Iceapelago Page 5

  ‘That’s great,’ whispered Judith to her friend.

  Damian suspected that she had taken a big shine to him. After seven years as a professional mountain guide on La Palma his rugged looks, tanned physique and Roman nose seemed to attract the more active twenty-something young women that preferred mountain hiking to sunny beaches.

  ‘All set?’

  He didn’t need a response. They all had the full gear: long trousers to dissuade the mosquitos and ticks, faces well protected with high factor sun cream, the latest designer backpacks with multiple pockets for water containers and maps, army-standard walking boots, thick socks, light rain-proof jackets, gloves, bottles of filtered water, wide-brimmed hats – some declaring support for their football team, self-adjusting alpine walking poles, cameras – many with DLSR features, and essentials such as food, insect repellent and sun block. A small army duly provisioned.

  ‘Any more questions?’

  No more needed to be said. The walkers had done their own homework. They all had maps and knew what conditions to expect. They were in a state of eager anticipation.

  Damian’s company, Palma Walks, a family business, had grown to become one of the most popular on the island. Consistent high ratings with Trip Advisor, not unrelated to his very sociable personality, provided Damian and his business partner and fellow guide, Margarida, with a good living during the nine-month tourist season. What Judith and his other female admirers didn’t realise was that they were happily married.

  Before they got on the coach, he phoned Margarida on his mobile. She was leading a large group of twenty German walkers who were staying in self-catering casitas near the southern coast.

  ‘Cherie, we’re doing the south Ruta trek today,’ said Damian. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Cherie’ was his pet name for Margarida: a term of endearment. He rarely called her by her Christian name unless he was grumpy or had something urgent or important to communicate.

  ‘My group is not as fit as yours,’ replied Margarida. ‘So, I’m taking them around the base of the Caldera de Taburiente. They seem more interested in fauna and flora than walking over rocks and lava. We’ll be on the move within the hour. I expect we’ll be able to join you for a late lunch at the lighthouse at Fuencaliente.’

  ‘Weather conditions appear to be stable, so I expect it will be a routine day,’ said Damian.

  ‘See you for an early Aperol around three o’clock. Ciao.’

  The one weakness Damian and Margarida shared was their daily treat of Aperol. The Italian aperitif made from bitter and sweet oranges was quite nice on its own. When local Cava was added, the worries of the day disappeared after a few glasses.

  What a wonderful woman thought Damian. He was blessed that the love of his life shared his passion for walking, photography and good wine.

  The coach reached the car park at the Volcán San Antonio Visitors’ Centre just after 9 a.m. as the facility was opening to the general public. As Damian did with all groups about the set off on a mountain walk, he called them together beside the coach.

  ‘Let’s assemble in the café of the Visitors’ Centre so that I can brief you in more detail. Our starting point is just to the left side of the Centre. I can’t start a walk without my obligatory double espresso!’

  ‘What should we expect today, Damian?’ asked Judith, who was clearly keen to get started.

  Damian knew that this walk was one of the most popular, but also one of the most challenging given the steep descent of over a thousand metres to their final destination, the abandoned lighthouse at Faro de Fuencaliente. He dunked his ginger biscuit into the bitter tasting coffee as he eyed the eager group, who ranged from their late teens to a couple who had just retired.

  ‘The hike is over seven kilometres long. Given that you all seem quite fit and managed the Caldera de Taburiente valley trek yesterday without a bother, it should be manageable within four hours. The good news is that there is a great restaurant at the Faro – that’s Spanish for lighthouse by the way – so we can have a late lunch once we arrive. As I explained back in the hotel, we’ll trek up to the peak of the Volcán San Antonio first. From the viewing platform you will get stunning views of the south side of the island, including the vineyards and banana plantations of Las Indias at sea level.’

  ‘Is this an active volcano?’ Judith continued.

  ‘No, it last erupted in 1677. The only damage it did was that the lava buried the revered holy spring of Fuenta Santa that flowed out at the lighthouse. This spring is believed to be the origin of the name Fuencaliente (hot spring).’

  ‘Alright,’ said Judith.

  ‘The walk to the observation deck is narrow and it will be windy, so we’ll need to be careful. If any of you have vertigo this walk will test how bad it is.’

  The group managed the short side trip in under thirty minutes. There were a few heart flutters as strong winds lashed the sides of the steep volcano walls and buffeted the walkers on the two-metre-wide path along the rim to the observation deck at the top of Volcán San Antonio. As Damian had predicted braving the vertiginous path was rewarded by stunning scenery. Their cameras and videos captured the vista along the sheer slopes of the western escarpment down to the town of Puerto Naos.

  They re-assembled at the Visitors’ Centre café. Many had a precautionary rest break before descending the GR131. There were no toilets on the Ruta.

  The first part of the descent wasn’t easy. It tested everyone’s fitness and dexterity. The alpine poles provided balance over the uneven path down irregular steps. The path that started to the left of the car park comprised ash dust that had the consistency of soft sand over a base of jagged and stepped volcanic rocks. Within twenty minutes they had descended 300 metres. They stopped to gather their collective breath. More selfies were taken.

