Never in my life have I had such a platter of beauty, oddity, and outright perfection placed right before my eyes. Iceland was a feast for my eyes, my heart, my body, my soul. It was a seemingly endless buffet of one spectacular view after another. Mountains. Volcanoes. Glaciers. Hot springs. Raging rivers. Glorious waterfalls. Red. Green. Brown. Grey. Black ash sands. Blue ice caves.
I was a glutton.
It was enough to make a girl realize that she is really just one small, insignificant, and oh-so-lucky cog in the wheel of life. Nature rules this roost.
Landmannalauger
After a night in a local boutique hotel and a early morning shower that smelled like farts (thank you, geothermal heating!), I met the rest of our tour group in Reykjavik. Our guide, a big, burly, Brit with a dry sense of humour and a deeply-rooted passion for the land picked us up in a big van with a luggage tow. The morning was cloudy. It rained on and off. The wind roared. It felt like November in Vancouver.
But the magic of Iceland, as I quickly found out, is that even in a raging storm, with nearly zero visibility, with cold hands and wet feet, it somehow manages to mesmerize. It still stands strong with beauty.
The rain pelted against the windshield as we drove Northwest from Reykjavik through Selfoss, past the infamous Mount Hekla (a moody volcano known for blowing its lid) and onto our first camp in Landmannalauger.
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| Mount Hekla |
Landmannalauger is a hub for this trek. Icelanders sometimes drive in for the weekend for day hikes. And world travellers come to start one of the world's undeniably most interesting and diverse treks: It's called the "Laugavegurinn" trek. "Hot Spring Route". Which made perfect sense, we quickly found out, as the terrain was dotted with geothermal hotspots, bubbling mud pots, and steamy, sulfuric rivers.
We set up camp in the wind and drizzle and set off for a quick day hike to warm up our legs for the journey ahead and open our eyes with a glimpse of what was to come.
The Landmannalauger camp is surrounded by mossy stone cliffs, odd lava fissures, steamy red, white, and brown mountains. It's a rhyolite wonderland. There are hotsprings and reedy grasses and black rocks and red stones.
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| Rhyolite mountains and cotton grass. Oh my! |
"
This is Iceland." said our guide matter-of-factly at the top of one of our ascents when the clouds parted and a bit of sun shone down on the mossy east side of an adjacent mountain making it shine like a pile of emeralds in a sea of diamonds. He looked around. He was proud.
"
Whoa." I said.
He smiled big and chuckled.
In less than 24 hours, I was drunk on Iceland.
Landmannaluager to Hrafntinnusker
The night raged with weather systems. From inside our little tent, it seemed like meteological warfare was one zipper away from ripping us out of our sleeping bags and into an Icelandic abyss. We didn't sleep a wink. No one did. We had to collect rocks and pile them on top of tent pegs just to hold our tents down.
Like our guide said: "
Weather changes in an instant here. You have to be careful."
It was summer but winter was saying hello.
The sun rose again at 4:30 behind clouds and a gale force wind that nearly knocked us sideways.
We met in the kitchen tent for bad coffee, lumpy porridge, and a pep talk.
"It's going to be cold and wet," said our guide. "So don't die."
With tents packed, lunch made, and clothing sufficiently layered, we huddled in the kitchen tent one last time.
"I
t's not going to get dryer," said our guide.
He smiled, wryly.
"
Let's go!"
As we began our ascent, the clouds hung low, the wind roared from the West, and the rain persisted. At times, we could barely see the person in front of us let alone scenery. We were trekking inside a storm cloud in one of the most beautiful parts of the country.
"
If you could see, you wouldn't believe it anyway," said our guide. And we pressed forth.
The trek to Hrafntinnusker is about 12km with an elevation gain of about 500 meters overall. It's fairly undulating and unforgiving. Slabs of rock and a plateau of stone and moss seemed to be underfoot. But, then again, we couldn't really see and, after a few hours, we couldn't really "feel" the landscape either.
It wasn't long until we all were wet. Not just our clothes, but our souls. The rain whipped at our left sides leaving us raw, frigid, and blue in the face. The wind was merciless and we bore into it with heads hung and hearts full.
"
When you go down here, you go down fast," warned our guide as we started to slow and our spirits plummeted. We trudged forth. Together. A band of a dozen. Man versus nature. It was the stuff that the "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" cliché is made of.
Four hours in, I couldn't feel my fingers or toes. I stood in geothermal steam, coughing on the thick sulphuric air, just for some reprieve from the harsh lashing Mother Nature was dishing out.
I've never been so cold or so wet or so unsure of my ability to carry on.
And yet, I've never felt more alive.
Suddenly, in the dense fog, a rock cairn emerged. In the centre, a small plaque – a memorial to an Israeli hiker who died at this very spot, a few years before, when the weather turned quickly one summer from sun to blizzard in a heartbeat. He was only 2 kilometers from the safe hut. "So close but so far" the memorial said.
It was a reminder as sharp as the wind-thrust raindrops slicing our faces that Mother Nature is God in this country.
There were no pictures today. No moments of sunshine. No opportunities to gasp in awe at ancient lava floes and odd fissures and rhyolite rainbows.
We arrived at the Safe Hut with blue lips, chattering teeth, and a very clear idea of what kind of trouble the weather here could dish out.
We realized how grateful we were for a knowledgeable guide and warm clothes when, at 12 a.m., the warden of the safe hut received a call about a missing hiker. Our guide and the warden went out in the weather to look for him and found him cold and delirious (and very lost) only a kilometer from the hut!
Hrafntinnusker to Hvanngill
The next morning we woke up to one very big cloud – and we were in it.
Still no view and no idea of what the landscape around us looked like. Rain drizzled. A brisk wind lashed out.
I put my wet gear – now stinky and damp – back on from the day before. Something my body tried hard to rebel against. Wet pants. Wet socks. Wet shoes. Wet everything. It was a fairly miserable start.
But from the moment my boots first hit the soil, the weather began it's transformation.
The clouds lifted just long enough and sporadically enough to give us bird's eye views of the Kaldak glacier to the east, rich red glacial streams running fast and furious with iron-stained water, and the glass-like obsidian fields underfoot – cooled magma that shimmers like black glass.
We gained about 500 meters in elevation over the course of the day. Most of it steeply before noon in rain and cloud, it seemed. As the clouds lifted higher, our guide took us off the beaten path to see some extraordinary sights – namely an ice cave in a mountain crevice that was blue and green with prehistoric ice. It was magnificent. Strong, beautiful, frightening, incredible.
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| Ice cave! |
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| River crossing |
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| Sunshine and glacial lake |
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| Home sweet home. |
We embarked on our first river crossing – a thigh-high rapid that was colder than anything I'd ever felt. In just 15 seconds across, my legs stung and my toes curled. It was thrilling.
Four hours into our hike, a gust of wind blew in and took with it the rain cloud that had been shadowing our journey for the past two days. And suddenly, we could see. Like REALLY see.
The sun's reflection off of obsidian fields was nearly blinding but brilliant. The texture of moss was extraordinary – lime green and richly velvet. The glacial rivers gushed. Water goblets on moss gathered like pillowed clouds. There were mountains, volcanoes, and glaciers undulating throughout the landscape further than my eyes could see. The glacial lake at Alftavatn glowed heavenly in the distance.
The terrain changed with every step it seemed – obsidian, large fissures, red rock, grey rock-like moss, rich green moss, brown rhyolite, loose scree, big flat rocks... Every step was a new experience.
I looked around. Eyes wide. Heart open.
This is why I came to Iceland.
Hvanngill to Emstrur
Our night in Hvanngill was glorious. No wind. No rain. A peaceful sleep. We woke up to nearly clear skies and a warm sun. The surrounding mountains were glowing like polished emeralds.
We charted our course with porridge in mugs and excitement in our hearts.
The day was filled with magical sites. We spent 3 hours trekking through a black ash desert – like walking on coarse sand. It was flat, long, and desolate, yet surrounded by glaciers and huge volcanic fissures. Long gone was the moss and colourful rhyolite from yesterday. The landscape was grey, gritty, and Mars-like. I felt like we'd left the planet for a while. It was utterly barren and yet somehow breathtakingly beautiful.
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| Cooled lava on river's edge |
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| Ash desert |
When we'd successfully waded through this sea of ash, we started to head upwards again and bear off the usual path. We crossed two rivers. We climbed rocky ridges. And we scaled a mountain that gave us an extraordinary humbling view of both where we'd come from and where we were heading. The magnitude of this 360-degree view nearly knocked me off my feet. I felt like a small pawn in a big beautiful world. I felt lucky and alive. I have never seen anything so utterly odd and incredible and beautiful and unreal in all my 34 years.
I wanted to stand there and soak in the breeze, the ashy wind, the glowing rocks.
The trek down to Emstrur from here was steep but inviting. Our campsite for the night was hugged on all sides by rocky exploits and glacial views.
The Markafljotsgljufur canyon was a 20 minute hike away. We hadn't had a chance to explore together, so I took advantage of the 19 hours of sunlight that Iceland in August offers, set up the tent, changed my socks, and headed off solo up to the canyon.
"It's quite something," my guide had said earlier that day. And he was right.
The canyon is over 100 meters deep in the heart of the Icelandic Highlands. The edges are dotted with sheep precariously close to danger. Snow buntings soar above the roaring water – a culmination of a number of glacier-fed rivers that all end up here.
It looked as if the world had opened up and swallowed a piece of Iceland whole.
It was monumental.
And yet calming.
I sat on the edge, feet dangling over the abyss, laughed at how Mom would hate how close I was to the edge at this moment (sorry mom!). And for the first time on this trek I started to sort things out, think about my life, my work, my goals. At that canyon side, there was clarity like I haven't had in quite some time. And I drank it up. Soaked it in. Smiled.
Emstrur to Porsmork
Mother Nature woke us up with another beautiful sunrise at 4 a.m. It's hard to sleep in Iceland when the sun shines 'round the clock. We set forth to walk around the canyon – a series of ups and downs with a few SpiderMan-like ascents that make a businesswoman feel all kinds of cool.
Some of the canyon-side was cooled lava in wild formations. It was like the kind of art you see in downtown cores with a texture that people stare at. They know they like it they just don't know why.
It was sharp and jagged and abstract yet patterned and almost purposeful.
The landscape changed quickly. Long gone was the ash desert and rugged volcanic rocks. Suddenly we found ourselves climbing across thickly-mossed rock, down grassy knolls, and around trails covered with dwarf birch.
"
Finally! Trees!" our guide said with a smirk.
We looked around and at each other.
There were no trees. No vegetation more than an inch off the ground. We were puzzled.
He pointed to a viney lifeform explanding on the ground. It was leafy (the first leaves I'd seen since I arrived) and dark, vibrant green.
"
It's a dwarf birch" he said.
Dwarf was an understatement but it was miraculous to see how plants take root in seemingly desolate places. The more we walked, the more colourful it became. The more "trees" we saw. More flowers. More leaves. More moss. Even some berries.
It didn't make sense that just 24 hours before we'd been lunching on jagged volcanic rocks surrounded by black and grey.
We came to our biggest river crossing. Thigh-deep, thrashing rapids, glacier-fed, colder than ice.
We fjorded the beast two by two, arms linked, hearts-apatter.
The first step from the edge went straight down. And I was submerged passed my knees.
"
Ready?" asked Jo.
"
Let's do it!"
And we slowly, steadily took small steps as the water crashed into our legs. Uprooted rocks hit our calves with blunt force. We felt the first few, but the water was biting cold and soon we'd lost all feeling in our toes, feet, and lower legs. We pressed on.
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| Arctic fox pup - rivereside |
The entire crossing was maybe a minute long. Short by all standards, yet long on guts, strength and bravery.
On the other side we all sat and gasped. Our legs were red. Our toes were blue. Our blood ran cold.
It would be another 45 minutes until I could feel my toes again.
It was one of the coolest things I've ever done. For one minute I was in this whirlpool of all nature had to offer. It was clear that She was strong and vibrant and rules this world. But She let me pass to see another day and explore more.
We arrived at Porsmork early. Our day was short (compared to the ones prior) because the next day would be 12-14 hours up and over a glacial pass.
Porsmork is possibly one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen.
Nestled on the banks of a cool, fast-flowing river underneath two glaciers and one active volcano, it is a small pocket of paradise.
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| Our glaciers. We climbed the pass through the middle. |
One of the Icelandic wardens had beers waiting for us, cooling in the glacial waters. After four days of trekking, sweating, shivering, and eating peanut butter sandwiches, it was a glorious site and a salivating treat.
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| Rainbow and cloud cover at Porsmork |
We shared laughs and good times with other campers at the site. We played with small arctic fox pups who had made their home underneath one of the huts. We watched a cloud roll in, rain on us, then roll out and leave a rainbow that glowed.
We watched the sun begin to set over Eyjafjallajokull and Myrdalsjokull, the two volcano/glaciers that we would climb and pass between tomorrow.
A cloud rolled in.
"
It might get ugly tomorrow," our guide warned. "
Be prepared. Dress warmly. Even if the sun is out."
Porsmork to Skogar
Surprisingly, we woke up to sunshine and a cool breeze. The peaks of our volcanoes were clear and the clouds seemed at bay to the East.
Our ascent through the Fimmvorduhals (as this area is called) started quickly. Our elevation gain was 1000+ meters and we pressed on over and through and around some of the most striking bits of landscape. We held on to chains – and each other. We crossed Kattyhirgyr – "The Cat's Spine" – a narrow path that drops well over 100 meters on either side. It's not for the faint at heart.
"
If you fall, you're not coming back," said our guide.
He smiled wryly then added: "
So don't fall, ok? Let's go!"
It was a frightening and invigorating stretch of trail. We then had to ascend up "Death's Knoll" (fairly self-explanatory). There's a small chain bolted into cracking rocks that may or may not be sturdy. We held on, dug our toes in deep, felt the lactic acid build up in our legs, and climbed on.
At the top, arms on knees, panting and smiling, I looked up: And there it was. A sheet of ice so blue and green and black and white it was like no colour I've ever seen, no painting I've ever cast my eyes on, no bit of nature I've ever stumbled across.
I nearly cried.
I felt it in my stomach.
And in my heart.
It was like instant love. I had goosebumps.
Not from the cold. From the sheer awesomeness of it.
I've never seen anything so glorious.
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| Speechless. |
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| At the top. |
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| Hot lava meets cool glacier |
So we trekked on for two more hours, surrounded by ice thousands of years old – here long before us and long after us too. Nature's gift of perspective, I suppose.
Though the sun was strong and the day was perfect for this type of ascent, the altitude brought with it bold winds and a few fat wet droplets.
We continued to climb. As we did, we came across the lava floe from Eyjafjallajokull – the volanco that erupted in April 2010 and left an ash cloud so big it hindered European air space for weeks. The lava was red and rocky, but steaming. Still hot from a two-year-old explosion. The ground was warm to touch, giving rubber soles only a few minutes standing still before melting them. The cooled lava was still in flow formation, like a waterfall frozen in time it hung between the pass, down through the canyon, and onward, steamy, red, and rocky.
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| Steamy lava |
We heard a thunderous BOOM! And in a split second there was an avalanche on the adjacent glacier – a wall of ice dropped like bricks into the canyon and onto the steaming lava. I felt like I was in a National Geographic TV episode. Nature was brooding before my eyes.
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| Ash craters |
At the top of the pass, we walked through a flat "field" of fine ash.
"
You're actually walking on the glacier" our guide pointed out.
The ice had been insulated with over a foot of black ash.
"
It actually prevents it from melting," he explained.
Little ash craters popped up everywhere – little breathing holes for the ice underneath. I was sure Neil Armstrong had seen something similar in 1969.
Our descent that afternoon was exactly the opposite of the morning's climb. Suddenly, we had moss underfoot, massive glacier waterfalls at every turn, huge canyons, throngs of sheep, rocky fields, flocks of birds over head, and even a few "trees".
Though the descent was first met with excitement and awe, after a few hours I started to feel uncertain. Not of the terrain or the time or the difficulty. Every step downward was a gutwrenching reminder of a life-changing trek coming to an end.
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| Canyon on the way down to Skogar |
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| Land ho! Civilization for the first time in a week. |
The more we trekked, the more I missed the week past.
About an hour from Skogar we started to see people – locals who hike this side of the mountain with iPods and trailrunners, much like I do on Grouse Mountain or in Deep Cove at home.
It was odd to see "the public". We were crusted in a week's worth of sweat and humbled by a week's worth of experiences. Music and running and general regular day life seemed so far away now. I felt like a woman raised by wolves seeing civilization for the first time. It was daunting and uncomfortable.
I wanted to be back on a glacial ridge, the wind whipping my hair, my molars making quick work of my stale peanut butter sandwich, as I stared into the horizon and beyond.
At the end of our trek is one of Iceland's largest waterfalls. It crashes majestically just west of a small farm. I thought of my brother and his family and how they'd love this little piece of paradise.
We all hugged. And paused. It was awkward – we experienced so much and now it seemed so abruptly over. A bus waited in the parking lot (a parking lot!) to take us to Reykjavik – a 2 hour drive west.
The bus ride was quiet. We were tired. We were stinky. We were sad. We were elated. We were an emotional dozen trying to sort out in our own minds what the last week had meant to us.
Adventure: Part II
After a day in Reykjavik loading up on cold beers and vegetables, washing our clothes in the sink of a hostel (note to travellers: there are no laundromats in Iceland as far as I can tell), and showering for way too long in a geothermal shower that smells like farts and counteracts the desire to be clean, we plotted a course of action.
Not to be outdone by our first week in the country, Jo and I decided to rent a car and a tent and travel west.
First stop: Armstapi
Tourists in Iceland always head East, so we headed west, looking for an unconventional adventure.
We loaded up our little Nissan with Icelandic groceries (same as other groceries just with ingredient lists that we can't read) and drove west.
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| Atlantic Ocean – Armstapi |
Though the Ring Road (the Icelandic version of the Trans Canada) has a speed limit of 90-100km/hr, we found ourselves stop and go for most of the time. Not because of traffic (there seems to be no such thing in Iceland. We maybe saw seven cars all day!), but because of unfenced sheep hanging out roadside, eyeing us curiously, and weighing the options of attacking our little Nissan head on or wandering back off into the fields.
After arriving in Armstapi and setting up camp, we explored a little – we hiked a horse trail around the base of the Snaefellsness volcano, checked out a roadside cave, and watched the waves of the Atlantic crash on west coast bluffs.
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| Bluffs in Armstapi |
Snaefellsnes
The snaefellsnes glacier is at the heart of one of the most famous novels in the world –
Journey to the Centre of the Earth by Jules Verne. It is legendary and holds watch over sweet fishing villages on the Straight of Denmark.
"We MUST hike that," I said to Jo in the morning, looking upon Snaefellnes from an unzippered tent door.
She smirked. Half cautious and half intrigued.
"We don't have a guide."
"We'll just go toward the snow. We'll find a trail and head up! When we want to come down, we'll keep our eyes on the Atlantic, and head west!"
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| There she is: Snaefellnes Glacier. |
She humoured me and we drove around Snaefellnes national park until we found a way in – a dirt road too rocky and uncertain for our little Nissan but perfect for our hiking boots and spirited sense of adventure.
We parked the car in Hellnar, suited up, and headed upward.
The day was the stuff novels are made of. Fitting for this occasion. Blue sky. