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Journey to the Center of the Earth
Chapter 9. OUR START. WE MEET WITH ADVENTURES BY THE WAY
The weather was cloudy but calm when we began our dangerous journey.
We didn't have to fear tiring heat or heavy rain.
It was, in fact, good weather for travelers.
I liked riding horses more than anything, so riding through an unknown country made the early part of our trip pleasant.
I began to feel the exciting joy of travel, a life of wanting, getting what you want and freedom.
The truth is my spirits rose so fast that I stopped worrying about what had seemed a terrible journey.
"After all," I said to myself, "what do I risk? Just a trip through a strange country, to climb a famous mountain."
"And if things go badly, to go down into the crater of an extinct volcano".
There could be no doubt that this was all Saknussemm had done.
As for a gallery or underground passages leading into the earth's interior, the idea was simply absurd, the illusion of an ill mind.
All that may be asked of me I'll do gladly, and I'll cause no trouble.
It was just before we left Reykjavik that I made this decision.
Hans, our unusual guide, went first, walking with a steady, quick, even step.
Our two horses with the luggage followed on their own, without needing whip or spur.
My uncle and I came behind, looking fairly good on our small but strong animals.
Iceland is one of the largest islands in Europe.
It covers thirty thousand square miles and has about seventy thousand people.
Geographers divide it into four parts, and we had to cross the southwest quarter which locals call Sudvestr Fjordungr.
When Hans left Reykjavik he had followed the sea route.
We took our way through poor and thin meadows, which tried every year to show a little green.
They very rarely showed a good yellow color.
The rough tops of the rocky hills were weakly visible on the horizon through the misty fog.
Now and then heavy flakes of snow shone in the morning light.
Some high pointed rocks were first lost in the low grey clouds, with only their tops visible above, like jagged reefs rising from a troubled sea.
Now and then a spur of rock came down through the dry ground, leaving us hardly room to pass.
Our horses, however, seemed not only used to the country, but by some instinct knew which was the best road.
My uncle couldn't even enjoy urging his horse forward by whip, spur, or voice.
It was useless to show any impatience.
I couldn't help smiling to see him look so big on his little horse.
His long legs now and then touched the ground and made him look like a six footed centaur.
"Good beast, good beast," he'd cry.
"I assure you, I begin to think no animal is more intelligent than an Icelandic horse."
"Snow, storm, bad roads, rocks, icebergs nothing stops him."
"He's brave, he's steady, he's safe, he never makes a wrong step, never slips from his way."
"I dare say that if any river or fjord has to be crossed,"
"And I have no doubt there will be many, you'll see him go into the water without fear."
"He swims like an animal that lives in water and reaches the other side safely."
"We mustn't try to hurry him, we must let him have his own way, and I'll say that between us we shall do our ten leagues a day."
"We may do so," I answered, "but what about our worthy guide?"
"I have no worry about him."
"That sort of people go ahead without even knowing what they do."
"Look at Hans."
"He moves so little that he can't get tired."
"Also if he were to complain of weariness he could borrow my horse."
"I'd get a violent cramp if I didn't have some exercise."
"My arms are fine but my legs are getting a bit stiff."
All this time we were moving at a fast pace.
The land we reached was already almost a desert.
Here and there we saw an isolated farm, some lonely bur, and an Icelandic house built of wood, earth, and lava.
These poor huts looked like beggars on the road of life.
These poor huts made us feel such pity that we were half ready to leave small gifts at every door.
In this country there are no roads and tracks are almost unknown.
Poor plant life slowly covered the small signs left by travelers passing from place to place.
Still, this part of the province, only a few miles from the capital, is considered one of Iceland's best farmed and most populous.
What, then, must be the state of the less known and more distant parts of the island?
After traveling more than half a Danish mile we had met neither a farmer at his door nor even a wandering shepherd with his wild flock.
Only a few stray cows and sheep were seen now and then.
What, then, must we expect when we come to the raised regions to the land broken and roughened by volcanic eruptions and underground shocks?
We were to learn this in time.
I saw, however, by looking at the map, that we avoided much of this rough country by following the winding and empty sea shores.
In truth, the great volcanic movements of the island and all their effects are in the interior of the island.
