Ever since Bernharður Fingurbjörg, as a young boy, saw the discussion in National Geographic about Öræfi, Vatnajökull and its expanse, Dr. Lassi wrote in the report, he dreamed of going to Iceland. The magazine featured large images of Jökulfell, Skaftafell, Hafrafell, Svínafell, and Sandfell; interviews with ancient farmers; pictures of sealers and the skin-curing process; of bird-hunters, abseiling and taking eggs (they were poor farmers in remote areas getting hold of what food they could); there were discussions of handicraft and homemade work equipment; of horses on the sands; of the dying art of riding horses through the glacial waters. It was like the end of beauty, Bernharður says, though I didn’t think so back then, I discovered it inside me later, it is only now that I’ve put that feeling into words. And then the ring road was opened up and bridges crisscrossed the sand and Öræfi was run together with the world after 1100 years of solitude: the district was opened up and simultaneously destroyed. I have to go to Öræfi, I kept telling myself and later I managed to create a link to my studies. I have always subscribed to National Geographic; its spines were the yellow glow of my childhood. The Iceland issue summarized glacial exploration history, documenting the first trip the doctor Sveinn Pálsson took onto Öræfajökull; he was my boyhood hero simply because of this one short passage about him in the issue, a passage I read a thousand times—I was probably the only kid in the whole of Austria who was bothered about the 18th century Icelandic physician Sveinn Pálsson, the only one who had him as a hero or knew who he was, even. My father had a great affection for him, owned his books, quoted his diaries and his travel narrative, which we had in our home. I decided to start keeping a diary, too, and become a bit scientific in my own life. I began to write small travelogues on the way to school, all the names of the streets I passed, what time I arrived at an intersection, when I left and when I arrived at my destination, I recorded the weather, light, temperature, distance, all the detours home, I wrote down all the names of the streets in Innere Stadt, first it was all extremely imperfect, but gradually I trained myself, I wanted to become a doctor and explorer and naturalist like Sveinn Pálsson, the first to walk on Öræfajökull. The Iceland issue quoted old writings, included old black-and-white photos of research expeditions from the early 20th century, discussed J. P. Koch’s surveying of Skeiðarársand and Öræfajökull in 1903 and his collaboration with Dr. Wegener, the situation of the tectonic plates in Iceland, how the country is at the fracture between the North American plate and the Eurasian plate, all those frightful volcanic eruptions which destroyed settlements and human beings through the ages—ever since then I wanted to go to Iceland and walk around the mountains in Öræfi, the Wasteland, get into all of it … I later saw that behind all of this lay, of course, the father of mountain-going, Benedict de Saussure, his alpine spirit hovered over the waters of my youth, Benedict de Saussure was a contemporary and model for Sveinn Pálsson, this poor Icelandic farmer’s son wanted to be like Benedict de Saussure, the true aristocrat among Geneva citizens who sacrificed his working potential and intelligence for mankind. I also found out that Sveinn Pálsson check-mated his mentor on one crucial point, though never received recognition for it: Sveinn Pálsson was the first to grasp the nature of advancing glaciers, a problem with which people had long wrestled. He presented his theory in his book Glacier Writings along with a study of glaciology; if it had been printed right away in 1795, it would have become the foundational article for the academic community; Sveinn Pálsson is the secret father of glacial studies. In Glacier Writings it states, according to National Geographic, that farmers in Öræfi had for centuries known the glaciers’ character; though it was said that Sveinn had been the first to set foot on Öræfajökull, the Öræfings had long gone out onto the glacier, though only if they had an errand, not for fun like nowadays; they knew the languor which seizes you as you head over the top of the crater, what’s now called Antarctic stare. Sveinn was first and foremost a doctor, he translated Core Questions in Health by Dr. Bernharður Faust, which came out around 1800 and was on my father’s bookshelves along with Travelogue and Glacier Writings. In Faust’s book, in a chapter about traveling that I used to prepare for my Iceland journey and glacier hiking, it says: What should you do if you get frostbite? Avoid going into a warm building, or near a hot flame. What instead? The frostbitten limb needs submerging in ice-cold water, or to be packed in ice and snow, until it has completely thawed, and life and feeling return to it. Wouldn’t the pain be intense? Yes, deeply painful, but you must do it anyway, because the limb, which otherwise might have been forfeit, will come to life again and heal completely if you follow this method.
From National Geographic I got a love of maps: the magazine often came with maps that I hung on my wall while my peers hung posters of singers and band photos from magazines like Bravo and Popcorn. I was teased for my interest in maps, always being asked if I needed to find my way home to my mother, which often upset me. The map of Öræfi held the place of honor: it was drawn by the Danish captain J. P. Koch in 1903. One gloomy day in my room, I saw my name on the map; I was startled, uncontrollably happy, afraid. Fingurbjörg, it was within Mávabyggðir,