Like Sheep to the Barber - Eins og kindur til rakari

Oh gawd..... How do I even start....

How 'bout where I left off?

So I wake up in the morning after a slam dunk of a sleep. That little bed I have is a hit, let me tell ya. Sigrun is asking me to come downstairs. The weather isn't good, but "we're going to try to work" she tells me. I'm starting to realize that I can't even pretend that I'm not the biggest damn city slicker that these folks have ever seen. I stand in front of my closet in a quiet panic. Pick the right clothes. Pick the right clothes. Ummm.... What do modern day farmin' gals wear to shear sheep? Layers. That's a good start.

I bundle myself to the best of my abilities and head downstairs for another awkward meal at the table. I think that it was mostly me that was creating the awkwardness, as I have never farmed, been near sheep, or had to do these things combined with a group of farmers that don't speak english. I was so nervous I could barely hold my coffee cup to my mouth without slopping it everywhere. How on earth am I going to pull this off? Yikes!

So I get geared up and me and Sigrun head down in the truck. I hop out of the truck to find about six other people. Three other Icelandic sheep farmers and three of their grandchildren (none of whom speak english). Oh yes, and an enormous audience of sheep. They go at the sheep in packs of about 20 or so. 20 adults. The babies are sort of a package deal.

My new patients. So at this point I'm beyond nervous. I am prompted by the farmers to get into the pen. I awkwardly hurl myself over the gate. It's been a long ass time since I've worn rubber boots, let alone climbed things in them.

It's funny how stupid you can feel when you don't speak the same language as everyone else and you're learning to do something new. Especially, when you're the new kid on the block. I felt really strange and not very bright. There were a few moments that I felt like I might start to cry. I also started to fantasize about going home or at least back to reunite with my Snorris. I was at another cross roads. But Sigrun was by my side the entire time. I had told her the day before that our Icelandic teacher always said "Flott!" (excellent) when we had done something right and that it always made me feel very good. She must have remembered that, because she kept saying things like "you are sooo flott!". Those little words made me feel like I could dive in and just do my best. And so I did.....

and so the fun begins...

So, let me break this down for inquiring minds. I had nooooo idea what to expect. Personally, I had an image of sheep docilely standing while electric trimmers gave them the buzz cut of their dreams. I was a little surprised to find that it's not like that. They do have clippers,  but that involves them all being in the barn or "sheep house" and that's a huge fiasco to coordinate. So the process is to wrangle one of these bad boys up, force him to the fence, and then tie their head/horns in such a way that they can't escape. Sounds like a slam dunk, right?

After accomplishing the near impossible, the real work begins. This is a picture of Gudmunder making the first cut. First, he assesses to make sure that the sheep feels healthy and is well built enough that removing it's wool won't risk illness for the critter. You do this by pulling up on the hide, to see if it feels loose like a baggy t-shirt or "Icelandc sweater", if you will. Then, he would start a cut from the rump area and up the back, seperating it into two pieces. From there, we would both 'go at it' with scissors that looked like you needed a tetanus shot just to hold them. It's a shearin' frenzy until you bring it on home...

Lather, rinse, repeat. Until they're all done. All of the guys in the pen anyway. Once you have both halves off, they get tossed into the wool "receptacle". Please see example A:

A few observations about clipping sheep:

-They do not like getting haircuts

-You can't count on them staying still

-They don't understand that the more they buck/ram their heads into the fence, the worse their new hairdo looks

-Shearing is harder than it looks

-There's a lot more poop attached to their wool than you might think

Ways that shearing sheep reminds me of nursing:

-There are always more sheep than farmers

-The noise is constant (replace bells with sheep noises)

-You can't avoid poop

-Sheep don't always appreciate the high quality care that they are getting

-Ergonomics is not a main focus of farming (I will never complain about the body mechanics at my work again)

Now the funny thing about shearing, is that it's not always a slam dunk. For example, some of them just can't be clipped. For others, they can only be half-clipped. We'll refer to these guys as the "hair dos" of the group. Some of them might just have their 'collar' or whatever trimmed off and the rest remains like some kind of crazy vest:

It looks like a cape or something. How bout another example. 

Here's the sheep mullet:

Business in the body, party at the ass. 

