A Silent Rebellion

It’s not in my memory. A time when I have been colder. The shivering stopped hours ago, and in its place a dull, aching pain creeps into all my extremities.

I search for my feet in the abyss. They feel miles away. Fine spindrift collects in the small opening at the head of my sleeping bag, liquifying and trickling down onto my face and neck. I take my thumb and begin tapping it against each finger consecutively. Warm breath spills into the enclosed darkness.

As I shift, I can feel the weight of snow on top of my sleeping bag. Its mass pushes down on me. I am immediately reminded of the ice I am lying upon – that we are precariously positioned in a glacial complex of seemingly bottomless crevasses. This knowledge weighs me down further. One might liken this sensation to that of lying in the hull of a boat at sea; gliding on the surface, as oblivion flows beneath. We are now part of an imperceptible march towards the sea, the scale of which is not something that needs to be explained; it is felt.

I think of home. I dwell in this feeling for a moment. I think of warmth, but I have no sensations to trick myself into disassociation. I force myself to come back – to hear the scream of wind and hiss of spindrift against the thin outer wall of our tent. To my left I sense movement. My dad rummages in his bag. Though my eyes are closed, I see him slowly sit up, snow and rime falling all around. There is a brief stillness, I can only assume he is taking in the situation.

It’s been nearly 16 hours since we fled into our sleeping bags. As we worked our way through the labyrinth of crevasses on Vatnajökull Glacier, it took us a while to find a platform big enough for two, let alone a tent. Eventually we found a small, slanted precipice protected by a jagged mound of ice, upwind of a sizable hole. As we set camp, violent gusts threatened to knock us off our feet. Then, as I crawled inside, I heard it happen. A tent pole snapped, puncturing the outer wall of our tent. Within an instant the entire wall had torn open, inviting in the onslaught.

‘Kit. You still there?’ Dad says. I murmur some reassurance before he continues, ‘I think the storm is passing – that wind sounds like it’s dropping.’ I listen to the wind’s octave. To me it sounds the same.

I sit up, then look around the tent – it’s chaos. With every gust, fine spindrift pours in, showers the interior, and adds to the inches of snow already inside. Through the triangular tear I see the first light of day bleeding across the sky. The long night is over.

13 days earlier

I know this much. I’ve always found it hard to be present at the beginning of an adventure. My hands do the final checks, but my mind is elsewhere. Some would label it fear, but I know fear. This is something different. More an absence as my mind wanders off, as if it has begun the journey without me. The day we depart from the northern Icelandic coast it seemed I was entirely somewhere else, carried away by the wind.

In the seaside town of Svalbarðseyri a powerful katabatic breeze has spurred the ocean into a frenzy. As we prepare, I gently run my hand along Ingrid’s neck, leaning into the nervous horse and reassuring her before saddling up. To her I am still a stranger and this place is entirely foreign.

Dad approaches with Eldgos. The young, dark mare pushes hard against him as he tries to lead her, forcing him to make consecutive circles while she thrashes and snorts. A few days earlier she had bucked him off on one of our training rides – certainly not confidence building, considering the journey we are about to embark on. But it seems apt; we later learn that Eldgos means ‘eruption’ in Icelandic.

Soon both our horses are loaded. Dad and I put on our packs. My skis catch in the breeze and spin me around. I take a moment. The surreal relativity of where I am and where I seek to go grabs me. I sense a warm breath on my neck; Ingrid inspects my cap before nudging me forward. We circle around the orange lighthouse on the small protruding strand. Shimmering salt-spray wets our faces, anointing us for our journey ahead. We set out on foot.

This is my fourth expedition with my father this year – the next journey in Project Zero, our multi-year climate odyssey. As one of the world’s leading polar explorers, Geoff Wilson has seen the world change before his eyes, the sanctity of the polar realms slowly melting away. Over the next two weeks we will traverse south, all the way from the coast into the desolate Highlands. Our objective is to reach the base of Vatnajökull – Europe’s largest glacier – where we will leave the horses and step onto the ice. I have very little illusions as to what we will encounter, and so I take it in step.

***

Eldgos leads with a steady but unhurried pace down the country lanes, as if she knows where we are heading but is oblivious to the great distance to come. Ingrid and I slowly drift back until our companions are in the distance. Feeling her deep, full breaths beneath me as she warms up into a light sweat, I shift in the saddle and plait a clump of her auburn hair.

