Return to Miđvágur

Eighteen days later, I take the blue bus back to Miđvágur. I’d woken up to a day that promised good weather. And more good weather than simply not raining (as good weather is often described here). There’s a chance of sun. There’s nothing more than an occasional breeze. The temperature is somewhere between 35 and 42 degrees. Even though I’ve planned another excursion for tomorrow, I feel the need to seize this day.

The feeling hits me at breakfast as I’m looking out the window at the harbor, and after putting my dishes into the dishwasher, I return to my room to check bus times to see where I might be able to go. Something easy-ish. You know, less than five miles walking with promising views. 

I’ve been wanting to go back to the Sørvágsvatn (the Hanging Lake Above the Ocean) on a clearer day and to see the nearby Witch’s Finger. If I rush, if I really really rush, I can just make the 9:15 bus. I’m (penny pinchingly) hoping that the Sørvágsvatn site office will still be uncrewed and I can avoid paying the $30 dollar entry fee. The roundtrip bus ride costs $25, so the total for a day’s adventure to Vágar Island can add up fast. But I do want to go back. And there’s something nice in already knowing how to get to and from a place.

Impulse decision made, I throw things into my backpack and rush out the door. I make it to the bus stop with a few minutes to spare.

The trip is different from my previous one as night is to day. No wind pummels the bus sideways or makes the driver have to adjust his grip on the wheel. No rain falls. The views are clear and far. I even see the two white domes on top of Sornfelli which mark the location of the old NATO radar station (which I also want to go see though I’m trying to figure out how to get there without renting a car or paying a taxi $42 one way). 

Inching to the edge of my seat, I press the Stop button when I see the white church in Miđvágur.

As I walk the roads up toward the trailhead, I consider knocking on my friend-for-the-day-last-time-I-was-here-and-who-guided-me-through-the-wind-and-gave-me-tea’s door to say hi. But if he doesn’t want to join me on my walk, I don’t know that I have the time to both visit and get my day’s adventure done. So I don’t knock.

Today’s clouds are dramatic rather than obscuring and I can see Trøllkonufingur (translated as the Witch’s Finger or troll woman’s finger) from here. I couldn’t last time. The Witch’s Finger is a 313 meter (1026 foot) tall rock formation in the neighboring town. Similar to the legend of Risin and Kellingin (the Giant and his Wife), this witch was trying to throw the Faroe Islands to Iceland and got turned to stone when she wasn’t quick enough to beat the sunlight. Because she was a very large witch when she reached the bottom of the sea (from where naturally her stone feet hold her up) her finger and her head still cleared the surface of the water. Her finger is, therefore, the rock formation and her head is the island of Koltur.  

To my and my pocketbook’s dismay, the site office is crewed. Trying not to begrudge the landowner his due, I go in and pay the fee. While I have someone to ask, I get directions from here to the Witch’s Finger. Because I’ve rushed off (and foolishly deleted some of the instructions I’d screenshotted on my phone), I don’t have precise directions myself. But I didn’t think it looked all that far on the map when I’d looked it up before (famous last words). The man tells me to enter the village at the roundabout, remember the river, go over the bridge and then left, then right, along a straight road, and then when the choice is between two roads—take the upper road.

Equipped as I can be, I thank the man and amble off blithely down the path. If there were any birds around, they’d be singing. This is what all the bloggers and the two tourists who passed through my Airbnb had meant when they said it was an easy trail.

Before too long, I’ve reached the famous bench that I’d nearly not gone beyond the time before.

It seems ridiculous now. The sea water does not whoosh up between the cliff walls and the wind does not threaten to push me over. I go practically up to the edge and look down, look outward.

What a day!

Then I, this time knowing the way, take the left trail up. Up the stairs, pausing to take pictures as I go, and to the top. The view out to sea is like the backdrop to some old movie, softly painted, not quite real, but very beautiful. The view of the lake, cliff, and ocean is as promised –there is the optical illusion that makes the lake seem as if it’s hanging over the ocean. I take a thousand pictures as if to ensure that I’ll get the tourist shot like everyone else. The vantage point is pretty close to the edge, and I’m careful, oh so careful, even without the wind. It’s not a comfortable feeling with probable death only a step or two away.