  Four walkers, French from their accents, arrived from the opposite direction and started without hesitation up the steep path back towards the Visitors’ Centre.

  ‘Good decision Damian to suggest we go down and not up,’ said Judith. ‘They must be exhausted having hiked up from the lighthouse at sea level.’

  ‘They look fit enough,’ replied Damian. ‘That said, mistakes are usually made when legs are tired and when calves ache. Let’s go. The next section is along a flattish track that 4x4s can use.’

  The group didn’t need any encouragement. Once told what to do they sauntered off in single file. There were short stops, more photo opportunities, as the scenery was quite unlike what they had experienced over the past days. The desert-like terrain had no tree cover and there were numerous cinder cones speckled with isolated bushes that somehow managed to survive in these exposed harsh conditions.

  ‘We’ll divert down here. It is a short cut to the Roques de Tenenguia. This hunk of rock is not large but is a prominent landmark.’ said Damian. ‘It’s ideal for all you camera enthusiasts.’

  Many photos later they re-joined the GR131 and zigzagged over a narrow ash path in the direction of Volcán de Teneguia. Damian halted the group a hundred metres in front of the volcano. At this stage they had been walking for just under two hours.

  ‘Anyone interested in climbing a volcano? Not everyone will be able, but those of you who are can climb the stupendously high left-hand narrow rim of the island’s most recent volcano. The deep brown colour rocks may be pretty, but they still emit hot gases.’

  ‘Are you sure it is safe?’ Judith asked – another obvious question.

  ‘Absolutely. This volcano has been inactive since it erupted in November 1971. Two vents along a 300-metre fissure emitted lava to a depth of 12 metres in some places. The eruption ceased abruptly.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Judith.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. The lava flows stopped a few hundred metres away on this side of the mountain, see the limit of the brown ridges over there, but flowed down to the sea –
so much so that over two square kilometres of lava were added to the island. It was a short eruption that lasted a few days. Only one person was killed. A fisherman who inhaled the sulphur gases. Since then nada.’

  As they were fidgeting with their provisions, it was clear to Damian the group had limited interest in volcanoes.

  ‘OK, let’s have our picnic here. We’re more than half-way to our final destination.’

  Many sandwiches, protein bars and apples later, and all rubbish carefully returned to the rucksacks, the group descended past one of the secondary craters and onwards to a somewhat level pathway that was carved through the remnants of the 1971 eruption. It was eerie walking in between twenty-metre tall lava pillars. Shortly afterwards the path started its slow but steady descent to the sea.

  ‘A glass of cava for the first person to catch a glimpse of the lighthouse,’ said Damian, in a jest that was designed to lighten the mood and distract attention from heavy legs and ankles under pressure.

  The group was crossing the narrow ridge just beyond Volcán de Teneguia when the first mild tremor started.

  Judith was a few metres directly behind Damian, walking slowly given the rough terrain that passed for a footpath. She screamed. Everyone gasped.

  Damian too was startled. He had never experienced an earthquake, never mind one on a mountain ridge just four metres wide with severe drops on both sides.

  ‘Sit down,’ he shouted. Sit down now,’ he roared. All obeyed, instantly.

  The light gravel around them shimmered and jumped, but no ground shifted. The black ash dust rose slowly and eerily. The track remained stable.

  ‘I know it wasn’t in the brochure, but that was a seismic tremor.’ He smiled with confidence and that seemed to bring about an element of calm.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Judith.

  ‘Just in case there is another aftershock, I suggest we remain seated for a while.’

  On cue, the second tremor arrived. It rolled through in a matter of seconds. There was no panic as they were all seated on the ground and somewhat prepared. Being covered head to toe in a film of black ash didn’t spook them too much. However, they were all clearly apprehensive.

  Dust particles from the gravel track and along its length rose some metres into the air. It was strange to see a hazy cloud of red and orange dust appear and then dissipate in the breeze as if it was instructed to vanish.

  ‘Honestly, this is the first time I’ve ever experienced tremors on the mountain. I’m assuming there may be more aftershocks at some stage.’

  He could see that the group was getting increasingly agitated exposed as they were on the high and open ridge. Initial calm was being replaced by growing apprehension. What had happened began to sink in.

  ‘It’s best that we continue to descend slowly,’ said Damian. ‘It’s less than an hour downhill to the Fuencaliente lighthouse. Once we get off this ridge the track is well defined, wider and far less rocky for the most part. If there is another tremor you know the drill: sit down, keep calm and observe your surroundings.’

  Dusting themselves off, and with determined strides, the group did what they were told. While the small tremors had everyone startled, the landscape around them was stark and remarkable. The trail meandered through a series of undulating small black hills windswept clean. In the far distance the red and white tip of the lighthouse, their end destination, was, figuratively as well as literally, a beacon surrounded by the ocean’s spray.

  When the GR131 met the main road above the lighthouse they abandoned the walking trail for the security of tarmac. There was another gentle tremor when they were two hundred metres from the lighthouse. This caused the group to stop, but as the shaking was barely perceptible a sense of self-preservation took them forward.

  Damian knew Margarida would be at the lighthouse with her group. He was eager to compare notes.

  Margarida’s German group were also taken by surprise. While they were on a small rise in the National Park, the first of the two tremors loosened a lot of ash off the steep banks on both sides of the road they were walking on. The result was an avalanche of black soot that covered everyone and dimmed the sunlight. They panicked and scattered in a disorganised manner. Despite Margarida’s best attempts at keeping them together, instinct kicked in. Without any prompting the group made its way back to the car park in rapid time. They lost their interest in any more walking and once on the coach were not shy in telling Margarida that their holiday was over.

  The two groups ate their pre-booked lunch in shocked silence at the Faro de Fuencaliente ‘El Jardin de la Sal’ Café in front of the red and white lighthouse. They tried to forget what had happened. Bottled water washed down a variety of cheese and ham sandwiches, bananas and fritatas borrowed from the hotel buffet.

  Damian and Margarida sat at their usual table, in a corner out of hearing of their respective clients. They treated themselves to a plate of La Palma soft cheese with coriander and marmalade sauce. The plat du jour was swordfish steak in parsley sauce. The Aperol did the business.

  ‘Claudine phoned me a short time ago.’

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Damian about his niece.

  ‘She and Maria were at their research station when the first seismic reading came in,’ said Margarida. ‘Claudine said that while the tremors were below two on the Richter scale, they were very shallow and as a consequence affected most of the island.’

  ‘Goodness! What next?’ said Damian, puzzled.

  ‘Claudine is in touch with the Rodriquez brothers who are based at the Caldera de Taburiente. They are monitoring seismic activity too, but also unusual sulphur dioxide data. She promised to phone me this evening with an update. Today’s walks are over. We’ll have to do a rain check – or should we call it an ‘ash check’ – tomorrow and maybe in the days ahead. My German group will be on the first flight out of here in the morning, if they can get it.’

  ‘We better get our troops back to their hotels. The buses have arrived.’

  On the short walk to the car park eyes were drawn to the high mountain trail that they had descended not an hour previously. As the tremors had loosened the earth, a deep but low cloud of black and brown ash particles hovered in the air. It still covered the entire width of the mountain to a height of about fifty metres.

  The video cameras were out. What the pictures showed was a weird phenomenon. The dust ascended and descended like a flock of swallows at dusk swirling in thick and varying patterns before the strong winds scattered the evidence.

  Summit Station

  The Summit Station was the only high-altitude, inland, year-round multi-disciplinary observation station devoted to science in the Arctic. The facility was located on the apex of the Greenland Ice Sheet at an altitude of over 3,000 metres.

  Greenland, nearly four times the size of France with just 56,000 inhabitants, is the world’s largest island. Some 95 per cent of the land mass is covered in ice so Greenlanders, mostly native Inuits, as well as a fair share of Danes, whose Government still controls and subsidises large parts of the economy, inhabit the coastal areas. The Inuits, the first Arctic explorers, are hunters, an ice age, ice-adapted people with a boreal culture. Their mind is sharpened by vulnerability. It shows them how to live.

  Ice is what Inuits long for and love. They call their country ‘Kalaallit Nunaat’, the White Earth. Erik the Red, the Viking who was expelled by his family from Iceland in the year 986 had a clear sense of humour when he named the territory ‘Greenland’ in an attempt to persuade his clansmen to migrate and inhabit this new land. The sixth-century Irish monk, Saint Brendan, used an ox hide covered willow boat to search for an island sanctuary far to the west, where he might set up new monasteries. He described his first sighting of an iceberg as ‘a floating crystal castle the colour of a silver veil, yet hard as marble, and the sea around it was smooth as glass and as white as milk.’


  The Summit Station facility was based just inside the southern boundary of the North-East Greenland National Park. Built in 1988 by the USA’s National Science Foundation, initially to house the Greenland Deep Ice Core Project that drilled to the base of the ice sheet far below, its remit expanded over the years and it now supported a wide range of research activities, including meteorology, glaciology, astrophysics and atmospheric chemistry. Senior researchers from Denmark, Norway and many European countries work alongside their US counterparts, all ably assisted by eager young undergraduate students.

  The current summer population was thirty-two. The five permanent residents, hardy souls, the core boys as they called themselves, did two-month rotations throughout the year.

  During the summer months sub-zero temperatures were made worse as strong winds increased the wind chill factor. The Summit Station had long challenged the physical fitness of its research community.

  Access was provided by a Hercules C-130 military-standard aircraft operated by the New York National Guard 109th Airlift Wing. The C-130 transported light equipment, general cargo and personnel from Ilulissat Airport, some two hours flying time due east. Two ski-equipped Twin Otter aircraft operated by Norland Air were also used to transport personnel to the remote and smaller research stations such as Eismitte and the Zackenberg Station to the north-east whose work was coordinated by the Summit Station. The aircraft were also used for aerial photography. The snow runway, twenty metres wide and 1,500 metres long was groomed by two Bombardier B2 model ski-cats before every flight to remove surplus snow and to facilitate the ski-equipped aircraft. Tall red topped poles delineated the parameters of the landing zone. The Summit Station had just taken delivery of three high-powered two-person Yamaha snowmobiles. These latest toys were being tested for short duration assignments.