(MIS)ADVENTURES IN ICELAND
Piece of cake. Or so I thought, until our day-one hike turned out to be a 13-kilometre forced march across a volcanic field strewn with boulders and scree, followed by a rope-assisted climb up the side of a dormant volcano. I was limping on the way back to the van.
I bonded with a woman from the U.K. who was on a waiting list for a hip replacement and had booked the trip with the same expectations. We both spent a lot of time at the bottom of cliffs, taking photos of the rest of the group clambering up them to get the best views.
Unfortunately, there was little time to recover because there is not a lot to do in Iceland except hike. I spent evenings icing my knee and popping ibuprofen. Jane:
I loved our trip to Iceland! With no knee issues, I was happy to hike all day, but I felt wretched on one coastal hike, amid hundreds of puffins — even though I’m a bird lover.
That’s because of the meal we had earlier in the trip. The director of the tour company kindly hosted us for dinner at a restaurant in Reykjavik famed for its traditional Icelandic delicacies.
I’ll eat anything once, and I felt doubly obliged to try everything because our host was so enthusiastic about introducing me to his native cuisine.
A platter arrived at our table with smoked puffin, reindeer pate, hakarl (fermented Greenland shark), minke whale sashimi and fin whale cured in herbs.
I recoiled inwardly and wished there was a dog under the table.
The puffin looked like raw liver. The shark — traditionally buried in the ground for about six weeks to ferment, then hung to dry — is an acquired taste, likely acquired only by Icelanders.
It tasted like stinky old cheese with an ammonia aftertaste. Not even washing it down with Brennivin, the local schnapps, helped.
The late food guru Anthony Bourdain called it the “single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing” he had ever eaten. I agree.
And then when I saw the puffins on our hike, I cringed. I apologized for nibbling on one of their cousins while I took their photos.
Joanne:
Golden is a pretty little town in southeastern B.C. with lots to do when the weather co-operates. But when it’s early spring and pouring cold rain non-stop, opportunities for fun and adventure dry up.
I had three days in Golden to research a newspaper story that was supposed to include at least five different experiences for visitors.
My first day there dawned cold and overcast. I crossed my fingers as I headed to the small municipal airport for what I expected to be the highlight of my trip, my first-ever tandem skydive.
Suited up and with my heart pounding, we soared over the countryside until the pilot announced that the cloud cover prevented him from getting up high enough for a tandem jump. My adrenalin evaporated on the flight back down.
Then my bird-watching boat tour was cancelled because it was too cold and wet. Kayaking was also nixed. An ATV trip went ahead, but by the end I was shivering and caked in mud from head to toe.
Desperate for something to write about, I insisted on visiting Boo, an orphaned grizzly bear, at his 20-hectare refuge halfway up the hill at Kicking Horse Mountain Resort. What I didn’t realize is that I’d have to take an open chairlift to get there.
I was soaked to the skin by the time I arrived, and then I had to get back on the lift to go to a restaurant at the top of the mountain for lunch with a resort representative. It wasn’t raining there — it was snowing.
A waitress took pity on me and brought me towels to wrap myself in while I waited for my dining companion. Lunch was followed by a hot bath back in my room, which I couldn’t write about either.
It tasted like stinky old cheese with an ammonia aftertaste. Not even washing it down with Brennivin, the local schnapps, helped.