There's so many more fashionable sheep dos that are hot this season, but I couldn't get them all. I was trying not to look like the city slicker paparazzi on my first day on the job. You'll just have to trust me. My faves were the ones that looked like little wool shorts. Hahahaha. So funny.

I was shearing a lot with Gudmunder. He can't speak english at all, but was busting out these pretty good one liners after each sheep was finished. It was very impressive. Imagine an Icelandic farmer saying any of the following to a sheep as they give em a smack on the rump and send them on their way:

-Goodbye

-Thank-you

-Thank-you and Goodbye

-Goodbye my love

-Thank-you very much

-See you next time

We've also been into learning cheers. Skol is cheers in Icelandic. But Gudmunder wanted to know more, so we've been working on that. I've taught him cheers and salud, so he was using those to say good bye to the sheep as well. He's an ace.  

Now, back to work....

Sometimes the sheep require manicures and pedicures so that they're 'trail ready'.

The strange thing is that this sheep pen is a damn fiasco of sheep frantically racing around. It's a mix between trying to organize themselves and not get too close to the hairstylists that surrounded them. A riot at it's finest, I'd say. So during the panic, babies obviously get split from their mums. The lambs actually sounds like they're calling "maaAAAAAAaam" and racing around. Some of them even try to get a bird's eye view:

Awwwww!! The baby!!! 

But before the reuniting process can begin, the babies need to receive some antibiotics to make sure that they will stay healthy. This involves chasing these little rascals around the pen, snatching them up and them getting a dose of liquid medication from a little pump. After the baby receives a dose, it's marked with a sort-of green bingo dabber. This allows the farmers (and me) to know who has not been "processed", I guess. 

Once all of the babies that are scrambling around have green dots on their head, its time for them to hit the ol' dusty trail out to the mountains. Before they can release these sheep out into the world with their new looks, they need to allow them to get organized and for the mums and babies to find each other. First, everybody gets let out of the barber shop:

Then they need to sort themselves out near the gate that leads them to their summer lodging. They're released in smaller family units out to the mountains. They can't go all at once or all of the work that they just did to get everybody figured out would have been for nothing. It's funny because once one or two families get through the gate, all of the other sheep want to try to bolt with them. All of the farmers yell at them and wave their canes in the air so that the sheep get spooked and run the other way. I couldn't help but notice that when people scream at sheep in Icelandic, it sounds an awful lot like german.

Then its time for them, one by one, to work that big ol catwalk back into the mountains. They're on the loose until the round up in September. See you little buddies! Don't do anything that I wouldn't do!

So what do I have to say for myself this time? Sheep farming taught me some lessons that are a little more on the practical side. I think that for starters, I learned that grabbing the "sheep" by the horns (a little farm humour) is the right plan of attack in shearing and in life. I couldn't help but notice, that the more I rolled up my sleeves and tried my best, the easier things were getting. That kind of attitude and action is something that's noticed by others. I think that it helped me to feel like I was part of the group, more than a new person on the periphery. I couldn't change the fact that I was a total city slicker. What I could control is that I was going to be the most balls-out sheep shearing city slicker that they'd ever seen. I was giving 110% every second that I was out there. 

The other important lesson that I think I took away from this situation, is that being too sensitive is always a set back. Being an english speaking gal who had never worked a farm in a group of Icelandic farmers was definitely not an ideal educational situation. I didn't want that to stop me from getting a full experience. There were a few times when Sigrun, who is essentially my personal translator, wasn't around. I refused to let that stop me from putting my rubber boots back on and making things happen. At times, it was a little tough because if I was doing something wrong, I'd hear someone scream "SARAH!!!!!" and wave their arms up and down like crazy. OR scream "SARAH!!!!NO!!!!". Once you get past the initial embarrassment of the whatever mistake you've made, you get comfortable with this type of feedback. I started to realize that I take non-verbal feedback really personally and so I was getting a bit upset. Once I realized this about myself, I could finally relax a little. I just needed to loosen up and quit being so uptight. 

So, I'll sign off for now. I'm sure I'll have many more adventures to tell you about soon. All the sheep are in the mountain right now gettin fat and wooly. I keep asking what other work there is to do around the ol' sheep mill when they're not here. The only I get is "yes". I've given up on the question at this point. I'll just keep taking things one sheep farm day at a time. 

Good night sheep.

Good night farm.

Good night moon.

Good night snorris. 

Good night family.

Good night friends.