When I’ve done my tourist’s photographic duty, I put my phone away and take in the view (not as close to the edge now) from this particular top of the world. I’ve got the place to myself though I had seen one person while I was walking, but he’d been heading toward the waterfall.

 

Will I remember this moment, years from now? Maybe not. Though I will likely remember the time before when the power of the natural world was crashing around me; wind and water and world, and the fear and joy and terror of that moment. Yet maybe I will remember this moment as the opposite of that first. Storm to calm.

Following the path my local guide had taken 18 days before, I make my way over the golden grass, down the sloping hill, and to the rocky overlook to the waterfall and the free standing rock wall Geituskorardrangur. I try to find the spot where he had told me that he didn’t want me to risk anything, but to come to where the view was better, the experience better.

It’s beautiful and after finding a few close to the edge vantage points to gaze from for the full effect, I move back and sit on a rock to watch the waterfall and the ocean rushing up against the rocks. However amazing it is, it’s not as intense or as mesmerizing as that previous time. What if I had nothing to compare this moment against? Is experience always a matter of comparing and contrasting?    

Thoughts like these in mind, I prepare to get up. I’d stay longer, but when I’m not moving the cold seeps in. Even after I add one of my extra layers.

I find the path and take it back toward the landmark bench. The clouds over the lake have cleared up some and the sky is even more dynamic for photos. A glutton for punishment, I go up the steps a second time to the top. A couple passes me as they come down. I see more people coming up the trail. The owner should be getting some good money today.

From the top, the pictures are now even better except that the sun is casting my shadow into the frame. I don’t know why I’m obsessing about this spot. I laugh a bit at myself, honor the compulsion, and then say that’s enough. When I’m finally done, as a good example to the other tourists, I take the steps and trail back down.  

As I go, I see another three hikers, a solo woman, another couple, and another. I’m surprised. I hadn’t expected tourist season to really hit for another month or so. But here we are. A day or two ago, the Airbnb owner’s grown son had told me that a lot of people from Denmark “when they get depressed, they come to Faroe Islands.” So maybe all these people are coming to ward off the winter blues.

Having been first to arrive (except for the one man who I’ve lost track of), I’m the first one on the trail back and I have to take a picture when I see yet another couple with a baby stroller coming from the other direction. That the trail is easy enough to do with a stroller makes me nearly laugh out loud, but I’d like to see them try that eighteen days ago with the wind like a fiend. How they’ll get the stroller up the steep stairs to the vantage point would be a sight to see, but I’m not going back even for that. I’ve got other places to go, other things to see.

I make it once again to the site office, out of the gate, down the road, nod to the house of my friend as I pass by, and stop in at the gas station near the bus stop for a bathroom break. I pick up a snack to buy and ask the clerk how long it’ll take me to get to the Witch’s Finger from here. Walking.

“I’m from that town,” he says. “I walk to and from there every day to work. It takes me about half an hour. But I walk fast.” He tells me to expect it to take about 45 minutes and then maybe another fifteen to twenty from there to the viewpoint.

If I ditch the Witch’s Finger, I can take the 2:30 bus back to Tórshavn. If I press on, I can catch the 4:40.

Because I just don’t know, I ask if there’s a bus stop in that town or if I have to walk all the way back here. He assures me there is one in that town and I verify the times on my bus schedule and he confirms it all for me.

After thanking the clerk and going outside, I adjust my layers and think. The town seems far away. But this is because I’ve already been walking for three and a half hours and I keep putting off eating my snacks.

It’s a nice day; the sky so perfect with those clouds, that blue, that touch of the sun, the wind low, the temperature moderate.

What the heck, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The walk to town is along the road. It’s not bad, but it’s not being on the edge of the world, and I keep reminding myself to look off to the right where the water is. The cars speed by in both directions. Big trucks rumble past. One foot after the other. My legs are keeping track of the miles. Thirty minutes, thirty-five, and I’m there. Comfortingly, I see the bus stops the gas station clerk had told me about. I’ll know where to be at the proper time.

