Sneffels rose more than five thousand feet above the land. It was the end of a long chain of volcanic mountains, and its two sharp peaks made it look very different from the other mountains of Iceland.
From where we stood, however, we could not see its true shape. The gray sky hid the summit, and all we could make out was a huge white dome hanging above us.
I felt strangely frightened.
Now that we had actually begun the journey, I could no longer pretend that our adventure was only a crazy idea. We were really going to climb Sneffels, enter its crater, and follow the path that Arne Saknussemm had supposedly taken into the earth.
Hans walked in front of us.
He moved with the same calm expression he always had. The three Icelanders followed him, while my uncle and I came behind.
The path was so narrow that we had to walk in single file. There was no room to walk side by side, so conversation was impossible.
That was probably just as well. We had plenty of time to think and admire the strange landscape around us.
After passing the enormous basalt wall near Stapi, we entered a region covered with thick layers of turf. Only a little grass grew here and there.
This turf was the remains of an ancient swamp vegetation. In some places, the deposits were more than seventy feet thick. Layer after layer of black, burned-looking material could be seen, separated by thin lines of porous sandstone.
There was something magnificent about the landscape, but it was also terribly dry and empty.
Despite my fears, I could not stop studying the rocks around me. As Professor Hardwigg’s nephew, I had always been interested in geology, and Iceland was like one enormous natural museum.
As I walked, I began thinking about how this strange island had been formed.
Iceland must have risen from the sea relatively recently. Perhaps, like some coral islands in the Pacific, it was even still rising very slowly.
If that was true, then its existence could only be explained by the enormous forces of fire beneath the earth.
That thought suddenly made me very happy.
“If Iceland was created by underground fire,” I thought, “then my uncle’s theory must be wrong!”
I smiled to myself.
“Goodbye, Sir Humphry Davy’s theory. Goodbye, Arne Saknussemm and his mysterious parchment. Goodbye, my uncle’s grand plans!”
“If the whole island was formed by volcanic forces, then there is no way we can travel through the earth’s interior. Our expedition will end in failure!”
I became so pleased with this idea that I started examining the ground even more carefully.
Iceland had no ordinary sedimentary soil. It was made almost entirely of volcanic material—tufa, stones, and porous rocks.
Long before the volcanoes appeared, the island had apparently been formed from a huge mass of hard rock that slowly rose from the sea.
At that time, the underground fires had not yet broken through the earth’s crust.
Later, however, a gigantic crack must have opened across the island, running roughly from southwest to northeast.
Through this enormous opening, molten material slowly poured out.
The eruption was not necessarily violent. Vast quantities of molten rock spread across the land, forming wide, level areas and low rounded hills.
During this period, rocks such as feldspar, syenite, and porphyry were formed.
The island continued to grow thicker, and enormous quantities of gases became trapped beneath its crust.
Eventually, the pressure became too great.
The gases forced their way upward through the heavy crust, creating enormous shafts and openings.
That was how the volcanoes were born.
Then came the craters at their summits.
First came the great eruptions that formed the island. Then came the volcanic activity that shaped its mountains.
The basalt covering the plain around us had once been thrown out through these openings. We were now walking across enormous dark-gray rocks that had cooled into six-sided columns.
Far away, I could see several flattened cones. They were probably the remains of ancient volcanoes.
Later, when the basaltic eruptions had finally weakened, the volcanoes released enormous streams of lava, along with ashes and pumice. These materials covered the mountain slopes like wild hair thrown over the shoulders of some ancient dancer.
There was the whole history of Iceland before my eyes.
Everything seemed to point toward one conclusion: the island had been created by the fierce heat inside the earth.
And if that was true, the earth’s interior must still contain an enormous mass of molten, white-hot material.
“So,” I concluded triumphantly, “trying to travel into the earth is complete madness!”
This little scientific argument with myself made me feel much better.
I was convinced that our expedition could not possibly succeed.
With my fears temporarily forgotten, I marched toward old Sneffels like a soldier charging an enemy fortress.
But the mountain soon began to make us pay for our confidence.
The path became rougher and more dangerous.
The rocks shifted beneath our feet, and we had to move carefully to avoid falling.
Hans remained completely calm.
He walked across the broken ground as easily as if he were strolling across a flat field.
Sometimes enormous rocks hid him from view, and we would lose sight of him completely.
Then we would hear a sharp whistle.
That was his way of telling us where he was.
From time to time, Hans stopped to pick up pieces of rock and arrange them into little piles beside the path.
He was marking our route so that we could find our way back.
“That’s a sensible precaution,” I thought.
He had no idea just how unnecessary those markers would turn out to be.
After three hours of exhausting travel, we finally reached the foot of the great mountain.
That alone gave me a good idea of how much climbing still lay ahead.
Suddenly Hans stopped and signaled that we should rest.
A simple breakfast was spread out on the lava.
My uncle was now completely absorbed in the expedition. He was so eager to continue that he swallowed his food almost without chewing.
But Hans insisted that we rest.
For once, Professor Hardwigg had no choice but to obey.
The three Icelanders ate and drank quietly. They hardly spoke at all.