           With much love,

               Sarah

Sarah's Additional Viking Rules:

-Stay still for haircuts

-When cutting wood: measure twice, cut once

-When shearing sheep: Measure once, cut fast

-Get in where you fit in

-Always grab sheep (and life) by the horns

Conquer Fear and Let Love Rule - Sigra Ótti og Let Ást Regla

Things gettin cray cray....

So let's start where I left off.... Oh the tales I have to tell you!

So I close my computer after soaking up every minute of internet access that I possibly could. My rationale was as follows - I would prepare myself to go to a rural sheep farm under the assumption that there is no internet access.  That way, I would either be neutral (as opposed to disappointed) if my hunch was correct. Or, I could be pleasantly surprised. It would either be a win or a draw. I digress....

So Theo, Thorin, and I are on the same flight that takes us into Akureryi (second largest city/town in Iceland) where we will all be picked up by our relatives. I must have been really nervous while I was packing and had a sneaking suspicion that my suitcase was overweight. I asked a couple of the guys to pick it up and give it to me straight. The consensus was that it SHOULD be a slam dunk. Much to my astonishment/embarrassment, it was 8Kg over weight. This marks the first time in my life that I've been accused of being high maintenance that I have not had a rebuttal for. Fortunately, my male travel partners were much more practical and so all together we evened out (ish). Now the only problem is how I'm going to get it back. Fingers crossed everyone.

The funny thing about the Reykjavik airport (not to be confused with the Keflavik airport - which is the main one), is that it's super small and probably the most laid back airport on earth. We arrived 30 minutes prior to departure, which was probably considered to be 'over-doing' it. They did not require to see identification and allowed my monstrosity of a suitcase squeeze through even though it was 15lbs overweight. So after checking our bags, we stopped for a little taste of Canada before the flight...

But while we're enjoying these Mooseheads (which I've not encountered anywhere else in this country), we suddenly realize that our flight leaves in 10 minutes and we're not totally positive which gate we're supposed to be at. Thorin goes to double check with the gal at the counter and she tells him that "they're not sure yet" but will let us know ten minutes before hand. Like now? So they follow through as promised and we're assigned to gate one. Could you imagine the blood bath that would happen if the Pearson airport functioned like that? Crazy.

Up, up, and away....

Arrival. I was so nervous getting off the plane. Here was the moment of truth. The point of no return. I walk into the airport and search nervously for my new family. I couldn't find them at first and so I was not sure if they were there. A nice looking woman approaches me and quietly says "Sarah?" I walk over to her and I give her a hug. Her name is Sigrun. Behind her is her husband, Gudmunder. I was already aware that Sigrun speaks some english and obviously Icelandic. Her husband speaks no english at all. We nervously exchange a few words without ease, I collect my baggage, and I give a couple of big bear hugs to my brothers that I'm about leave for three weeks. Sigrun and Gudmunder take me to a cafe so that we can talk. Over a cup of coffee, we awkwardly converse. Me and Sigrun anyway. I can see that she's embarrassed by her english. I can understand most of what she says, but words are not coming easily. My Icelandic language skills are totally pathetic and so I'm not even able to meet her in the middle. We get back into the truck and I feel like I might begin to cry. What have I done? Now I'm going to go to a farm with people that I have never met. I feel so lonely. I'm fighting every urge to ask them for their cell phone so that I can call the program coordinator to tell her that this is not going to work. But what can I do?

So we drive about 40 minutes out of town and I am taken their farm - vast land bordered on all sides by incredibly large mountains. I know that I'm a prairie girl, so when people are reading this, they're going to assume that I'm confused and I mean hills. Nope. These bad boys are the real deal. Big time.

I had embarrassingly enough fallen asleep in the truck like a child, and so I wake up and am groggy and weepy (also like a child). I'm feeling very apprehensive at this point and all I want to do is crawl into bed. Gudmunder carries my incredibly heavy suitcase upstairs. He can't speak english, but he chuckled a little once he finally maneuvered it into my room. I'm sure he was thinking, "high maintenance" or whatever that would translate to in Icelandic.  Once again - no rebuttal. Especially because I can't argue in Icelandic. Sigrun tells me to make myself at home and that she wants to me feel happy. Their cat, Grimur, has decided that she likes the cut of my jibb and so I have a new friend. 

