With another river crossing and a long walk across the dunes, we're back in camp.
As we walk up, the park ranger is waiting for us outside his hut. He already knows that we're from Tennessee (word gets around camp) and asks about our itinerary. Turns out he went over the pass from Hlöðuvik just the day before, and echoed the Swiss man's advice on making it through.
We end up talking for 2 hours about the nature reserve and the arctic foxes that it was created to protect, the legal aspects of protected land in Iceland, and the history of the area. His grandfather was born in a house on the Horn, just across the bay. He's working on a management proposal for dealing with the increased tourism to the reserve. For most of the year, he's the only ranger.
I wish I had taken his portrait. He was as much a part of Hornstrandir as the foxes, the fjords, and the sea.