Читать книгу Oraefi - Ófeigur Sigurðsson - Страница 7

PREFACE

The glacier gives back what it takes, they say, eventually brings it to light. Not long ago, pieces of mountaineering gear started appearing from under the glacial ice of Vatnajökull: crampons, a piolet, tent pegs, anchors, a pocket knife, glasses frames, a thermos, a lantern, a corkscrew, a cake slice, sundry other little things—crushed, broken, badly worn down. They were found scattered around a small area, like after a shooting. The objects were brought to the Skaftafell Visitor Center for examination. Some of the items, being monogrammed, were soon identified as the possessions of an Austrian, one Bernharður Fingurbjörg, a man who had gone far out onto Vatnajökull, all alone, undertaking a research expedition, investigating an iceless mountain belt rising from the glacier. It was chiefly the cake slice that identified him as the items’ owner: there were still folk alive who remembered the man with the Viennese cream cakes, even though many things had been going on in Öræfi—the Wasteland—around the time Bernharður was traveling. I met him in 2003 during his trip to Iceland; we were fellow passengers on a bus east to Öræfi. He went up to the mountains and onto the glacier while I stayed in the lowlands; we never met again. An extensive search by farmers and a rescue team at the time came up empty-handed. One of the objects the glacier coughed up was a strongbox, more or less intact; the park ranger broke into it and saw it was filled with papers and writings. Glancing quickly inside, she didn’t look further than to see the box contained a long letter written by Bernharður Fingurbjörg. The park ranger sent me the box; the letter was addressed to me.

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