We Aren’t Close to Anywhere: On Icelandic Horses

Hranfnkel had one animal in his possession that he valued more than others . . . which he named Freyfaxi. . . . He had such a love for this stallion that he made an oath to bring about the death of any man who rode it without his permission.

—From The Saga of Hranfnkel Frey’s Godi

I went to Iceland to ride horses.

There were other reasons, of course, such as the Northern Lights won’t be this bright again for another decade and that my husband and I found a good deal online. Yet while he was focused on hiking, visiting the capital Reykjavik and eating fresh fish and trying specialties like svið (sheep’s head), all I could think about was the horses– and if I was going to be able to ride them.

Recently, I wrote about a strange illness that affected my sense of balance and general well-being. That, when numbness set in the left side of my body, I thought I was losing my old self until gradually, as the title stated, I became a ghost in a new self, tougher yet more remote, and that was the only way “we” would exist, until I– the old self– faded away for good. While I thankfully have not experienced any numbness or loss of balance for the last five months, there are certain activities in which I’ve been told to proceed with caution. Horseback riding is one of them.

At first, I did not think much of it. I live in New York City, after all, and though I’ve occasionally seen people riding horses in Prospect Park in Brooklyn, my love and knowledge of horses remains separate from my urban life, and stems from trips to an uncle’s farm in the Rio Grande Valley as a young girl. I can count the number of times I’ve actually been on horseback— four— and each time was the same ancient, gentle quarter horse who moved at a snail’s pace. Her name was Rosa; she was brown with a dark mane and tail. Her previous owner had abused her, and my uncle had taken her in. Small as I was, I was the only one allowed to ride her, my uncle leading her around a small, circular corral. Most of the time I preferred to watch her graze, or sit by her side when she laid down on the grass in the sun. I would talk to her and stroke her head. Once she laid her head in my lap, and I refused to get up, even after my legs fell asleep, even after the sun set in the sky and I hushed my uncle and my parents, shooing them to go away, to let us be.

I remember the day that my straightforward uncle leaned over the fence and told me I had to say goodbye to Rosa because she was very sick and he knew she was tired and wanted to find peace. I remember I cried as he lifted me up so I could throw my arms around her neck. I remember she stood very still. I remember understanding in that stillness, how broken she was, how the love and care from my uncle could not fix her, could not erase the damage done to her.

And what I remember most is her milky, cloudy eye in which she was trying to pierce through, to see me through the haze of a too-late unconditional love.

Years later, I went to Iceland to ride horses.

And I went to Iceland broken, though I hide it well, though I am loved and cared for.

And I went to Iceland to ride horses, not knowing if I was going to be able to ride horses, uncertain if I still had it in me: that wild streak that gives flesh to ghosts, to the ghost I am inside the new self, this phantasmal self which takes over the writing as she once did all the living.

Perhaps I would arrive at our five-day trip and fail halfway through, in a place where there was nothing but miles of wasteland, where there was no one by humans who eyed me from horseback. No phone reception for no car to come. And I would stand there, unable to ride, staring at my horse with cloudy eyes, trying to pierce through what I could not, trying to live as I could not, trying to give flesh to what I was no longer.

Yet, it was not until I returned home from the trip and reading The Sagas of Icelanders that I came across the name of the horse I’d been given—Odin—that I learn he was named after the patron god of poets.

Of course, our guides did not know I was a poet when we came upon the small farm and two horses came to greet me at the fence. And I did not know just what I was getting into when a chestnut brown stallion walked up to me, nudging me from behind so that I’d turn around and then dropping his head in my hand, after they’d fitted him for another rider, after he’d walked away from that person.

I did not know the great amount of faith I’d have to put into this seemingly docile horse— who turned out to be one of the most headstrong and difficult horses of our group—when crossing steep, rocky inclines and through a winding river again and again, the latter which left me soaked head to toe, grasping onto his neck, trusting him while steering him in the right direction. I did not know the amount of times Odin would attempt to break away from the herd, and nudge my leg as if to say all the conflicting thoughts in his head, it will be okay, believe in me, let me do what I want, the times in which I’d let him have his way, temporarily, and the times I’d have to guide him back onto the chosen path.

That I would hold him closely all the times the temperature suddenly dropped, when I felt my balance coming back to me as it had once been.