I take a few minutes to unpack but gravitate to my computer. I open 'er up and am relieved to find not one, but two wireless signals. Ahhhhh. I'm not feeling completely at ease, but a little comforted by my ability to communicate with the outside world. I get logged in and do some frantic facebooking. I look up to find Sigrun at my door. She is inviting me to eat a little, if I want. I still feel tired and depressed, but have got some sort of second wind from my contact with the interweb and so I decide to throw my horns up and give it a go. Before I can get up from my seat, Gudmunder takes a few photos of me. I am perplexed but allow it to happen. I look like a pile of garbage, but figure I should be polite. Also, he did carry my 'high maintenance' bag upstairs. I would be confirming his suspicions if I stopped him because I "don't look right". So after my photo shoot, I head downstairs and find a little desert party waiting for me....

I sit down with Sigrun and Gudmunder and enjoy a piece of Skyr cake with cream and fresh blueberries. Can you say blueberry sundae? Uncanny... Anyway, we spend some time talking and then Gudmundur gets up from his seat and rummages through a drawer. He pulls out a deck of cards and gives them to me. Sigrun tells me they are a gift...

I open the deck and they explain that it's a ram playing cards game. The deck can actually be used for normal cards, but they have different 'high quality' or prize sheep on them with statistics about how good they are. For example (sideways - sorry):

The interesting thing about this game is that there are two sheep from this farm (stradarbakka)...

Check out those stats baby! I was very humbled by this offering and it gave us something to try to converse over. I was surprised when Gudmunder suddenly rose from his seat and said something to Sigrun. "He wants you to come see the homepage", she said to me. Homepage? This farm has a home page? I followed him to the computer room and he invited me to take a seat. He had put the webpage through google translate so I could see it. There were my pictures in the news section. I read the text about me. In it, they say that I am a 'lively and energetic' gal and they are very excited to have me. I am so touched by this. I look at the webpage for a while and then I go to help Sigrun do the dishes. While we're cleaning, we have a few laughs over broken conversation. I can feel myself becoming more at ease. She tells me that she knew what I looked like before she got to the airport because the program coordinator had sent her my passport picture (perhaps not my finest piece of work). But then something really special happened. She told me that she could tell by the sparkle in my eye in that picture that she would love me and we would spend the next three weeks laughing together....

and suddenly everything stopped.

I had gotten so wound up in my own anxiety that I failed to see what was right in front of me. A beautiful soul who had opened her home and was excited to have me there. A woman who wanted to show me everything about the farm and learn all about me. Someone who had been looking forward to all of the fun that was to come in the next weeks. She had not been so wrapped up in the stress of leaving her comfort zone and having to speak english or have stranger living in her house. She was happy that I was there. In the moment, I discovered my happiness too. I gave her a hug and told her that I was excited to work hard, laugh loudly, and love her too. And I meant it. I really did.

I went to bed feeling content that night. Nervous for the next day. But happy. Hope. I had found it.

So what did I learn today, you might ask. I think that life gave me a pretty good smack in the face. You should never allow yourself to get so self-absorbed in your own feelings (especially anxiety or misery) that you blind yourself to potential happiness. Give life a chance. That's what I learned. I will give every brand new day here a chance. No matter what. Because it is right and I have much learning to do; and ONLY three weeks to do it ;)

With all of my love,
     Sarah

Sarah's Additional Viking Rules:
-Give life a chance
-Open your heart, especially if you are frightened

The times they are a changin'... - Tíma sem þeir eru að breytast...

Greetings all,

It is a sad sad day today. Departure day. The whole group was disbanded and it feels very lonely. I think that it's safe to say that I could have lived in that little house with all of my awesome friends forever. Or four more weeks anyway. That was the consensus amongst the group. We spent our last night together in our little paradise. I woke up early to see a few people off and then reluctantly packed up my stuff. It's time to move on. But I don't want to go.... I want to stay here..... :(

.....with my beautiful friends.

