raiders of the lost park

[a snowboard trip through volcanic Iceland]

‘They’re Pterodactyls. I know, we used to have them on the farm’ stuttered The Kid. A hundred pairs of pointed wings swung across the sky, menacing shapes squabbling in mid air and casting shadows across the volcanic dirt. They could have been Pterodactyls, the setting was perfect for an appearance of dinosaurs right now. In only a few short hours, this sparsely populated island had begun to enchant the four explorers with its prehistoric feel, but Pterodactyls was something they hadn’t counted on. Taking a chance, the explorers left the safety of their car and bounded up the volcanic scree to the canyon they’d spotted from afar. The crack in the cliff was perhaps no wider than 10 feet but it snaked its way up the whole height of the rock like a 100 ft scar slashed across a weathered old face. As the four inched their way further into the gorge, the endless shrieks of the pterodactyls soaring outside was replaced by an eerie silence. Each felt the dank chill of the unknown ahead of them as they ventured deeper into the canyon. They stumbled onwards, almost blindly, for what seemed hours until their progress was halted by a vertical wall: to their dismay the canyon rose sharply upwards, spiralling vertically for a hundred feet. No way to climb it now, the secret of what lay beyond would have to remain that, a secret. It was rumored that this fissure lead to the Underworld and a land that time forgot. But, then this was Iceland, and in Iceland time easily forgets, especially in June.

For the explorers, time was to take on a new concept here. As soon as they’d arrived their nights began rolling into day and vice-versa. The strangely hypnotic light that appears at 3am was proving hypnotic enough to play the strangest mind games. But these effects had been well documented by countless explorers ahead of this team. Sitting just below the Arctic circle, Iceland experiences 24/7 hours of light in the midsummer months, wreaking havoc on sleep patterns and appetites alike. But if such alterations to bodily functions alone weren’t challenge enough, there had been reports that recently the Scotsman known as ‘Mad MacVoy’ had sailed to the island with the intention of creating a new snowboard park. On landing he had of course disappeared into the void and had never been heard of since. To find him would mean to find the Lost Park and the riches that accompanied it. It would take would be the right kind of person for such an expedition. There would be challenges; but that’s what exploring is all about. To be an explorer meant taking whatever this prehistoric looking land threw at you, be it the mind-games played by the weird light, the soaring pterodactyls that resemble seagulls or the chance of stumbling on the real Land that Time forgot along with its loin-cloth sporting Raquel Welch-alikes. And the reward for such selfless heroism? A chance of riding in Iceland 24/7 and the enjoyment of being able to justifiably eat breakfast at anytime of the day. It was worth the risk, or at least it appeared so to the four Indiana Jones wannabe’s that boarded the Iceland-Air flight to Rejkyavik. Along with them came a crate of the type of kit expected on an adventure like this: assorted sharp implements, snake venom antidote, tents, porters, rubber dinghies and a box of scientific instruments with instructions so vague that their intended use would remain a mystery to all. None of this of course would be needed, but better safe than sorry. To this was added a bag of snowboard gear in the eventuality that the Lost Park was discovered.

Team selection was critical for such an expedition. Like the Magnificent Seven, each team member would find their way into the group by some show of gun handling skills, ability to bluff, knock up a good goulash or other persuasive show of strength. Professor Johno Verity, an eccentric ‘tie-for-all-occasions’ fellow came with an ability to talk about more or less any subject with believable credibility. His scientific knowledge, or appearance of such would be invaluable in the identification of all manner of edible funghi. Jamie ‘butch’ Baker would represent the strong arm of the team, being an excitable but likeable fellow who could be depended upon to pull the team out of any situation that involved sharks or large apes. And thirdly came Nelson ‘the kid’ Pratt, a lanky farmer’s boy who although somewhat shy and retiring could pull a mean f/s 720 and so would prove an asset if and when the lost park was discovered and was handy with a shotgun even if it wasn’t. And then there was Milner, a nerdy Photographer-cum-traveller type always going on about how travelling had got easier and how he "never had cushions back in my day". Seven they may not have been, but as a team they were magnificent.

Forewarned that the pricing of every day essentials in Iceland was ambitious to say the least, (notably anything with an alcohol content above that of a sherbert fountain), each of the team armed themselves with the strongest bottle of spirits they could each find. If the alcohol didn’t prove essential in forging friendships with Vikings, it could be used to deaden the pain of un-anaesthetised amputation of a gangrenous limb. And so in one brief foray into duty-free, all eventualities it seemed were covered. And in the case of stumbling across the mad Scot and his Lost Park a bottle could of course be awarded to the rider throwing down the meanest trick. But first Mad MacVoy had to be found.