*

Iceland is a young country, less than twenty million years old, and one that is still rising, erupting, splintering: what began as a subaqueous mountain created by volcanic activity along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge in the Atlantic Ocean is now an island that remains volcanic in nature. From its numerous volcanoes to the black sand beach in the village of Vík í Mýrdal, its fields of lava and ash, its craters, pumice mountains and columnar trap rock of basalt produced from slow-cooling magma, Iceland can appear volatile at times, and rather visibly: one can actually see the deep ridge between the two tectonic plates of Eurasia and North America, as they continue to pull apart from one another.

As for its numerous glaciers, which might very well entirely melt away due to climate change, the country itself is literally rising; many wonder what Iceland will become without its ice. It is also likely that one day all land mass will become a supercontinent again, perhaps resulting in Pangaea Ultima or Novopangea; another likely contender is Amasia, which would be a result of tectonic activity, the very kind that formed Iceland, in a hundred or two hundred million years from now.

I wonder how humankind will fair on these supercontinents, on Amasia. Norse settlers and their subsequent generations in Iceland would not have survived in a largely uninhabitable place (only 1% of country is “under arable cultivation”) without the horses. With their double coats and rockstar shaggy mane and tails, Icelandic horses are less skittish than other breeds, since there are no predators that are a threat to them in Iceland. Known to sure-footed, more friendly and shorter than other breeds, Icelandic horses have five different gaits: the usual walk, trot and gallop of all breeds, in addition to the tölt (running walk) and the skeid (flying pace). Not all Icelandic horses can perform the skeid, but the ones that can are very highly prized.

Prone to very few diseases, the Icelandic horse is also one of the purest breeds because it is the only horse allowed in the country. Icelandic law forbids the import of horses into the country—of any breed—and those Icelandic horses who leave are not allowed to return. Ever.

*

As our small group was assigned horses and one of the guides saw the chestnut horse approach me, he asked what was my level of riding.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I believe most people feel strongly about horses: they either love then or they don’t. They either trust them or they don’t. And I did not know the Icelandic horse.

The two other horses who’d greeted me at the fence eyed me and the chestnut stallion with curiosity. I eye them back. Suddenly I felt like I was being set up. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match… I shook the song from head. The chestnut horse snorted softly, and rubbed his head against my hand.

I haven’t been with horses for years, I said.

Oh yeah? The guide said.

I’ve lived in NYC for a long time, I said.

Ah, he said, do I have to horse for you.

Excuse me, a woman said, approaching us. She looked at me. You have my horse. She had a thick German accent, and was about a head taller than me, with a muscular build. She reached for the chestnut’s reins.

Ah, said the guide to her. This one, this is not your horse.

You just gave me this horse, the woman said.

No, this horse, you don’t want, he said. He’s not gentle and he has a mind of his own.

Then why— she began.

Some horses can change color according to season, he added. He does not.

Why does that matter? The woman said. What are you saying?

I’m saying, the guide went on, I have another horse for you.

We both looked at him. Then he said to me: But you, miss, you, I feel you can trust him. Because you’ll have to. His name is Odin.

There was some nervous laughter from our group. My husband cleared his throat and gave me a look that says he’s about to intervene. Odin looked at me with his light eyes of wet earth, and nuzzled my shoulder.

I think I can handle him, I said.

*

I’m currently reading The Sagas of Icelanders, and many of the early Norse settlers went to Iceland because they would not bend to the will of the kings, particularly Harald the Fair-Hair, who according to Egil’s Saga, revered his poets above “all his followers… held [them} in the highest regard, and let them sit on the bench opposite his high seat.” Of course this regard came at a price, which was personal and political freedom, and for some of these Viking raiders, the one value they would not give up.

Iceland then began as a place of both exile and freedom, as the early settlers prospered from its waters rich in fish and seals. They built farms. They also had to contend with the large percentage of uninhabitable land, which included the austere and barren Highlands where only outlaws would seek asylum in troubled times. The country’s early governing years had no executive power and no written archive of laws, but an outdoor assembly which was attended by the most successful of farmers who gathered to settle disputes of land and otherwise. It is said that Icelanders today value their freedom above all else. It has never had its own national armed forces, and has resisted membership to the European Union.

So the thought of an Icelandic horse that is born in but unable to return to its homeland, if it chooses to leave, that it is in a sense banished form this very particular homeland which is like nowhere else in the world, seems both fitting and infelicitous, according to the history of the country itself.

