Day 30 – Somewhere on the 917 to Fáskrúðsfjörður

My goal today was a rest day in the largest town on the east coast of Iceland, Egilsstaðir ( keeping in mind that we are still talking about a place with half the population of Katanning).

The smooth flat ride out of the river plain came to a sudden stop as I met up with the ring road and a very steep hill. As I peaked this hill I was rewarded with a view of the rainy road ahead of me and wondered if I should just hide somewhere and wait for it to all go away. I pressed on regardless, and was soon in the bustling town of Egilsstaðir. I popped by the rather large campsite for a light lunch, gawped at their ridiculous campsite prices (including $1.30 AUD to use the toilets), then went back into town to do some shopping at the only Bonus store on the east coast. At the store I bumped into a group of cyclists who were just starting their trip. Two young couples, both from Quebec. I immediately noticed that we had some philosophical differences in how we approached bicycle touring. I had a heavy, steel monster that was closer to truck than bicycle. They were on carbon road bikes with lightweight rear panniers and a trailer. My haul from the supermarket consisted mostly of pasta, soup packets and a few apples and other assorted snacks. Their haul was a large shopping trolley full of real people foods, a whole host of vegetables, sauces, condiments and meat. As they desperately searched for places to stash the absurd amount of bulky food they had purchased, I discovered that they were heading in the same direction as me, down the coast of the east fjords. As much as I wanted a rest day, I had not had the opportunity to do a group ride so I was determined to tough it out for another 50km or so. The group was happy to have me and we set out into the mountains.

The wind was quite bad, and we were soon heading up a gradual but never ending slope, with the narrow mountains of the fjords surrounding us. The group faltered here or there, and I have to admit that it was a relief to see another cyclist struggle on the same hill as me. I generally only met cyclists at campsites, and they all seemed to talk about climbs in such a relaxed manner that in my mind I was the one cyclist in Iceland doing switchbacks on the lowest gear up every steep hill while the rest were zipping up at 20km/h and wondering what the fuss about the wind was all about. Here I saw these young men on carbon road bikes with racing tyres get off and walk up hills that I managed to tackle, if slowly. They had initially powered ahead of me on the flats, but by the time we reached the sea and our first tunnel I was pulling ahead at a good pace. By the time I pulled out of the tunnel I had a good 5 minute lead. Plenty of time to let the heart rate go down and act like it was no big deal. This was our destination, Fáskrúðsfjörður. As the group caught up I filled them in on the finer details of wild camping and said my goodbyes, as I was planning on spending a bit of time in town to charge my phone and have supper.

The rules are pretty simple. They are as follows:

1. No motor vehicles
2. Don’t camp next to someones house
3. Don’t wild camp when there is a campsite nearby
4. Don’t camp in someone’s cultivated field

Rule number 3 proved a bit tricky for the Quebecians, because as I rolled back out of the campsite I immediately spotted 2 bright blue tents poorly concealed in a shallow trench just off the road where I had left them.

I had no intention of stopping while there was still a bit of daylight left, so I continued on following the coast for another 20 kilometres before finding a tranquil spot to camp near a large river.