. Something for later on. Proof of where I’ve been. Proof of something.
Just beyond the
bench, the path forks. For those who might come after me (and haven’t read all
the blogs like I apparently haven’t), there is a divide in the path just after
the bench. The left side path goes up to Traelanipan cliff and the right path
goes to Bøsdalafossur waterfall. At this moment, I don’t know about a fork. I
don’t know which way to go. Going up seems crazy in this wind. But going right
doesn’t promise a let up of the wind either. I go right. Even beyond the cliff,
the wind is unrelenting.
It's only wind, right? But this wind when against my back pushes me into a run. This wind when it hits my side, makes me stumble sideways to catch my balance. This wind when it comes front on means I have to put my head into it and push back hard. This wind is mighty enough to push me down.
My risk assessment module is telling me, “This is not a good idea.” So I retrace my steps past the bench, back the way I came to where the wind seems to be a different, gentler breed.
I stand there, out of the wind (more or less), undecided. I’ve come this far and is this enough? Am I satisfied? Will I regret not going further if I leave now?
Afterall, I can always return another day.
But if I leave now, I’ll be early to the bus stop. I’ll have to wait a long time.
The unknown seems this time too daunting. Too unwise. I don’t know what to think about this. Or myself.
I begin the walk
back
I’ve gone a short way when I see a person on the path heading towards me. A man. In this lovely, lonely place, another human. Just in the moment of my indecision. I hadn’t asked anyone or anything for a sign, but this seems to be one anyway. Some kind of miracle. As we come alongside each other, I say (possibly without even a hey, hello, or pardon, do you speak English?), “Have you come this way before?”
And he, stopping,
says, “Every day.”
“Can I follow you?” I ask. I think I tell him about the wind. I stutter something about not being sure if it was okay to go beyond the bench. About not knowing which way to go. Maybe I mention the viewpoint, maybe I mention the waterfall.
“Come on,” he
says. He trots off and I totter along after him.
We get back to the bench and he asks, “How far did you get?”
“This far,” I say,
my hand on the back of the bench to give myself a sense of security. The wind is
still as inescapable.
We stand there. Me being blown about on every side. While he seems solid like stone, standing in front of the bench as if no wind would carry him over the edge. No, this isn’t true. I see the wind rock his balance as well. It’s not just me.
“If you feel you’re going to get blown away, just go flat. You won’t go anywhere that way,” he tells me. He motions me nearer. “I’ll hold your hand if you want to get closer.” To the edge he means. “Or hold your backpack.”
I come around. Not
too close. But closer than I had before. Using both hands on my phone, I get a
picture of the cliff walls and the sea splashing white below.
After yelling back and forth at each other there for a moment longer over the crashing of waves and the roar of the wind, as I’m finding my balance between the gusts, he states again, “Don’t be afraid to sit down,” and leads me on to the left. Upwards. We climb a set of steps up the slope. Steep. Thousands of steps. Not wanting to be left behind, trying to keep up, I don’t even think about taking a picture here. It’s not quite terror, it’s not quite fear. Maybe it’s common sense that cautions me, whatever it is, I don’t have enough information to guide me. Even if I’d known this was the way, I would not have done this on my own. Not today. Not in this wind. It’s not thousands of steps, but it feels that way.
My legs burn. I need to get back in shape fast. I stop once, gasping for breath, as the man ceaselessly gallops on. Finally, amazingly, I make it to the top. To my surprise (and relief), the wind isn’t quite as bad up here. It’s certainly not calm enough for me to step close to the edge to try and get to the spot where the optical illusion appears, but it’s not as strong. Additionally, the clouds hang low, blurring the view of the lake, drifting down upon the cliff and upon us. The viewpoint is a rather flat area covered with grass and peat. The last remains of some square, stone structure lie behind me (perhaps a watchhouse or something no longer needed for the sheep). I’m thrilled to have gotten to the top, glad to have miraculously gained a local guide, and suddenly worried both about being a bother and being left on my own. Maybe he says, “Shall we go on,” or maybe he just begins to walk across the grass away from the steps down. Like a duckling chasing after the mother duck, I dart off after him.