Are there Icelandic horses right now, whether on their farms on Vermont or Norway, that are birthing their subsequent generations on foreign lands with the knowledge their foals will never see their homeland, because humans— another species who once depended on them for nearly a millineum— made a law to protect the purity of their species? Does an Icelandic horse ever think, yes, this is for the good of the species? Do they ever stop to consider us, those fragile two-legged creatures who do not have the double coats and stamina to survive the winters as they do, and yet are deciding their genetic fate?

What would the future look like, when the supercontinent happens, and the Icelandic horses meet other breeds, meet long-lost relatives that they lost generations back? What will they remember?

And will humankind still be there, to set up its Laws of Return and borders and righteous myths and creations stories in which all land mass will be one and yet, and still, we will remain not close to anywhere?

*

The first day was the toughest. Our group headed down a steep incline into the first of many rivers and streams. Riding an Iceland horse I never felt the rough, rocky ground, or the inclines; it truly is different than riding any other breed. The ride went smoothly, that is, until Odin chose to drink from the river as we were crossing. His head went down and the rein tightened, bringing me down with him. The first time this happened, I felt my feet fall out of the stirrups. I grasped onto him for dear life.

Aw, how sweet, someone said as they past us, look how she’s embracing him.

Odin then put his whole head in the water, shaking his head furiously. I felt myself falling. Suddenly Odin stopped and righted him up. He nudged my left leg. I pulled him to the right and said: let’s go. He then broke into a quick trot. My feet were still not in the stirrups, and I held him closely as we raced up the incline and came on level ground. I pulled him to stop. He stopped. I struggled to put my feet in the stirrups. A guide came over and scolded: Odin! Not today!

In response to this rebuke, Odin and I glided past everyone, all the other riders, and then the head guide. I learned this is not the thing to do, that he was challenging authority. I pulled him to stop. We repeated this several times. Each time he did it and I pulled him to stop, he’d nudge my left leg.

It takes trees a long time to grow here, a guide said to me. Because of the climate. Same with training these horses. They are tough, but have minds of their own.

After an hour of this stopping and starting, Odin tried to make amends. They were about forty riders total, with four guides, but no matter where we were on the trail, Odin would bring me back continuously to my husband’s horse, so we could ride together. At one point, the same guide pulled up alongside us, and said: He’s smart. He knows this man is your mate. Then he added: He’s being good. Don’t expect it to last too long.

The guide told my husband and me they were filming the new Fast and Furious movie up in northern Iceland, racing cars on frozen lakes.

Wow, we said.

The guide nodded and said: It’s good for our economy. There are many movies filmed in Iceland. Russell Crowe stood in a mountaintop in one. American audiences like flash like that. Fast cars and action like that. But for me, I’d rather ride a horse.

After a few hours, we dismounted for lunch and Odin went to eat grass with the other horses. Since we weren’t allowed to take photos on horseback—for good reason, our safety—I wanted to get a quick photo with Odin. My husband and I had talked about living in the moment—taking a break from our phones, computers and social media—but I couldn’t help it. I asked my husband to hold onto Odin’s reins while I took a photo of him from afar. Odin responded by trotting over toward me, dragging Brian along with him, and nuzzling my phone.

I then made the mistake of taking a running head start to attempt to get this photo.

Because Odin runs faster than I do. Much, much faster. My husband was nearly sailing through the air.

I realized Odin was not going to cooperate. He snorted loudly, and nuzzled the phone in my hand, as Brian handed me the reins. Odin was fascinated with the phone as I turned the camera our way to take selfie. I couldn’t get his whole head in the photo. Odin leaned in very close, so close, if I turned my head, I would have gotten a mouth full of his hair.

This horse posed for a picture. But once again he got his way, and we took the kind of photo he wanted.

After we took the photo, Odin settled down on the ground. He was, for a moment, very serene.

The guide said: You can sit next to him. Odin likes you. He wants you to.

My husband was more cautious and said: We aren’t close to anywhere.

We aren’t close to anywhere? I said. What do you mean?

I mean, if he kicks you by accident. . . .

I told my husband I’d be careful. I tried to be, anyway. I lowered myself gently to the ground, and patted Odin’s head and then his neck. His closed his eyes. I laid against him, gently, and then more assuredly. I heard him breathing. It sounded like a great hall filling with oxygen, with a world, with whatever is the opposite of emptiness.

For a moment I was in the suspension of a horse’s breath.

We were silent as can be.

*

When I say I went to Iceland to ride horses, I did not know riding Icelandic horses would also return a part of me. That is to say, I have lived wild. I did not know love and peace until I married. I moved around the world, alone, went without knowing where I’d be tomorrow, did not care for tomorrow, made rash and reckless decisions based on passion and kismet that left me sleeping in strange places, sharing strange rooms with women who’d disappear in a matter of weeks from my life. That is to say, how I lived is how I wrote. That has been the central tenet and truth in which I’d staked my life as a writer. It has been filled with neither longterm happiness nor unhappiness. It was a matter of survival, that I attempted to live by my own rules. I was very much alone in the world, and it sustained me. A wash-and-wear life, torn sundresses, matted hair, long bus rides that broke night, leading me, always, to a frightening elsewhere that I had to face, and did face, with a sort of optimism that I owed nobody anything, that I had made it this far, and there was always further to go. I was always, in a sense, awake. And ready.

And then I fell ill . . .

. . . and my writing had to slow down, look further into itself. My work changed, and for the better. My writing itself now has futures that it did not before. Focus. It has grown into something wiser or at least perspicacious and yet—

And yet—

*

That first day, in late afternoon, we crossed a river one last time. Odin and I had fallen behind again, and were the last ones to cross. It began to sleet and rain at the same time. I remember when we first entered the river I gazed upon the horses who’d just crossed, their hindquarters soaked and shaking off torrents of cold water. Odin took me nearly straight down a slope, the feeling of falling returning as I straightened my spine and held onto him with my legs. We entered the river, and when we reached halfway, he stopped. He froze.

Across the river, the group had already gone on, and only my husband and the guide who’d first given me Odin remained behind. I saw them turn around, and look at us. I realized I was sitting on a very still horse in the middle of a river, with water up to my waist.

The guide called out to us, and began to turn his horse around.

It was in that moment that I became fully present.

Something kicked inside me, something of that self-reliant problem solver who walks right upon the delicate seams of the collective whole. There was a strange sense of closeness between this horse and me only in an open field where everything is roughly hewn, ash, dust, wind, explosive. Something in me, in him and me, became new to this earth.

I was dissolving in all but this moment.

There was a break. There was cold water seeping through my clothes, and the flesh of the ghost was given. Something kicked inside me, the first me. I turned myself over to Odin as he turned himself over to me. I pulled the reins to the right, and kicked him gently to move. My entire lower body was in the river. I could do this. I leaned into him, and then lifted myself up. The water was moving fast but we were faster. We were reactive. We were volatile.

What I have been is not yet lost.

*

If humankind disappears, I would not mourn this. Because I am quite certain these horses—who thrive in the uninhabitable—will inherit these continents that soon will be pushed together. Because I am quite certain that Odin knows his thousand year history, in a way that does not require words.

I would not weep if the future means no speech like our speech, no language, no poetry as we have defined. For there is a poetry beyond us, for the next not our of kin. If in future eras no one will know what it means to “read” and our books will go unread, turn to dust, to earth, while the über-horse lives on, breaks our laws, disregards our borders, and runs with and loves any horse of their choosing, I would not think this world lost.

Perhaps we have to overcome what makes us human to understand the rest of the world around us. Perhaps part of that is letting go what we think is best for all living things. Perhaps part of that is forgetting language, forgetting the self as that language alone makes. Yet in order to convey these experiences and ideas what else can I use?

I wish I could send every poet and writer a horse for their dreams.

When Odin and I came out of the river, our group soon dismounted again at a homestead where we’d spend the night. My horse shook the water off his body and grazed while Brian and I showered in hot water heated by geothermal power. Then, having changed clothes, my husband and I sat bundled up in a field looking at the stars, waiting for our guide who’d take us to “chase” the Northern Lights.

Before we left that night, I said good night to Odin, and that I’d see him in the morning. I laid my head against his still-damp skin. I could hear him breathing. I still do. I will always remember that deep chamber of being, the rising and falling of him. I left part of myself there, within him, in that soft earth of an eye, his wet earth eye, that weary eye if weary were the sum total of his world. Trust me, says the eye. Trust.

If we could entrust this planet to only one kind, I’d stake my life on the horses. May they inherit the earth.