I guess that's the thing about life. Changing is hard. Especially when you love everything about where you are. This is going to be such a huge transition. I'm about to jump the gap between living with 10 other north americans in a little house in a capital city to a rural sheep farm with distant relatives whom I have never met (who's english speaking status remains undefined). I would like to think that I wouldn't fall into the 'city slicker' category. I was looking at my farm resume today and realized that it wasn't lookin too good. Let's see:

-Various guided trails rides @ a walking pace
-Milked a cow when I was a child
-Owner of one pair of fashionable cowboy boots (that I didn't bring)
-One cowboy hat from a 24 of Coors light (also left at home and too douchey to ever wear)
-Fan of the band "the Sheepdogs" (which may or may not have anything to do with sheep)

Now, normally I would say that based on my qualifications, this should be a slam dunk. However, I feel incredibly nervous not just to visit a sheep farm, but to be employed on one. What if the sheep don't care for me? Who am I going to chill out with? What if my shoveling skills aren't up to par? What if my outfits aren't rugged enough to work on the farm? What if I can't get my flat iron to work and my bangs don't look right? Oh, and not to mention the very good possibility that I can't get internet access and I'm living off the grid. There are so many unknown variables. So if you combine the fact that I'm leaving what I would consider to be paradise island with a group that has essentially become a family and all of the stressors that may or may not be awaiting me at my life on the farm, things are feeling a little bleak.

I think that Blind Melon said it best - "Life is hard, you have to change". So here I am again. Back full circle from where I was before. The fear of jumping off a cliff. If you (whoever it is that's reading right now) recall my first blog, you know that I talked a lot about being afraid of leaving my comfort zone. So if we fast forward a bit, you'll know that I did and it has been a slam dunk from there. I leapt and landed on my feet in superior fashion. But now, here I am again. Right back at square one. I have made a new comfort zone and am once again afraid of propelling forward.

So what's the point. It feels hopeless to try to achieve fearlessness. Maybe I'll spend the rest of my life on this earth being terrified about what's just around the corner. But maybe I've been missing the point. Perhaps my previous goal was imprecise. It could just be that the aim should not be to be fearless, but rather to put myself in situations where I can develop my survival tool kit. Maybe fearlessness is a state of foolish arrogance. Fortitude. That's what I want to strive for. Bravery and resilience. Now we're talking.

So, I'm going to sign off for now. If my farm has internet access, you can expect some more grade A blogs (as I'm sure my farming career is not necessarily going to be full of grace).

I love and miss you all.

And I miss my snorris.

But I will move forward and try not to look back.

Not too much anyway :)

      xoxoxooxoxooxoxooxoxoxoxooxoxooxooxoxooxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxxxoxoxoxox
                   Sarah :)



Sarah's Additional Viking Rules
-Enjoy the past but concern yourself with looking forward to the future
-Be brave and resilient
-Horns up :)

For my father - Til föður míns

I'm due for a blog. Very due. I've spent the last couple of days trying to figure out what to write about. The problem is that yesterday was Father's Day and there's some sort of terrible cloud that's settled over me. I can't think of anything else and so blogging about all of these wonderful things that I'm doing with all of my incredible new friends doesn't feel natural to me right now. Once again, I'm struck by the intrusiveness of guilt. It seems like no matter how far away you get from grief, whether you measure by time or distance, it  knows no boundaries. Because here I am, an entire universe away - and instead of laughing in the kitchen with my friends, I've banished myself because I don't belong there right now.

So, why am I writing this? Why would I sit down and write all of the things that are making my heart so terribly heavy? I didn't want to. I still don't. But I need to. If I've learned one thing from Dad's death, it's that grief is a powerful poison. Failure to recognize its presence and expel it leads to catastrophe. There was a time that I was so consumed by sorrow that it almost destroyed me. My inability to express myself caused me to be isolated and no one could see the terrible pain that I was in. Maybe right now I just need to have a good cry and allow myself to feel devastated, even though it feels like he died a life time ago. Instead, I will write - because it feels like the right thing to do. Expressing my feelings is hard, but keeping them in is destructive - and I have only an appetite for reconciliation

  Dear Dad,

I wonder where you are right now, when you went far away from me. I feel like I can barely see your face any more or remember the sound of your laugh. Losing you is the great tragedy of my life and it doesn't seem to matter how hard I try to resolve my grief. It's always with me and I never thought it would be. Everyday, I wake with the hope that I am absolved of the pain caused by your perpetual absence in my life. But that hope is false and I can never seem to shake this part of me that has been forever changed. It never goes away - like a curse.

I hate when people tell me that you would be proud of me. I hate it and that's not a reasonable thing to hate. I think what bothers me is that no one will be able to say that with certainty. The kind of certainty that comes from hearing you say those words to me. A proud hug that you might have given me. Or a smile that would have assured me that I'm on the right track. I can never know beyond a reasonable doubt that the only person that I've wanted to be proud of me, is. Because when you were alive, I don't think that I made you proud. And now I've accomplished things in my life that I know you wanted for me. But you don't get to be here. You never will be and it overwhelms me with pain and regret. Whenever I do something, I only want to tell you. After I graduated university, I spoke to you from my heart and wondered if you would have been happy - sitting in the stands to watch me get my parchment. Mum gave me your wedding ring to wear  and I couldn't take my eyes off it. I kept thinking that if life was more fair, that ring would be on your finger where it belongs and not with me. You would have been watching me from your seat beaming. But you weren't. Maybe you were watching me from heaven - but who can tell me that? Which one of the people in my life can assure me that you were there? That you would be proud? It's the absence of certainty. My inability to confirm that you would be proud. The eternal impossibility to seek your council. The absolute permanence of you death. I am forever haunted.

So here I am in Iceland and your ghost has followed me here and I can't explain why. My heart is so heavy with sorrow that I can barely breathe. I can't seem to put that feeling away. Yesterday, everyone wrote an email home to their father to wish them a happy fathers day. Except me - and I became consumed by anger and sadness. I have no one to write that letter to. You will not receive it. I have missed my opportunity to tell you how much I love you and how incredibly painful it is for me to live my life without you here. My chance to make you proud has expired. We ran out of time and there is so much that was left incomplete. Now all I have left is a gapping hole in my life that you used to occupy and memories that are altered by time. Crippling uncertainty. Pain that does not seem to have an antidote and is never resolved with time. I think about you everyday and wish you were here. But I fail to find you because you are lost to me. If I were perfect, I would be satisfied in knowing that you are here with me. But I'm not. I'm angry and full of sadness and I lack skill in reconciling  with your death.

I want to tell you that I miss you with my whole heart. I thought about you all yesterday and tried desperately think about other things that would make me happy. But I couldn't.

But I have this precious pearl of hope. This small piece of me that tries to believe. A quite voice in my head and heart that assures me that you are here. Somewhere hidden in me - and I'm not always able to find it. But if I search hard enough, and I have faith, I can get there....even if it is only for a moment. You are the most magnificent example of how to be a good person. You taught me to be the best person that I could be. And you continue to teach. I must believe that. This is my life’s true example of turning challenge into opportunity. That somehow you could leave me forever, but that if I continue to fight against the regret that threatens to condemn me to sadness, I might be able to succeed. You can't change the cards that you are dealt, but there always exists opportunity to survive. Maybe even to thrive. Losing you is a constant reminder that the greatest measure of life is the way that you love while you are here. My dear father, you have given me this strange good fortune....this magic opportunity...to find it in myself to believe that you live in my heart and soul. And that if I look hard enough, I can always find you if I need you. Even if it does not take the same shape that it did before. You continue to be the silent advisor to my mind and heart. My most initimate and private council - whose memory and wisdom always reminds me to think of others first, speak from my heart, and always concern myself with doing what is right, even if is not the same thing as what is easy. I am forever indebted to you for that.

  .......and sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can feel your arms around me

            ...........and it takes my breath away.

               With all of my love,

                       Sarah

And if I go while you're still here...
know that I will live on.

Vibrating to a different measure behind a thin veil you cannot see through.
You will not see me, so you must have faith.

I wait the time when we can soar together again both aware of each other.

Until then, live your life to the fullest.

And when you need me, just whisper my name in your heart,
.........and I will be there.

              -Hitchcock  (Ascension)

Sarah's Additional Viking Rules
-Never surrender
-Keep hope alive

Cliffhanger - Bjargstykki

I'm a few days in and feeling a little guilty that I haven't blogged in a bit. Maybe I'll start at the beginning, or at least from where I left off in Toronto.

