Transfixed in Iceland
Boat tours of Jokulsarlon lagoon offer up-close encounters with nation’s icebergs
It’s probably the oldest thing you’ll ever taste,” suggests Jokulsarlon lagoon guide Sebastien Beuffre, encouraging our eager group of adventurers to bite into a foot-long shard of glacial ice.
With Beuffre at the stern and a Glacier Lagooncompany captain at the wheel, we are a group of 25 people gently trailing the waters of this legendary lagoon in a small, amphibian boat, our bright orange life jackets making a bold statement against Iceland’s ashen sky.
“Not all the tourists want to taste the ice actually,” says Beuffre when asked about the flavour feedback he’s received from samplers of the 1,000-year-old snack. “When they do, they usually say something like, ‘it would taste better in a glass of whiskey.’ ”
Here on Iceland’s southeastern coast, taste is not the only sense that’s tantalized. Unpredictable weather patterns and a diverse ecosystem give way to hypnotizing yellows, greens and silvers that seem alien to the human spectrum. But the most supernatural sight here in the Jokulsarlon lagoon is a fleet of startlingly blue icebergs — jagged and majestic jewels that are numerous, glowing and impossible to ignore.
“Here we have the blue ice because the compact ice from deep below can’t absorb the blue colours,” says Beuffre, pointing to the lake’s 300-metre depth. “It’s the only colour on the spectrum water can’t absorb, so it’s being reflected back up to us.”
“There are whites too,” he continues. “When the iceberg has been exposed for a certain time to the sunlight, the ice turns white because the heat burns the ice, lets the oxygen get in and it loses its blue shade.”
Noticeable, too, are black, ashy streaks across the icebergs, transforming many of the formations into what look to be enormous swirl candies of the blueberry-licorice variety. Serving as a reminder that we are in the land of fire and ice, Beuffre explains that these markings are the aftermath of volcanic eruption.
“Here we are at the tongue of a glacier called Breidamerkurjokull, an outlet and very small part of Vatnajokull, which covers a number of active volcanoes,” says Beuffre, whose speech is interrupted briefly by the appearance of a curious seal on the boat’s left side.
We find out as we glide through this natural sculpture gallery that the lake we are traversing is a byproduct of Iceland’s mightiest glacier, which spans roughly 8,100 square kilometres and is recognized as the largest glacial mass in Europe. But the magnificent beauty of Vatnajokull and its resulting landscape is said to be falling away.
Rising temperatures and changes in precipitation have meant that this ancient ice cap has receded, and continues to recede, rapidly.
“Oh my god, look,” shouts one of the boat’s passengers, pointing ahead to a scene that suddenly upstages all others that surround us. Not a kilometre away from our boat, one of the largest of the icebergs in our line of vision has begun to rock slowly back and forth in the water, as if cradled by an invisible giant.
Captivated, silenced and momentarily terrified, we are each transfixed as the massive, moving entity violently splits off into different sections, allowing gargantuan shards of ice to boom into the water with an explosion per landing. After a few cries of shock are finally released from the frozen lungs of passengers, Beuffre tells us that while the ice here is shifting constantly, seeing a spectacle of this magnitude is rare.
“Every single morning when we arrive at the lagoon, the set up is really different,” he says. “Some icebergs are gone, some have moved much closer to the bridge, some remain unchanged. There’s mystery to it.”
As we head back to shore, I’m reminded of a conversation I had the day before with a woman named Hjordis Skirnisdottir, a 63-year-old glacier expert who said she had lived in the southeastern countryside all her life.
“I have seen the glacier for my 50-plus years, and I can see the difference very well,” she had said, adding that Icelanders are solemnly aware of the changes their country is facing. “When I was a child it was very popular to take people to this place because it was something unique. At the moment it creates many opportunities because people like the views, but what will you see here after 50 years?”
It’s been said that within the next century, only a fjord will remain here in Jokulsarlon lagoon. No ice will be left, just water and sand.
“The few people that comment usually say that it tastes like nothing,” says Beuffre, still holding the block in his gloved hands, ready to be chomped. “The fact that it’s really neutral to them might be a sign that the water is really pure.”
I watch a crisp, clear wave wash swiftly over the darkness of the black sand nearby and take a hefty bite. Liz Beddall (travel@thestar.ca) was hosted by Icelandair, which did not review or approve this story.