After our short rest, we began climbing the slopes of Sneffels.
The great white cap on the summit seemed surprisingly close.
But appearances were deceiving.
I knew that many long, exhausting hours still separated us from the top.
The mountain was covered with loose stones. There was no soil or vegetation holding them together.
Whenever we stepped on them, they slid away beneath our feet and raced down the slope like miniature avalanches.
In some places the mountain was so steep that climbing straight upward was impossible.
We had to move sideways and search for another route around the obstacles.
Anyone familiar with mountain climbing can imagine what we went through.
We often had to help one another with our climbing poles.
My uncle stayed close beside me.
He never allowed me to get far away from him, and many times he gave me his arm when I needed support.
He was remarkably strong and seemed almost immune to exhaustion.
He also had an excellent sense of balance. He rarely slipped, even on the most dangerous ground.
The Icelanders were carrying heavy loads, yet they climbed with the skill and speed of experienced mountaineers.
I kept looking toward the summit.
“How are we ever going to reach that?” I wondered.
The slope seemed almost impossible to climb.
Fortunately, after another hour of brutal effort, we reached a huge field of ice surrounding the base of the volcanic cone.
The Icelanders called it the “tablecloth.”
The name reminded me of Table Mountain and Table Bay in South Africa.
To our surprise, we discovered something even more useful—a natural staircase made of stone.
It was another product of the volcano.
During some ancient eruption, a tremendous stream of rocks had been thrown down the mountain. The Icelanders called this kind of rock flow stina.
If the shape of the mountain had not stopped it, the entire mass might have continued into the sea and perhaps formed new islands.
For us, however, it was extremely useful.
The slope became even steeper, but the rough stone steps gave us a way upward.
They were almost as difficult as the steps of the Egyptian pyramids, but at least they made the climb possible.
By about seven in the evening, we had climbed roughly two thousand of these natural steps.
At last, we reached a large projection of the mountain—a kind of rocky platform supporting the true volcanic cone above it.
Far below us lay the ocean.
It was more than three thousand two hundred feet beneath our feet.
The sight was magnificent.
We had finally entered the region of eternal snow.
The cold was fierce.
The wind howled around us with tremendous force.
I was completely exhausted.
My uncle looked at me and immediately understood that I could go no farther.
My legs were shaking, and I had nothing left in me.
Even Professor Hardwigg’s impatience could not overcome the situation.
He finally sighed and decided that we should stop.
He called Hans over.
Hans shook his head.
“Ofvanfor.”
My uncle looked miserable.
“It seems we have to climb higher.”
He turned to Hans.
“Why?”
Hans answered with one word.
“Mistour.”
“Yes, mistour!” one of the Icelandic guides suddenly cried in a frightened voice.
It was the first time he had spoken.
I stared at him.
“What does that mysterious word mean?”
My uncle pointed downward.
“Look.”
I looked toward the plain below.
A gigantic column of dust was rising into the sky.
It was made of powdered pumice, sand, and fine volcanic dust. The whole thing looked like an enormous waterspout rising from the ground.
I had seen pictures of similar whirlwinds in the Sahara.
The wind was pushing it directly toward us.
The cloud blocked the sunlight and cast a huge shadow over the mountain.
If it reached us, we would be crushed beneath the stones and dust.
This phenomenon was common when strong winds swept across glaciers and dry plains.
The Icelanders called it a mistour.
Hans suddenly shouted.
“Hastigt! Hastigt!”
I did not understand Danish, but I understood his gestures perfectly.
“Quick! Move!”
Hans turned and began climbing toward the back of the crater.
The route was slightly higher but safer.
We followed him as quickly as our exhausted bodies allowed.
About fifteen minutes later, Hans stopped and signaled for us to look back.
The enormous whirlwind was spreading up the mountain.
It was moving directly toward the place where we had planned to rest.
Huge stones were being lifted into the air and thrown around as violently as rocks during a volcanic eruption.
Fortunately, we were just outside the main path of the wind.
We were safe.
Without Hans’s knowledge and quick decision, our bodies would have been smashed and scattered across the mountain.
Hans still did not consider it safe to spend the night on the exposed slope.
So we continued climbing, moving back and forth in a zigzag pattern.
Only fifteen hundred feet remained between us and the summit.
Yet those fifteen hundred feet took us five terrible hours.
Because of all the twists, turns, dead ends, and detours, the short distance became the equivalent of several miles.
I had never experienced such misery.
I was exhausted, freezing, and desperately hungry.
The thin air made every breath painful.
At last, I felt as though I could not take another step.
It was about eleven o’clock at night.
The sky had become completely dark.
Then, suddenly, we reached the summit of Mount Sneffels.
We had made it.
I was so exhausted that I could hardly stand.
Yet before descending into the crater where we would spend the night, I stopped and looked around.
Then I saw something extraordinary.
At midnight, in the middle of summer, the sun was rising.
Its pale, ghostly light spread across the sleeping island far below us.
I stood there in silence, completely overwhelmed by the sight.
At last, I understood why travelers were willing to journey all the way from England to Norway just to witness this strange and magical spectacle.