According to recent reports, Iceland’s glaciers are melting faster than ever due to global warming and tour guides notice constant changes to the glaciers’ icy landscapes. Read about Zoë Robert’s experience of riding Katla’s icy cap; a snowmobile tour on Mýrdalsjökull, which covers the volcano Katla in south Iceland.

Published in Atlantica No. 3. 2007, May-June. Written by Zoë Robert. Photos by Páll Stefánsson.

I veer right off the track, squinting my eyes through my fogged-up sunglasses. The problem is I can’t see the tracks or the snowmobile in front that our guide Benni (pictured) has instructed us to follow. In fact, I’m surrounded by an expanse of white plateaus, hills and an overcast sky, and struggle to make out anything beyond the black pointed ski tips at the front of my snowmobile – let alone the group somewhere in front of me. The poor visibility combined with the uniform illumination from the snow, plus the low cloud cover, leaves any features of the landscape indistinguishable. The horizon is missing. “So, this is what it feels like to experience a white-out,” I think to myself.

I can’t take off the sunglasses, which are surely multiplying my already poor visibility, without first removing my tightly fastened helmet and balaclava. And forget any depth judgment. For all I know, continuing right means tumbling down a steep drop. I can’t see the track in front until I’m actually on it – or in this case off it. But, thankfully, as I wait for the second half of the group that’s trailing to catch up, the track comes back into view.

The skies are blue and the sun unusually bright. The forecast looks promising as we head out of Reykjavík along the scenic route towards the Mýrdalsjökull glacier in southern Iceland one late spring morning. The two-and-a-half hour journey takes us past pastel-colored paddocks of horses, lambs and cows grazing in the unusually bright sun. 

When we arrive at the base of the mountain, Andrína Gudrún Erlingsdóttir is standing outside her farmhouse. The building also moonlights as the office for Arcanum Adventure Tours, which she and her husband Benedikt (“Benni”) Bragason own.
 
In our Jeep, we follow the sometimes steep and bumpy road to the mountain hut from where the tours depart. On arrival at the hut, which stands on the edge of Mýrdalsjökull, Benni is clearing the masses of snow from the makeshift car park in preparation for the arrival of the first group of the day.

Upon entering the small wooden hut we meet Jeppe Frosch, the newly recruited tour guide assistant. The tall 30-year-old Dane explains that he’s in Iceland for a three-month stint to work for Benni. Jeppe tells me that prior to arriving at the hut three weeks ago, he had never straddled a snowmobile. “I’ve grown up skiing and have spent a lot of time on the slopes, though,” he assures me. His job means living full-time in the isolated mountain hut. I ask him how he entertains himself on a glacier. “I do get lonely sometimes,” he confides. “I have a DVD player... sometimes I go for a walk. With the maintenance of the snowmobiles and four tours a day, there’s also plenty of work to do.” 

Considerable effort is needed to put on all the required clothing: a pair of bulky red full-length thermal overalls, gloves, heavy-duty snow boots, a bright purple balaclava, helmet, and the optional, but recommended, sunglasses. The group of predominantly middle-aged British women stumble in and out of balance as they try to suit up for the just-below-zero temperatures outside. I am comforted by the obvious fact that I’m not the only first-timer.

Eager to get underway, we head outside to where the snowmobiles are parked with their engines running, to listen to Benni’s operation and safety instructions. Benni, whose fifteen years in the business have left him with a glowing sun- and windburned face, explains what to do if we get lost: “Stop and we’ll find you – you won’t find anything,” he warns, triggering an eruption of laughter. (He is, however, sure to stress the unlikelihood of this occurring, given that we are to follow him and have a guide trail us).

Nevertheless, the prospect of actually having to confront my fear of driving one of these machines is not especially appealing. So, when I find out that everyone is to be paired up except me (Benni’s reasoning being that the photographer and I need more freedom) I panic. Before I even have time to conjure up a decent excuse for chickening out I hit the accelerator and follow Benni and the rest of the group up the hill. Even at 20 km/hour, fear quickly turns to adrenaline. This isn’t so bad. 

Seconds later someone veers off the track and gets stuck. “Do I lean in or away from the turn?” I try to remember. Even the simple laws of gravity seem too complex to grasp when I’m nervously trying to remember all of Benni’s instructions. 

Our first stop allows us to soak in the panoramic view of the glacier tongue Sólheimajökull below and the countryside meeting the coast beyond. Mýrdalsjökull, which lies on the volcano Katla, is the southernmost and fourth-largest glacier in Iceland, I learn.

Benni kindly informs us that, “We are standing on the most dangerous volcano in Iceland.” “Can it erupt?” someone asks. “It’s overdue,” Benni replies, calmly referring to its now eighty-nine-year dormancy. “But, it takes one to two hours to break through the surface, and as we are only going to be up here for one hour we’ll be fine,” he reasons. “I’m not planning on being up here when it erupts,” he says.

Back on my way, I approach a downhill section. In reality the speedometer is struggling to pass 40 km/hr, but it feels faster and that’s what counts. The group in front comes into view –  but suddenly they slow right down. I’m still speeding. “What do I do? What do I do?” I think desperately to myself as I watch the snowmobile in front come closer.

The consequence of not having listened to Benni’s safety instructions more carefully seems to drag on far too long and I feel completely out of control. As I begin to accept the fact that I’m about to crash, just at the last moment Benni’s instruction “the brake is on the left” dawns on me. I halt mere centimeters behind the snowmobile in front. Yes, the brakes were a good idea.

It is then that I spot the operation instruction sticker plastered on the left side of this strange vehicle with its tanklike revolving tread in the rear and steerable skis in the front. “Avoid surprise – be on the lookout for the unexpected,” it reads. Despite just having narrowly escaped an accident I begin to understand the addiction to this form of recreation, which has proven so popular among Icelanders.

Inside an ice cave at Sólheimajökull on the way back to Reykjavík.

We stop further along the glacier with the view of Sólheimajökull below. Benni points to a bare, rocky crest sticking up from the ice, explaining that these are the effects of global warming. “We’ve only started to see these changes in the last three years,” he says. “In the summer the landscape changes dramatically; where the ice is now there is running water and a 70 m drop.”

On our way back to the mountain hut, visibility closes in. The tiny pieces of hail that begin to fall, plus the icy wind, make for an unbearably cold combination. The driver of the snowmobile in front loses sight of the track. At this stage the visibility is so poor that not even Jeppe can be sure of the direction the rest of the group has headed. We turn off our engines and wait in silence for Benni to return to find us.

We sit surrounded by the mountain landscape of endless white, which brings with it an indescribable beauty. Despite the cold up here on Katla’s icy cap the rare escape from the beautiful and ever-changing colors of the Icelandic countryside is somewhat calming. And it’s good to know that if the ground starts rumbling beneath us we can just rev our engines and go. It seems I’m better at accelerating than braking anyway.

Arcanum Adventure Tours run year-round tours of Mýrdalsjökull, snow.is.