Iceland: Defining ‘expedition’ with a little help from Colonel Sanders

I view kayaking as a convenient way to sample KFC around the globe. I must have sampled eleven secret herbs and spices in four continents. Easily over twenty countries. Despite my best efforts, I have struggled to find KFC which can match ours. In the USA, I am presented with watery mash; in Pakistan, with chicken so dry that I’d be pretty miffed with America too.

For reasons which I will explain, this practise has recently led me to question myself: If I am never more than a long drive a way from a Zinger Tower, have I ever really been on an expedition? Well, I suppose that depends on your definition. There was a recent thread on UKRGB which discussed, at length, the difference between an expedition and a holiday. It’s amusing that in our minds, the two ideas are incomparably different yet there is no functional way of telling them apart.

When I woke up at 3.30am, I thought to myself that the next three hours before my alarm was supposed to ring were going to be hilarious, later. This could only mean that they were going to be horrible. My down sleeping bag, zip broken and now completely saturated clung to me like a bin-bag full of cod. My clothes, which were already wet, lay in a puddle beside me. A wet dog sprawled on my feet, snoring. Vango festival tents, it appears, are not suitable for Icelandic storms. For the next three hours I would sit, wait and think. I also cried a bit.

Before we set off. Ignorance is bliss.

Friðrik ‘Frikki’ Garðarsson, Chris Griffiths, Dan Rea-Dickins and I had hiked for over 6 hours along the banks of Hamersá, a river which doesn’t waste very much time between a glacier and the eastern fjords of Iceland. We followed sheep trails which were the only discernible tracks once the off-road trail had ended. An agile 4×4 of the animal kingdom, sheep seem to favour scree slopes and overhangs. Humans, who are generally more suited to Segways and travelators, tend to struggle. Skúli, an experienced local reindeer guide who was still somehow alive after five or more decades, had earlier reminded us that we would most likely only be evacuated in body bags.

Even before the fog had set in, we had seen enough waterfalls to know that we were somewhere special; a kayaking paradise. Having already assured countless people that this was the case, Frikki was impressed. When we did get round to paddling it, the Hamersá was a phenomenal day out and we didn’t even nearly complete it. Countless waterfalls hid behind the colossal walls above our put in.

Dan on the Hamersá.

But was this an expedition? Well, it depends on your definition. It didn’t involve any frostbite, shipwrecks, missing fingers or quiet walks into the night. If we would have really needed it, we could have had a KFC. In Iceland, KFC is of an excellent standard. But in those three hours, the worst night’s sleep of my life, I came up with my own definition:

“An expedition is much more fun once it’s finished.”

James
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I again would like to thank Frikki: Expedition kayaker, doctor and somehow still a kayak bum, for an unforgettable adventure. Also thanks to Dan Rea-Dickins for organising us and carrying an excessively large camera.

Frikki on Fossá. They should call it ‘waterfall river’ or something.