I had plans on going for a walk along the Kings Road with Útivist. But my phone switched itself over night, and although I was up reasonably early, I still missed the departure time of that group by a good 45minutes. I was rather annoyed, as I had really been feeling the need to get out and about, and stop just sleeping and kicking back all weekend, every weekend.
So, with days getting longer, and less snow to worry about, I headed out for one of the local mountains I hadn't gotten up last summer. Geitafell, or Goat Mountain, was out the south road a bit, just past Lambafell and Stóri Meitill. Conveniently, there was even a parking spot for a car or two, and I headed out.
To be met almost instantly by mud and wetness, which would be the theme for the afternoon. Some nice changing light, and nice views of the Meitill ridge as I walked up Sandfell, a smallish bump directly between the carpark and Geitafell itself. There was an old road going around the mountain, but I wanted to walk uphill, and besides, the road was a bit of a quagmire.
The backside of Sandfell took me down to what looked like someone's personal trapshooting range. Lots of smashed trap discs and shotgun shells. Some garbage, but also disorderly piles of rather new looking building equipment, that seemed to be the makings of fence stiles, and track markers.
About here I put my tripod down, and walked off leaving it behind.
Back on the road, dodging mud puddles and admiring the big pools of snow and water in the heath beside the road, I headed onwards to Geitafell. Reaching a stile, I climbed over a fence from heathland into what looked like a patch of grazing grass. Miles from anywhere, and no access except by this dirty old road, so not sure what the real story was, but it was surrounded by new electric fence, so someone obviously cared about it.
About here I started having to deal with the meltwater. What looked like just a grassy field was actually a grassy field largely submerged in water. I was walking along in mild squelchiness when suddenly I was confronted by a foot and a half of cold running water, with not a creek bank in sight. I skirted the flow for a while, running into more unexepectedly deep and wide creeks sneaking around in the middle of the flat grassy field, and eventually skirted up along closer to where I'd hoped to go up Geitafell itself.
But, not, just more creeks, bigger and wider now, with actual creek banks. Given that I was by myself, and no-one really knew where I was besides a note on my desk, I decided that the melt water had won. I now know what all the hillocks are from, and what goes in all the strange looking ups and downs and pits in the grassy fields. Lakes and rivers of melting snow!
So I decided to stop and take a few tripod shots. Only to realise that I didn't have my tripod! All thoughts of ascending Geitafell were now well and truly out the window. I had to find my tripod again!
I seemed to recall not having it when I crossed the first stile, so I chose not to skirt back around all the wet creeks, and took a more direct approach, hoping to save myself a bit of water.
Which worked, except when I got back to the first stile, where I thought I must have put it down before going over, my tripod wasn't there. Conflicting thoughts of "I should retrace all my steps, not just some of them" with "I definitely didn't have my tripod when I crossed this stile, it must be further back". I eventually continued back, and way back at the piles of building materials, I found my tripod, happily waiting for me.
A sigh of relief, and then back up and over Sandfell, under different light yet again, and home again! wet muddy shoes, but mission accomplished!
