—_W. S. C. R._ CHAPTER XII SEYÐISFJÖRÐR “This land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls, Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-colored mists— Of far-stretched _Meres_ whose salt flood never rests— Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls— Of Mountains varying momently their crests.” —_Wordsworth._ I visited the east coast of Iceland on two consecutive summers. The first visit was in 1910 with Mrs. Russell; the second trip to this realm of fog was in 1911 as the geologist of the Stackhouse Expedition to _Jan Mayen_. During the former year we stopped at _Eskifjörðr_, Ash-Fiord, _Seyðisfjörðr_, Cooking-Fiord, and _Vopnafjörðr_; during the latter visit the Expedition spent several days in the eastern fiords especially at _Faskrudsfjörðr_, _Seyðisfjörðr_ and in the bight of _Langaness_, Long-Cape. We were storm bound for two days at _Langaness_ and then we returned to the south and followed the Norwegian tramp steamer _Ask_ into _Faskrudsfjörðr_. Here we recoaled, then returned to the protection of _Langaness_, made slight repairs to our engine and finally reached _Jan Mayen_. On our return from the north we again entered _Seyðisfjörðr_ for coal and repairs, before putting south to _Faroe_. These wanderings along this mountainous and fiord-cut coast have given me ample opportunity to examine the wonderful formations, to penetrate the fiords, climb some of the mountains and explore the waterfall regions as well as to observe the people engaged in fishing. The narration in this chapter is the result of the observations and experiences of two summers without any attempt to give the dates. [Illustration: _When the Fog Lifted,—Entrance to Seyðisfjörðr._ _Washing Split Cod at Faskrudsfjörðr._] Once more in Icelandic waters, this time off the east coast. It had been a smooth run up from _Faroe_, with a pleasant ship’s company and a placid sea. Morning enveloped us in a fog dense as a dripping blanket. Confidently the _Botnia_ held her course with her siren sounding every minute. At two in the afternoon the echo of the whistle announced that we were under the lava cliffs of Iceland, but they were invisible. The ship was stopped but she drifted strongly with the current rushing out of a fiord. For a long time we had heard the whistle of a steamer and even the voices of her invisible crew. It recalled to our minds the phantom ship of _Pierre Loti_. Suddenly she burst into view, the _Scarpa_, a Scotch whaler, and she ran under our starboard bow to enquire of our skipper his position.