Following the directions from the site office man (enter the village at the roundabout), I find the signs for Trøllkonufingur (2km) and follow them easily through the streets (1.8), around the curve (1.7), up and up, the houses get fewer and fewer, the sheep more plentiful. There’s the promise of a café. But I’m on a mission.

The pavement turns to gravel and I continue up. Having seen it from afar, I know the shape of the cliff and I’m still far from reaching it. But it’s surprising how much distance one can travel by foot. As a point in this thought’s favor, I look back across the way to the other side of that far part of the Island where I’d just been, not that long ago, gazing at a waterfall and the far end of the world.  

A man in a car passes me. He stares at me like the sheep, as if he’s never seen a person before. For a moment I doubt I’m going the right way. I’ll never get there. I must be going the wrong way. It’s too late now to get the bus at 2:35.

Onward and upward.

Onward and upward.

Around that bend, surely I’ll see the cliff face.

Onward and upward. 

Upward a little more.

I pass three geese stopping in a puddle to get a drink. One cranks its neck, looking my way and I turn my head, breaking eye contact. I am not a threat. Though it thinks about it, it doesn’t charge me. It doesn’t complete the hiss it had started.

Finally, the path leads me to an open gate and a narrowing trail and then a footbridge over a waterfall river. The sun casts its setting colors behind me. The sky before me still has that movie backdrop effect—so perfect as to feel fake.  

 

Then finally, there it is. Trøllkonufingur. And every single of one those steps, every mile, every minute was worth it for this.

It’s a spectacular view. The cliff a curving wall. Out from the water rises up the flat, slanted surface of Koltur Island, like a broad slide into the ocean, the island said to be the Witch’s head.

The further rocks beyond this cliff face call to mind the mountains of Colorado and New Mexico. And in the core of my heart are the mountains.

I go up to stand against the fence (why a fence here? Maybe for the protection of the sheep?) and feel content. Happy.

I stand there the only person in the world, breathing, existing, living. The most content.

Then I hear a surprised “oh!” and I think I’ve imagined it. But I turn in time to see the hastily retreating form of a man. I guess he didn’t want company. Neither do I, in fact. So I turn back to the cliffs and water and islands and sunset and settle back into being the only person in the world.

The waves crash against the base of the cliff wall. The seagulls dive and call. I stand there and take it all in.

The air has a bite to it now, a chill, and the wind has picked up in intensity. I add a layer again (it’s been on again and off all day long) and put my gloves and hat on.

There are benches here and along the trail back. I could sit and eat my snacks. A late lunch-snack. I’ve got my eye on the time. Though I know it won’t take me long to get back to town, I don’t want to chance missing the bus back.

Deciding against a cold sunset snack, I cast several backward glances to the view. Then actually turn back and stand against the fence for a while longer. Then I tell my legs they can do it and head downward. Down and down.

I’ve made it back in plenty of time. Enough to go check out the church and the large stone statue in front of it which I’d blazed past earlier in my rush to get to the Witch’s Finger viewpoint. According to the nearby sign, the statue portrays the legend of the shepherd of Sondum. Apparently, he was a renowned herdsman and quite a horseman. One day, he discovered a pearl embroidered red dress on a large rock. He took it, but didn’t know it belonged to a giant who (fairly enough) didn’t want to lose her dress. When she discovered it was gone, she took off after him. The shepherd raced away, but barely past Miđvágur, the giant got hold of the horse’s tail and tore it off (ouch!). The shepherd raced on toward the church because he knew that giants can’t step on holy ground (I did not know this) but just before he got there, the giant grabbed her dress and ripped it away from him. All but one sleeve. Which was large enough to be made into a clergyman’s cloak. And which is, as the sign assures me, still used by the minister of Sandavágur church today.

Finally, and because it’s long past time, I eat my snack on a rock at the beach. The white church, with its red roof, is just off to my left. I wish there was a service now so that I could see the clergy in his giant’s dress cloak. Instead, I watch the waves wash up and the sun continue to set and think about how very happy I am that I walked all this way.