The Ski Journal • Volume Eleven, Issue Three • Are You Silly?: Conspiracy Theories, Burnt Boots and $11 Beers in Iceland

Our team—guide and Englishman Steve Lewis, athletes KC Deane, Ahmet Dadali and Sämi Ortlieb, cinematographers Josh Berman and Robin Lee, cook Kereen Smith, and myself—eventually finish hauling a huge mess of ski, camera, camping and cooking gear from our hostel in Reykjavik, Iceland. Palma “Palmi” Georg Baldursson, our driver and the group’s only Icelandic native, further explains the Jeep’s features. He also explains that we’ll likely need all of them during the drive ahead.

That’s because we’re about to depart to Landmannalaugar, a mountainous zone in Iceland’s Fjallabak Nature Reserve some 110 miles east of the country’s capital, on the famous, 4x4-only-access Icelandic Highlands. During the summer, tourists flock to Landmannalaugar to enjoy the region’s 3,700-foot-tall, volcanically formed peaks and numerous geothermal hot springs. There’s a large mountain hut and small store, and a web of busy trails wander through a colorful landscape of auburn lava flows, silvery sand bars, and turquoise rivers and lakes.

But come winter, Landmannalaugar becomes a lonely world of snow, unbroken by trees or vegetation and braided by near-frozen rivers. The pumice peaks, so vibrantly colored in the summer months, become a stark mix of white and black, occasionally spotted with green moss. The hut and store close, and the tourists disappear completely, but steam still rises from the nearby lava fields and vents, the bubbling seam between two separating tectonic plates. Faced with such massive geologic forces, it’s impossible not to feel tiny, momentary and inconsequential. There’s also potential for incredible skiing, if you’re willing to brave the last 30 miles, which are completely off-road and mostly covered in snow.

That’s where the Super Jeep and Palmi come in. He easily navigates a gauntlet of snow, ice and talus, pumping his fist to Icelandic hip-hop with a cigarette permanently hanging from his lips. He even creeps through a river, where I bet Dadali $50 he won’t jump in. Dadali declines—he doesn’t want to start an eight-day camping trip with pneumonia. All the while, Palmi taunts him with the now-infamous phrase from the “Larry the Enticer” YouTube video: “Are you silly? I’m still gonna send it!” Dadali doesn’t cave, but Palmi continues to throw out the quote any chance he gets.

Weather is always the most unpredictable element of any ski trip, but sometimes the adage “ignorance is bliss” can override even the most difficult conditions. Besides KC, none of us have been winter camping before, and Ortleib and Dadali’s backgrounds are more jib-oriented—when you’re used to punishing rails and brutal urban features, a little ice isn’t nearly as intimidating. This becomes especially useful when we’re greeted by fierce windstorms and 35-degree-Fahrenheit rain, which soon turns to frozen sastrugi and gusting snowstorms. Over the next week, the duo builds a quarterpipe against a frozen waterfall, skims over a nearby creek, and boosts rocky features near camp.

Each member fights off cabin fever in their own way. KC wanders around, making jokes in his down-filled expedition suit, zipper open and ice axes in hand. Dadali explains various conspiracy theories. Ortleib documents with doodles. Kereen Smith somehow wrangles up a smorgasbord of traditional Icelandic dishes, even roasting a leg of lamb over the open fire. And Palmi—well, Palmi remains stoic through it all, even when the drying tent burns down, melting the back of his snowboard boots. “I’m still gonna send it!” is his response.

The small cook tent, with its melting snow floor and clothesline of drying socks, becomes our community center. As we wait on weather, the role of storyteller becomes the trip’s most revered. We each contribute a running compilation of life experiences and jokes, Palmi talking of Icelandic trolls and the virtues of Icelandic wool, especially the sweaters his grandma knits. But Lewis takes the helm, regaling us with stories only achieved by an experienced international guide, with a level of hilarity only possible from a witty Englishman.

The sun eventually breaks, and we’re able to tick off some more substantial—if treacherous—lines before packing the Super Jeep for the return journey to Reykjavik, Palmi smoking and rapping the entire way. We reach the river, and Dadali suddenly asks if my bet still stands. He offers to buy us beers in Reykjavik with the winnings, an investment considering a can costs as much as $11. I tell him yes, and he strips down to boardshorts and pauses on the ice lining the banks. We tease and taunt, guessing he won’t actually follow through.

“Are you silly? I’m still gonna send it!” he says, and then leaps into the frigid waters.

The Ski Journal - Volume Eleven, Issue Three

Are You Silly?: Conspiracy Theories, Burnt Boots and $11 Beers in Iceland

The Super Jeep looks like a Wrangler on steroids. It’s raised on beefy suspension, the monstrous tires almost as tall as the hood of a small car. We can hear the engine-mounted air-compressor, ready to quickly adjust tire pressure to handle the varied terrain.

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