Some four hours North West of Rejkyavik lies Snjofell, a glacial-capped peak so enchanting and shrouded in mystery that it became the setting for Jules Verne’s book ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’. It could be the one and only place to start looking for a Scotsman with a desire for snow. The expedition steered it’s ‘go-anywhere’ Hertz family rental car toward Snjofell unaware of what exactly lay in wait for them. The modern high rise skyline of Reykjavik soon gave way to a treeless remote landscape, bordered on one side by mountains and on the other, the indeterminable depths of the Ocean. Signs of inhabitation were few and far between, the land rendered uninhabitable to espadril sporting farmers by the extensive, jagged lava. Espadrils wouldn’t last long here. Or as Professor Verity pointed out, perhaps it was Iceland’s location, sitting astride one of the World’s most active geological fault lines, and the subsequent possibility of being consumed by molten magma that explained the islands scarce populance. It was a chilling thought and although countered by the exclamation from Milner that he had in fact bathed in molten magma once in Chile, the Doctor’s cautionary words were chewed over resiliantly by each of the adventurers like all too rubbery bubble gum. And so the car sped onwards, its occupants silenced by the thought of a fiery end, while unbeknown only feet below the tyres lay a thousand years of Icelandic history entombed forever in solidified lava.

 

Pulling up in the shadow of a waterfall the explorers consulted the map. The late sun slipped lazily towards the horizon, where at around midnight it would disappear for a couple of hours, leaving the Island bathed in a magical twilight. These were the enchanted hours and would be the time when unknown beasts and creatures from the underworld would emerge to roam, including the pale-skinned Scotsman, if still alive. Pursuing any of them would surely reveal the Lost Park in all it’s glory. The team had to work quickly.

Up ahead the road dipped down to Arnarstapi the small coastal settlement that held the secret secret of MacVoy’s disappearance. It was nearing midnight and several villagers were sat around an open camp fire, eating and making merry, behind them a row of snowboards reflected the glow of the night sun. The expedition had definitely found the right place. Suddenly from a doorway, MacVoy emerged. He appeared well and it seemed by the general abundance of womenfolk that rather than ‘lost’ he was none too badly off at all. As the explorers shifted uneasily a twig snapped under Butch’s feet, revealing the secret intruders presence. Instantly there was movement in the shadows and the four found themselves surrounded by the towering figures of large Viking descendants. The four were carried toward the open fire where Professor Verity began the intercourse in is own quirky but unoriginal style "MacVoy I presume?"

While MacVoy’s clan set upon the booty of alcohol, the Kid steered the talk toward the location of the Lost Park. ‘You’ll never find it, unless you know where to look’ exclaimed MacVoy, his voice failing to conceal the fatigue of too many nights spent shaping kickers. ‘But the sun is low; we can go there’ he announced and as if on cue the self styled sect that had nigh-on finished the duty free reached for their snowboards and piled into ramshackle vans. In a hail of dust and gravel the convoy set off towards Snaefell, the mountain that had so disturbed Jules Verne. The four explorers could do little but try to keep up. At the end of a gravel road lay the snowfield, a silent drag lift sat to one side. At once the group began hiking toward a distant set of mounds that could only be one thing; the park. Even if it had been dark it would have been easy to follow them, a chorus of disembodied chanting carried by the night breeze.

Rounding over a snowbank the four explorers were stopped in their tracks. Before them lay a small but perfectly shaped park, radiant in the magical light of the Icelandic Summer. It was clear why MacVoy had led people to believe he was lost; more people would only spoil the masterpiece and the moment and the magic. But then there had been clues as to his whereabouts. To the Professor this didn’t quite add up.

The expedition had accomplished most of its objectives, but for three of them there was one still to complete. Professor Verity started the conclusion with a switch f/s 540, followed by a b/s 720 from the Kid and a rodeo from Butch. Butch then took his muscle to the hip while all around them some of MacVoy’s sect set upon the rails with a certain glee. For the next three hours as the sun dipped down below the horizon and set the sky alight the Lost Park was again ravished by explorer and local alike, running amok as if possessed by the soul of Snaefell peak itself. Fuelled by an inexplicable energy, the park became alive with the sights and sounds of f/s 360’s, cab 540’s and frontside boardslides while in the background there was the methodical clicking of Milner’s camera. With nothing but snow for evidence, the photos would be the sole documentation that the Lost Park ever existed, except in people’s minds. But who would believe a bunch of travel ravaged explorers, bleating on about prehistoric lands and pterodactyls? In the middle of nowhere, with no-one to look on, the explorers hiked the kicker one more time. It didn’t matter that no-one was watching; the next trick would be for themselves. In a land that forgets time, they would never forget the experience of riding Snaefell. But would they ever leave?

Epilogue:

The farmers boy span another backside 720 oblivious to the dozen pairs of eyes that watched the activity from the dark recesses of the mountainside. Not human eyes and perhaps not exactly animal, but they watched all the same, never blinking, never being distracted from their stalking. Stirred from the deep by the noise of human activity on the surface, this time they would let the humans play on their so-called ‘park’. But next year, when the humans returned in greater abundance, then they would make their move. The humans were dangerously close to discovering the entrance to the underworld and that could not be allowed to happen. Looking on, the eyes glowed from their lairs, thankful they’d enslaved the mad Scotsman early on in the Summer when he was alone. With MacVoy’s snowpark as a lure to others, more humans would surely come. The eyes sparkled with glee; with a little patience, they would never go hungry again.