Hairs bristled on my arm as fog suddenly shrouded the path from view either before or behind us. We'd been warned this might happen in a hiking section of one of those pamphlets you get at the tourist office; we'd even read what to do—crouch in one spot until the mist that tucks the Faroe Islands in early-morning and night like a loving parent passes like a dream state, leaving you breathless and cold with sweat. I keenly searched my husband's eyes for signs of doubt as we debated what to do; he was sure if we headed downhill (due south) we'd hit the village of Tvøroyri, or road. Hand-in-hand, our waterproofs dripping with condensation and rain, we made our descent following a midday hike to Hvannhagi.
View of Hvannhagi lake, near Tvøroyri, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
Our generation has been accused of cowardice, sedentariness, complacency, risk aversion—the 'go-nowhere generation'. Statistics suggest we don't get married enough, relocate for jobs enough, or even get drivers' licenses as frequently as past generations. Stuck in a mire of navel gazing in the post-social media-apocalypse, we're apparently so scared of leaving the comforts of home we never make the jump to adulthood (so-called 'peter-pan generation'). "Real social consequences" be damned Arthur C. Brooks would say: like student debt, divorce rates, job dissatisfaction. With a misguided sense of 'prudence' ("imprudently risk-averse behavior"), we never plunge blindly into fog. Never-mind that listed prudent options are a sing-song of traditionalist behaviour, recipes for twentieth century happiness. Never-mind truly imprudent, risky behaviour.
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The day started out crystalline blue and post-card perfect as we wound our way round cliff's edges and inlets toward the Akraberg lighthouse. That morning—with no solid plan of what to do on Suðuroy, the most southerly of the Faroe Islands—and while noshing on day-old frozen pizza for breakfast—the perils of travelling on local holidays (Whit Sunday, Whit Monday)—I scoured the internet for the one photographic location I knew wanted to visit: Beinisvørð. Via Instagram and GoogleMap queries, I jotted down notes for a day sans Wi-Fi before hitting the road. From what I could tell, the cliff's edge we sought was somewhere near the lighthouse at the southernmost point of the island. Setting a nauseating pace as our car climbed upward (my husband approaches switchbacks like a rally-car driver), we ascended into cloud hovering on the cusp of what we surmised was our destination; a barely visible navy and white tourist sign confirmed it. Undeterred, we continued on toward Sumba, the village closest to the lighthouse, descending again into blue sky. At the lighthouse, vast ocean spanned before us as for explorers of old.
The road up to Beinisvørð, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
Akraberg lighthouse, located at the most southerly tip of Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
One-year prior, we'd made the unconventional choice to leave well-paying jobs in the middle of the well-documented joblessness crisis facing millennials to live out of our truck at a time when our peers were settling into mortgages or parenthood. We didn't make our decision lightly by coin-toss (see the Brooks article), but in the footsteps of family-members who'd done the same to live as an artist and writer in Vancouver, the most expensive city in North America: seven years on, things weren't utopian, but liveable—payments met, dreams doggedly (if sometimes exhaustingly) pursued. With a series of contract jobs lined up, we'd live life on the road. We'd have mail forwarded. We'd deal with interprovincial paperwork and taxation issues. We'd be able to pay down student debt, we bet, and we had a back-up plan should things not work out. But it was the unknown, not easily explained by parents at summer BBQs or Christmas parties ('Where is your child living/working now?'). There would be the tedium of repeated house moves, we knew; the groundlessness of staying in too many identical, sterile hotel rooms, so we rescued some highly impractical ceramic mugs from our storage unit to exude homeyness. Wise or not, my husband had seen the regrets of a life cut short through his work as a physician; I already had regret for finishing my Master's.
In Hov, shortly after our mid-afternoon hike and early supper at our vacation rental (pizza, again, and gas station cookies), I Googled local weather, tracked infrared cloud imagery. The northern half of the island was blanketed in cloud cover, while the southern half stood open in time for the extended arctic sunset. 'Birthday boy' was ill—again—so we quickly discussed not going. But we carpe diem like the best of 'em, so off we went to make the hour-long ascent by car once more.
Halfway up the hill to Beinisvørð it's looking unlikely we'll get our view. Cloud banks are moving quickly over the landscape now, terrain and ocean in a spirited game of hide and seek with us. We park the car, snap the opening act of an upcoming golden sunset, glance with dismay over our shoulders at an encased Beinisvørð. Then we're chased back in our car mid photography session by an angry ewe. Two former country kids stare in awe as a mother's indignant spittle mists our windows ('This is my baby lamb, what are YOU doing here!') before realizing this is within our skill set; out of the car, tripod-cum-improvised-sheep's-crook up, photo taken. Then we continue on, and finally park ourselves by the tourist sign.
Road-side view on the second drive to Beinisvørð, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
Forty minutes pass, and my husband's abdominal pain worsens, his fever returning. He predicts, from a roster of signs and symptoms in his head, he'll be passing a kidney stone; I, horrified, try to call the whole thing off. He insists we stay—proof of the axiom doctors make the worst patients—pops some paracetamol, settles in for a nap. Then cloud draws breath and suddenly exhales itself off the cliff's edge.
Birds soar by as I fiddle madly with equipment, scrambling and teetering close to the opening of a giant crevice. Winds gust and light mist continues to roll up the hill side, envelop us (birthday boy's up!), then dissipate on its flight down to the ocean below. Its the most poignantly beautiful thing either of us has seen, made all the more staccato because my husband is truly sick. But neither of us is willing to evacuate; we signed up for this, uncertainty, discomfort, adventure—a pock-marked bohemian rhapsody.
A lone bird soars through mist at Beinisvørð, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
Sunset view on the return drive from Beinisvørð, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
On the return ferry from Suðuroy, satiny, Adidas-clad children leap past us two steps at a time to the dining area, smelling of victory and pre-teenaged pungency following a weekend of soccer-playing. Laughing grandparents trail behind. We settle into another stodgy meal of hot-dogs and decanted coffee with hot chocolate as I contemplate impending sea-sickness on choppy water; pacing the deck to mitigate wooziness, I think about age, generational gaps, risk. In our mid-thirties, we still haven't landed sure-footed into adulthood, but rather resemble those kids bounding missed steps. We took a direct line to our car, blind, with nothing but a feeling (perception) of the path ahead.
Hvalba at sunset, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.
This morning, sixteen months after our initial uprooting, I sat drinking tea in a rented seaside cottage surrounded by boxes signalling yet another impending move, and watched the sun rise while a seal fished out front. There's a line in American Hustle delivered by a truly vile character about her nail top coat, "It's like, perfumey, but there's also something, rotten. And I know that sounds crazy, but I can't get enough of it"—nuanced commentary about the bittersweet nature of life, yin-yang, all that jazz. One thing I know is: choose your sweet, perfumed top-note. Protestant work ethic may advise prudence; descend, if you can, (just a little) into mist.
Try It: To hike to Hvannhagi, see www.visitfaroeislands.com. I highly recommend returning via the gorge, but as the directions state there is no visible path for a time.
Sunset at Norðbergseiði, near the village of Hvalba, Suðuroy, Faroe Islands.