As a child I would ride most days, exploring the goat tracks and thick rainforest on my childhood farm. I had a young palomino with a bad habit of bolting home. Often I would be left in the dirt and forced to walk back to the stables where the hot-blooded steed would be waiting impatiently for me. Already this journey feels like a reconnection, not just to the art of riding but also these memories. The recollection of moving slowly through a landscape.

Often Eldgos comes to an abrupt stop, smelling the air. This becomes an almost rhythmic occurrence and is always followed by a herd of wild and unruly horses materialising out of a far valley. Long, flowing manes flaring as the herd bucks and plays, darting towards the fence line to greet our two heavily laden horses.

Atop our horses, it seems Dad and I are completely invisible to these herds, merely baggage as the conversation of snorts and whinnies ensues. Once greetings and profanities – I cannot tell the difference – have been exchanged, both Eldgos and Ingrid turn simultaneously and resume southward.

The punishing wind has subsided and a cool breeze flows down the valley. Our corridor inland is flanked by imposing walls. As the sun orbits low in the sky it sweeps the valley clear, covering us in a warm, golden light. We ride through fields of hveiti (wheat) and bygg (barley) so deep the horses crane their necks to see the path ahead. Breeze ripples through the fields like an ocean swell, causing the crop to bend and sway. My eyes follow a gust as it enters the field, plunging into the grain then rising to form a crest that rolls like a breaker. As it passes by I close my eyes, listening to the faint chatter it produces.

Days move along imperceptibly, conjoining into a single refined memory. As if it is the same day viewed from different angles. Ahead I can hear faint chatter; Dad and Eldgos are deep in conversation. As for me and Ingrid, not much is said throughout the day, but I think all is understood.

Our pace is defined by our horses. At lunch we lie in the lush grass as Eldgos and Ingrid graze. Dad and I take joy in seeing their personalities begin to shine through. Eldgos is curious and brave; she uses her large and dexterous lips to feel and play with things around camp. Ingrid is spotted and quieter, staying by Eldgos’s side.

Every day Eldgos confidently leads out in the front. When we come to obstacles, be it a river or steep embankment, she asks no questions in pushing straight through. I try to encourage Ingrid to take the lead from time to time but she stubbornly refuses.

In the evenings they both roll on the cold ground, and occasionally let us lie with them while we rest between rides. It becomes apparent that both horses have seen very little of the world we are passing through. There is a mutual bewilderment as we plod closer to the rising Highlands.

Often Dad and I chat in the afternoon. In the last year we have been fortunate enough to explore some of the most remote and isolated corners of our planet together: Antarctica, Patagonia, the South Pacific. As we sit in the long grass I feel an immense gratitude for how we have grown together. We recount the absurdity of the last year, which inevitably leaves us pondering the absurdity of the last week. I explain that it is often hard to describe to people why I feel compelled to explore – hard to justify the risk. He laughs, then says, ‘They will likely never understand, and that’s OK. I think what really fuels me these days is less the danger or the accolades, more the art of doing old things in a new way… and that’s the only way I can describe it.’

Over the next few days, the valley constricts and the road simultaneously deteriorates into a steep gravel path. Crystal clear water flows down the bending ravine, pooling before churning into a wash. Tributaries streak down surrounding walls. I remark that they look like finely drawn veins, pumping life into the world below.

Apart from the river’s commotion, the land is quiet and still. Clouds of mist cloak us periodically as we push higher and higher. In lulls, one can see far into the distance and make out isolated white spots on the ridges. Soon the shepherds will come to collect these lone sheep and guide them back to the valley in preparation for the harsh winter. One can’t help but wonder what compels an animal to leave its flock and venture so far afield. As we enter a series of switchbacks, the last of the green pasture disappears below us and I can only assume that Ingrid is thinking a similar thought.

***

Rising out of the sand like tectonic monoliths, the ice caps of the Icelandic Highlands kneel in the volcanic desert. If it wasn’t for the scars marking their edges, they’d give the impression of unreachability – like an ice planet rising on the horizon. Even from a great distance, large black streaks in the ice disclose their decaying state. My impression of them shifts. Although no less beautiful, they have suddenly assumed mortality.

Ingrid’s feet sink in the deep volcanic sand. We crest a dune and drop down the other side. The Sprengisandur, or ‘exploding sand’, is a remarkable place. From afar it seems arid and lifeless, an endless labyrinth of black volcanic dunes. But as we ride I notice that life persists even in this inhospitable landscape. Luminous moss creeps across the valley floor, dainty flowers sprout in the jagged rock fields, and glacial rivers carve the landscape in all directions.

A powerful weather system pushes in, colliding with the cold dense air flowing off Hofsjökull. We spend the afternoon battling a strong headwind and intermittent snow flurries. Eventually the undulating land descends into a protected valley. In the distance we make out geothermal steam rising into the sky.

In the late afternoon we reach Laugafell – a hot-spring oasis in the Central Highlands. Dad removes his cap and flashes me a smile as we near the springs. The miles we have travelled become apparent, materialising in a deep-set exhaustion across his face. Unsaddled, Ingrid and Eldgos chew on the short, sweet grass around the scattered huts. It’s clear that they prefer this to the hay they have had for the last few days. As the sun sets, Dad and I soak in the warm geothermal spring, letting the sulphurous water wash the grime and soreness from our bodies.

Our daily mileage is split between riding and walking beside our horses. Atop Ingrid I can see far into the distance. I know that Vatnajökull will come into sight within the next few days, but I can’t disarm the feeling that we are stationary in this unmoving sprawl. As we push south my mind wanders. Thoughts come and go in a colliding fashion, dragging me far away as my feet stay firmly planted in the stirrups.

Ingrid and I arrive at a wonderful rhythm. Each day is received and explored in full. At night violent sandstorms push through the Highlands and the sky is painted green by the Aurora. We skirt the eastern flank of Hofsjökull and soon cross the island’s divide, rivers begin flowing south toward the Atlantic.

Our final day of riding sees us arrive at the red-roofed huts of Nýidalur, below the rising foothills of Vatnajökull. This is as far as our horses will accompany us. We turn them out into a small stable where they will be looked after, and they look bewildered as we lay out hay on the trodden ground. Each day they accompanied us with determination and spirit, yet with no knowledge of how many days, weeks, or months this journey might last. I admire this as we get them settled in their accommodation, talking with the caretaker and arranging when we will return.

Ingrid and Eldgos stand shoulder to shoulder, hard pressed against the fence, eyes tracking us as we say final farewells. ‘We’ll be back very soon, I promise.’ They look doubtful. ‘Be kind to one another. OK?’

***

Days later. A gust glides over the broken landscape atop Vatnajökull, closing the distance. The wall of air slams against me as I step out of our flattened tent. The gale is deafening. Gust upon gust rip through with concussive force. My ears ring and any exposed skin immediately begins to burn. Spindrift hovers high above me. I feel as if I am lying at the bottom of a flowing torrent. An orb-like sun shines down, illuminating the airborne snow and giving it the radiance of fine particles of gold.

What comes next? I reflect on this while Dad packs up the last of his kit inside the tent. More than a grand adventure, Project Zero has been a season of exploration. A meditation on our planet as an intrinsic whole. We began this odyssey to ask questions about the state of our world, and face our responsibility for its degradation and maltreatment. This planet was created from the slow defiant march of vast forces. Our realisation – that the future of life on this planet will be marked by the very same unceasing defiance – bestows a grand insight. That in the face of irreversible change, a silent rebellion emerges throughout the natural world, the scale of which is largely incomprehensible.

Dropping our tattered shelter in the remnants of the passing storm, our journey has come to an abrupt end – we just need to get out of here alive. Methodically, we begin to unearth our equipment and pack our sleds. We move down the glacier, gently probing our way through the maze of open crevasses. Occasionally we are forced to jump across these tears in the ice. As I do so I see the flash of darkness below; it intrigues me how one can simply leap over certain death. Carefully I drag my sled across the chasm, grabbing the line with my mitts.

After a frigid night – possibly one of the coldest of both our careers – it feels invigorating to be moving. I see the valley below materialise. Warmth begins to return to my extremities, warm blood pushing into the tips of my fingers and toes. Life persisting against the harshest extremes.

First published in Sidetracked Volume 31