There, flat layers or beds of rock piled on each other, eruptions of basalt and streams of lava have given this country a strange reputation.
Little did I expect the sight waiting for us on the peninsula of Sneffels, where piles of nature's ruins formed a terrible chaos.
Some two hours or more after we left the city of Reykjavik we reached the small town called Aoalkirkja or the principal church.
It's simply a few houses not what in England or Germany we'd call a hamlet.
Hans stopped here for half an hour, remaining calm and motionless as usual.
He shared our simple breakfast and answered Yes and No to my uncle's questions about the road.
When asked where we'd spend the night he was brief as usual.
"Gardar!" was his one word reply.
I looked at the map to see where Gardar was.
After looking closely I found a small town of that name on the edge of the Hvalfjord about four miles from Reykjavik.
I showed this to my uncle, who made a very strong face.
"Only four miles out of twenty two? Why it's only a short walk."
He was about to say something sharp to the guide, but Hans paid him no notice.
Hans went in front of the horses and walked ahead with the same calm manner he always had.
Three hours later, still crossing endless sandy plains, we were forced to go around Kollafjord, an easier, shorter route than crossing gulfs.
Soon after we entered a place of local jurisdiction called Ejulberg.
There the clock would then have struck twelve if any Icelandic church had been rich enough to have such a useful thing.
These holy buildings are, however, very much like these people who do without watches and never miss them.
Here the horses were allowed to rest and feed.
Then, following a narrow strip of shore between high rocks and the sea, they carried us without more stops to the Aoalkirkja of Brantar.
After another mile they brought us to Saurboer Annexia, a small chapel on the southern bank of the Hvalfjord.
It was four in the afternoon and we had traveled four Danish miles about equal to twenty English.
The fjord was here about half a mile wide.
The rolling and broken waves came in on the pointed rocks.
The gulf was surrounded by rocky walls a mighty cliff three thousand feet high, known for its brown layers separated here.
There by beds of tufa of a red color.
Now whatever the intelligence of our horses I had no real trust in them as a way of crossing a stormy arm of the sea.
To ride over salt water on the back of a small horse seemed to me ridiculous.
"If they're really clever," I said to myself, "they certainly won't try. In any case I'll trust my own sense more than theirs."
But my uncle wasn't in a mood to wait.
He dug his heels into his horse and rode for the shore.
His horse went to the very edge of the water, sniffed the coming wave and pulled back.
My uncle who was, to be sure, as stubborn as the beast he rode insisted that it should move forward.
This was met by a new refusal from the horse which quietly shook its head.
This act of rebellion was followed by a shower of words and a strong use of the whip.
The horse also kicked, threw up its head and heels, and tried to unseat his rider.
At last the tough little pony, spreading its legs in a stiff and funny way, slipped out from under the Professor's legs.
It left him standing with both feet on a separate stone like the Colossus of Rhodes.
"Wretched animal!" cried my uncle suddenly turned into a foot passenger and as angry and ashamed as a dismounted cavalry officer on the field of battle.
"Farja," said the guide tapping him friendly on the shoulder.
"What, a ferry boat!"
"Der," answered Hans, pointing to where the boat lay there.
"Well," I cried, quite pleased with the news, "so it's."
"Why did you not say so before," cried my uncle, "why not start at once?"
"Tidvatten," said the guide.
"What does he say?" I asked, quite puzzled by the delay and the talk.
"He says tide," answered my uncle, translating the Danish word for me.
"Of course I understand we must wait till the tide is right."
"For bida?" asked my uncle.
"Ja," replied Hans.
My uncle frowned stamped his feet and then went to the horses where the boat lay.
I fully understood and felt the need for waiting before crossing the fjord for that moment when the sea at high point is calm.
Since neither ebb nor flow is felt, the ferry is not in danger of being taken out to sea or dashed on rocks.
The right moment didn't come until six in the evening.
Then my uncle myself and the guide two rowers and the four horses got into a very awkward flat bottom boat.
Used as I was to the steam ferries of the Elbe I found the long oars of the rowers a poor way to move.
We were more than an hour crossing the fjord but at last the passage ended without accident.
Half an hour later we reached Gardar.