So after I finished blog #2, I closed my computer and made a few last ditch cellular phone transmissions. It's an odd thing to put your phone back in your purse and know that you're not going to use it for seven weeks. I must tell you - I feel as free as a bird. I puffin you might say (international bird of Iceland). A puffin without a phone or a care in the world.... and every other convenience know to man.  So I step on the plane and give the flight attendant my ticket. It says 6C. Strangely, I can only see the seventh row and so I am perplexed. She looks at my ticket and then looks at me. Looks at my ticket and looks at me again... and then opens the magic curtain that leads to the first class area. The place that dreams are made of. I stand there stunned for a moment and then scurry through the opening, hoping that she doesn't notice my haste. I've never been to first class before and this is obviously some sort of mix up. But my ticket stub said 6C - fair and square. And no one was taking this chance of a life time away from me. I felt like I had won the Willy Wonka golden ticket. First class! You don't say. I always knew that I belonged up there. The universe threw me a bone. Did you know that in first class, all of the seats are rimmed with diamonds? Oh yeah, you know. There was a fountain that had continuous stream of sparkling champagne and a bounty of food that never ended. They don't have sewards up there. They have servants. I had one giving me a manicure and another ashing my cigarettes for me. Oh the promised land. At last, I was home.

.....Okay, the first class thing really happened but almost all of that was a little indulged. I actually slept in my slightly larger seat for the entire flight. But I was there. Oh yes. I was there. And it apparently was a mistake. A wonderful wonderful mistake.

And then the plane landed..... I was here. I collected my baggage and float through the ext way where I am greeted by my new family - a collection of 11 people from across Canada and the US. All of whom have taken the leap of faith and come on their own to explore Iceland. It's about 7am in Iceland at the time and we'd all been traveling all night, but some how all decide to go on a walk to explore our new home. The sun was shining and it was a rare day that was 20 degrees. During that walk, I could finally exhale. I was here...and happy...and loving the people that I would spend so much time with.


Cliffhanger - Bjargstykki
I'm going to fast forward a little bit because the next few days were not the kind of content that I think would be entertaining to read about. Don't get me wrong - I was having a great time. Studying at the university and spending with the other Snorri's - laughing loudly. We have a great time together. I'll just leave it there for now. More on that later.

After a solid day of classes at the university yesterday, we had a hike scheduled. I hate to be too honest, as I could easily tell a fib right now, but I am not the most enthusiast hiker. Now that doesn't mean that I wasn't somewhat looking forward to the experience of it, but I was feeling a little nervous. And maybe a little inadequate. What I can say is that what I lack in skill I make up for in fortitude. I was going on that hike if it killed me (a strong possibility).

All of us hop on a series of buses and off we went to the trail. Stepping out of the bus, I almost had a stroke. I was standing before an unbelievable majestic mountain and to my terror, the group was walking towards it..... to catch the next bus maybe? Because it wouldn't be possible to walk around there. That's crazy. Only crazy people would go there. And maybe mountain goats. The crazy ones.

But it was the location. We received some info before leaving that indicated that there were two trails. One "easier" trail and then it's more aggressive counter part. Naturally, the guys had planned for a balls out adventure and opted for the aggressive trail: going essentially straight up and with more "mountain climbing" like qualities. In many other circumstances, I would do what the boys are doing to prove a point. However, I would also fancy myself a realistic thinker and know enough to know when to draw that line. Me and the gals chose to enjoy a nice relaxing stroll on the easier trail.

The problem with bringing a Manitoban to Iceland is that when you tell them that they are going on a hike, they have a mental image of a low impact walk down a Bird's Hill bunny trail. Which is exactly what I had. Before I knew it I was up to my eyeballs in climbing a mountain. And I mean climbing. I felt like god damn Sylvester Stallone. Or spider man climbing a wall (with no super powers). The brutality of the climb was more than I could bare. Fortunately, I was in the good company of four other rocking ladies who helped my poor little feet to feel motivated. We took many breaks, perhaps a few too many pictures, and laughed/complained sarcastically as a means to cope with the overly vigorous hike that we were on. But we stuck together....

                    

      and we climbed....

                        

and climbed......

Up. 

Waaaaaaaay up.

And that's how "Lady Hike" came to be. During one of our laugh marathons, we started to refer to our less excessive hiking experience as the Lady Hike. The natural slogan that followed was "No crying, no dying". Having those two rules really helped me to keep moving. That and our intermittent conversations about how slim and toned we were sure to be after the trek. Trim and fit baby. Nothing beats hiking with the gals. 

