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Snowboarding in Iceland and Dispelling the Myth of Winter
By Kathleen Gasperini
Photos by Rachel Pfotenhauer
There's a myth that snowboarding in Iceland means riding in about 2 hours of
sunlight amidst frigid North Atlantic winds on flat, Wisconsin-like "hills."
But when photographer Rachel Photenhauer and I were granted a trip by the
Iceland Board of Tourism to seek out the most cultural and inspiring
snowboarding destination in Iceland, even the Lonely Planet (which we had
read all of) couldn't have prepared us for what we found.
First off, the Gulf Stream sweeps this country in winter/early spring with
mild winds that make it warmer than an average winter in New York City. Light
in late March runs 8 hours, and there are vast, snow-capped mountain ranges,
particularly in the western fjords in an area called Isafjordur. It was here
that we met Adalheidur, Iceland's National Big Air Champion, and her friends
Valdi, Bjarni, Asgeir, Gunnar, and Halfdan-a hardcore posse that rides by
day, and plays music by night.
We'd heard that Adalheidur had just won the Icelandic Big Air competition
with some lofty spins. But when we picked her up from college, like most
Icelanders, her humble nature took over: "Why me?"
"We heard you rule," we told her and buzzed on up to the base area.
Although microscopic from our overly developed Rocky Mountain lift-serviced
mentality, Isafjordur and its four little chairs are ideally situated for
gaining an additional vertical in many directions above and beyond the
resort. Basically, the hardcores take the lifts, then continue hiking.
Further up the mountain, we noticed 5 snowmobiles and a bunch of guys digging
two large pits for two lift towers which were hanging above them in midair.
It was a McGyver-ish rigging system that would have freaked out U.S. ski
resort developers. But these guys weren't really developers. Rather, they
were a band of skiers and snowboarders comprised of local electricians,
carpenters, and a couple of lawyers, who were intent on making a steeper run
more accessible. That's when we hooked up with Bjarni and Valdi, workers on
the lift project who also happened to have snowboards handy, stuck nearby in
the snow.
The four of us road above the resort lifts all day, until Valdi suggested we
see just what Adalheidur could do.
The Kicker
The week before, they'd built a kicker large enough to launch a rider over
the highway down below. The first and only one to actually make it
injury-free was Adalheidur. Off the kicker we built (a fairly easy one
compared with the road gap from a couple of days ago), she pulled rodeo 540's
with ease. When we moved down the mountain, she pulled the same thing over
catwalks 15-feet wide. While the guys hucked themselves silly, Adalheidur
pulled out a Barrett role (she'd read about it in a snowboarding magazine), a
bunch of frontside 360's, and finally, stomped a breathtaking 720.
Next day, we decided to climb to the top of the resort. A rope tow and a
chairlift took us to the hiking platform where our Icelander posse pulled out
ropes from their backpacks and each jimmy-rigged a sling system for their
boards. At the top, we had an epic view of Isafjordur 4,000 feet below.
Across the valley was a tempting and distinguishable couloir. Supposedly, the
only other American winter sport journalists to visit this area were two guys
from Skiing Magazine in the early '90s. They'd taken a glacier plane up to
the top of this couloir with the intent of skiing a first descent down its
narrow, 45-50-degree pitch. Once on top, they decided it was far too
dangerous, not to mention too short of a run-out, which led straight into the
frigid fjord. But the pilot, an Icelander from the area, scouted the run and
said it was do-able. He busted out his skis and completed a perfect first
descent down one of the gnarliest lines in Iceland. The rest flew back down
with the co-pilot.
 Mother Horse
Ironically, the skier/pilot's son was Valdi's lead instrumentalist in his
band, called Mother Horse. They were practicing that night, he said and to
completely understand the culture, "you must come see our practice session."
Perhaps it's the result of a Björk-backlash, but if you're between the ages
of 17-30 in Iceland, you're probably in a band. Mother Horse is one of many
local bands in the area. It consists of the guys we were riding with, the
pilot's son, and Adalheidur's boyfriend. With a drummer, three guitars (which
they swap from song to song), a clarinet, and this horn that looked like it
came from the Alps, they'd rip through their "Apocalypso" music with titles
such as "Amazing Thailand," "Cuban Cigar," and "Blood and Cum Flowing
Together," which they assured us sounds much less vulgar in Icelandic.
The cool thing is that Mother Horse practices in the basement of an old
kindergarten school, which was abandoned four years ago. Valdi and his crew
asked the city council if they could renovate the "Kindergarten Club" into an
art house for young people in Isafjordur. They got it. Every night at 10
p.m., after the lights shut down on the mountain, the Kindergarten Club comes
alive with young sculptors, painters, photographers, and of course, bands.
Funny thing is, all the old furniture is still there and they hang out on
tiny chairs, use tiny tables, and scoot around on little toys. Even the
toilet seats are tiny. Stapled on the walls leading down the winding
staircase to the practice rooms are leftover lost and found kids clothes,
which make the place soundproof while creating a funky textile mosaic.
As if on cue, while Valdi walked us home after practice, the stars in the
crisp Arctic air took on different shades: Reds, purples, and greens. It was
the northern lights streaking across the sky like blankets of rainbow, which
reflected off the surrounding peaks causing the most surreal vision. "There's
a myth," said Valdi, "that you can only see darkness in the night. Here,
there can be much light, even in the darkness."
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