He moves as quick as a mountain goat, as surefootedly as the sheep of the Faroe Islands. I clatter along with my backpack sloshing against my back. I tighten down the straps. He’s far ahead of me now and I’m thinking, if we continue down these stones, we’ll have to retrace our way over them again. Yet down and down, he goes. Down and down, picking my way as carefully as I can over wet stones, as quickly as I can, I also go.
At one point, I
lose sight of him. Though I know which way he’s gone. I don’t know where I’ll
end up by following.
I eventually catch sight of him at a flat(ish) spot on the rocks near another cliff edge. From here, on a clear and calmer day, the waterfall can be distinguished from the upsurging sea water. From here, now, even though it’s not a clear day, I can see the Geitisskoradrangur sea stack standing as it does a bit away from the rest of the cliff wall.
Though I’ve made it down to nearly the same level, I’m still some ways behind the man. He’s standing a few feet from the where the rocks stop and the ocean churns far below.
“I don’t want you to risk anything,” he calls over to me. “But if you come here it’s a different experience.”
Not wanting to risk overmuch, but wanting to see, I pick my way across to stand beside him.
It is a different
experience. We’re the only people on the planet. This planet. This place. With
the white wet of clouds wrapped around us, the white rush of the ice blue sea
beneath us, and the wind waiting to whisk us away if we would let it. This is
what is meant by being in the elements. This is what it is to be caught in the
grip of an elemental. Caught in the grip of the spirit of the air.
“It feels like we’re at the end of the world,” I say. Or maybe he does.
“It’s
mesmerizing,” he says.
“It really is,” I say.
For a bit we stand next to each other, silent, mesmerized. Though I have to admit, I am also thinking of having to climb back up all the rocks I just scrambled down, I’m thinking of the descent of those steep steps from the viewpoint area, and I’m thinking of the bullying wind at the bench’s spot. Beyond those points, I know the way. Beyond those points, it’s safe ground. Beyond those points, I will no longer need a guide.
Here, though, at the edge of everything, I’m being shown what it is to be truly outside. I’m being educated in the next level of survival. At the back of my mind is the clinical interest in the fact that this time I needed someone, that I couldn’t have done this on my own. Not as a first time. Not in these conditions. But that I wanted to complete my excursion enough to ask for help. There’s also the joy of luck, that today of all days, that at the time of my wavering and turning back, at that precise moment a guide appeared.
To my (I’m almost ashamed to say) great relief, he does not lead us back the way we came. Instead, we skirt the rocks and viewpoint’s hill and come back to the trail across the grass and peat, and arrive once again to the bench and those strong cliff wall winds.
We pause there. The place terrifies me still, some, a bit. The man seems at ease. He reaches down to tear a piece of peat away from the ground. He tosses it out into the air out above the sea. It catches for a moment, twirls, but there is no cyclone of air to swirl it into a peat devil. It falls. If it splashes when it hits the water, I cannot hear it.
“Do we walk on?”
he asks.
I nod.
We’ve gone a ways
down the path and I say, “If you need to go on, or go faster, don’t feel you
need to keep with me.”
“I’m good with the company,” he says.
So am I.
We walk as old friends. Sometimes side by side, sometimes single file. We ask about each other’s lives. He works on a ship, something with oil and gas, something with fiber optics communication, and gets a schedule that is close to a month on and a month off. This is his month off and he comes out to walk every day in this astounding place.
This trail usually
has a 200DKK ($30USD) fee, but it’s the off season and no one crews the office
to collect it now. That was one of the reasons I was in a hurry to visit. Which
sounds tacky to say out loud.
The man talks about the fee, the owner whose property the trail is on, and about how other guides have charged the fee to tourists as their own money-making plan when it’s not their land to profit from.
“Land is something
special,” he says.
“I’ll have to pay you the two hundred crowns for being my guide,” I say, only half in jest. For showing me the way, for sharing the place with me, for teaching me how to stand, or rather sit in the wind.
He waves that off and says, “I worked as a tour guide once.”
The distance goes quickly by. Soon we’re on the paved road again. It’s just after one o’clock. My return bus leaves at 2:30. The bus stop is only a few streets away. My snowpants are soaked through (they are not waterproof after all), my rain jacket has been effective, but my hair and cap are wet, and my shoes are muddy. I wonder if I can stand inside the gas station next to the bus stop or if I’ll have to find a windbreak somewhere close by.
I laugh.
It’s a nice house. He’d already told me it was a big house, too big for him now that his four daughters are all but grown and gone, though he still has to shoo out one of his daughters (or perhaps a niece) and a dog and that maybe he’ll build a small house on the property he has – which he points out to me from where we’re standing.
“Do you want to
come in for tea?”
I’ve never wanted tea more in all my life.
I follow the man
home.
As in many places, shoes come off in the entryway. So, I take off my shoes. I shed my raincoat and my wet cap. While the man is gone to change out of his wet clothes, I bless myself for having extra things with me and put on some dry pants. The dog, some little kind of spaniel thing, barks at me until I talk sweet to it and let it sniff my hand. When it realizes I can pet it, it doesn’t want to leave my side.
His niece (or
daughter) is in the kitchen and has put the kettle on. We say hi. When the man
returns, occasionally speaking Faroese to the niece, he putters around getting the
tea made. After a moment, the daughter (or niece) puts her coat on and heads
out.
I sit at the table. The tea is hot. Too hot to put my hands around the cup, but I do it gingerly anyway. Warming my wet, cold fingers.
The view from the
kitchen table is peaceful and beautiful. I feel at home
Not long later, the niece (or daughter) returns. And I realize the man had sent her out for food. He’d been rummaging around and I’d heard him say, “There are no biscuits anywhere,” and I’d been taken back to my trip to Great Britain and the teas and biscuits I’d served and been served. But I hadn’t expected him to go to any trouble. Or for the daughter (or niece) to. Pulling it out of its paper cover, he cuts the loaf of bread she’s brought back with her then sets out butter, jam, and cheese.
“Thank you for
getting the bread,” I tell her.
“No problem,” she says. She comes to sit next to the man on the opposite side of the table as me.
Her English is not quite as good as the man’s but it is always, infinitely better than the one word I know in Faroese. We chitchat and then she asks me why I’m in the Faroe Islands for so long. I bumble around trying to explain why I travel the way I do, why I like to live this way, and how I happened upon this part of the world. It’s not eloquent, but I suppose it’s enough to answer the question.
After she’s finished her snack of ramen noodles out of a cup-sized container, (“Someone seems to be recovering from a long weekend,” the man says, and to which statement she nods in agreement) she vanishes into the house. The man makes us a second cup of tea. He shows me pictures of things he’s seen, the northern lights from one place his ship had been stationed, his daughters, little snippets of his life.
Was anyone ever as lucky as me, I wonder, with adventures fulfilled against the odds and afternoon friends?
And yet, I can’t stay forever. The clock ticks around to 2:15. The bus won’t wait. The next one doesn’t come for hours and I have to be back “home” in time for an online tutoring session.
“I guess I’d
better go,” I say. I take my plate and cup to the sink. “Thank you for all
this.”
As I head towards the door and my gear, almost as an afterthought, I tell him my name and he tells me his and we shake hands.
“It was a perfect
day,” I say, turning the doorknob, hoping that conveys my gratitude and the
contentment I feel. “Maybe I’ll make it out here again one day.”
If he says anything in response, it’s lost in the activity of letting myself out.
Alone once more, I
walk back to the bus stop and only have to wait a handful of minutes before it
comes.
As I sit back in the seat, shivering slightly, I’m glad I came on this day, however tired I was to begin with, however close I came to not getting off the bus, however overcast and windy it was, however near a thing it was for me not making the last part of the journey on my own. I’m glad that even if I didn’t get the tourist photo of the illusion of the lake above the sea, I got something better.