Aren't we magnificent? And you know something? We did it. Well not the top top. There are apparently even Icelanders that don't make it up there. To put it into perspective, you can clip in for the 100m (essentially vertical) section of the climb. We made it to the reasonable person summit. I am very proud of that. Especially because I didn't think that I would. In fact, there were a few times that I figured that I would stop. But it was soo worth it in the end. I will never forget standing so high up - like you could almost see the ends of the earth and if you looked down you felt like you just might fall forever. But working hard to get up that mountain and then taking that pause to see, feel, and be present in that moment took my breath away. The feeling of pure joy. The kind that you can only get from being in the exact right place at the exact right time. With the exact right friends. 

I think that what I can gain from this experience is that the hard things in life are worth doing. Maybe more precise would be to say that it is important to challenge yourself to do things that are hard, especially when you think that you can't. However, the other important piece of doing work that is hard is surrounding yourself with the resources that you need to be successful: A good sandwich, warm clothes, incredible friends, and the sense of adventure that you get from going out on a climb and traveling to another country on your own.

From first class to the top of the world. This trip is right on schedule..... and I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

Sarah's Additional Viking Rules - Viðbótarupplýsingar Víkingur Sarah's Rules

-Take the time to climb mountains, especially when you think that you can't

-Appreciate good friends and loud laughter

The Viking Rules (or self-titled, I guess) - Víkingurinn reglur (eða sjálfstætt titill, ég giska)

Blog post #2. Not too shabby, eh?

I'm sitting in the Pearson airport and have a brutal amount of time to kill. I should be working on a delinquent chapter for a text book that I'm starting to get grief from the editors about. Instead, I think that I'll 'warm-up' by writing a blog That makes sense, doesn't it?

Exactly. Perfect sense.

So it dawned on me today that I've neglected to give you all the inside track on my blog title -"The Viking Rules". I hate to bring my mother into this, but I can't tell you about it without her. So my mum purchased this men's undershirt (or beater, as I'll refer to it from now on) at the  Islendingadagurinn one year. It's called "Viking Laws" and has got scads of text that describe their laws or principles, I suppose. I think that I'm especially partial to this beater because my mum got dragged into a game of volleyball with her work colleagues and wore it. The idea of her putting on this beater, in favour of her heels and business wear, and attempting to play sports is more humorous than I can take. If I ever feel down, that mental image will always slap a smile on my face. So, before I left, my mum offered to let me take it on my travels. I respectfully declined due to the potential of losing it. I simply couldn't risk the possibility that she could play volleyball without it again. I guess that you could say that I kept it on the bench (a little sports humour). 

Now don't worry because the story doesn't end here. This is where it begins. Before leaving, she transcribed the laws for me so that I could have them with me. I adore these simple, practical principles for a decent and effective life. So when deciding what to name my blog, I figured that basing all of my blog entries on lessons learned and maybe making a few laws of my own would be a good time. 

Now, for my own personal comfort (and yours too perhaps), I've taken the liberty of removing the word "laws" and replacing it with "rules" - has a softer ring to it, don't you think? Put's me more at ease anyway. I've also indulged myself by changing the order slightly, so they sort of escalate in a climactic fashion. So here they are ....

  Ladies and Gentlemen - I give to you:

The Viking Rules - Víkingurinn reglur

KEEP THE CAMP IN ORDER

·      keep things tidy and organized

·      arrange enjoyable activities which strengthen the group

·      make sure everybody does useful work

·      consult all members of the group for advice

BE A GOOD MERCHANT

·      find out what the market needs

·      don't promise what you can't keep

·      don't demand over-payment

·      arrange things so that you return

BE PREPARED

·      keep weapons in good condition

·      keep in shape

·      find good battle comrades

·      agree on important points

·      choose one chief

BE BRAVE AND AGGRESSIVE

·      be direct

·      grab all opportunities

·      use varying methods of attack

·      be versatile and agile

·      attack one target at a time

·      don't plan everything in detail

·      use top quality weapons

So here's the scoop: I'm going to use this opportunity to add on to this list as I go. I don't know if my rules will be as pragmatic as these.... but hey - this is my blog and I'm staring down the barrel of a 7 week gun. I'm sure that I'll pick up a tip or two from the motherland. 

Sarah's Additional Viking Rules - Viðbótarupplýsingar Víkingur Sarah's Rules

·      try a blueberry sundae, at least once

·      find opportunities to step out of your comfort zone and take them 

·      always feed wolves

·      abide by the code of the road and the rules of the Viking

    xoxoxoxox - Sarah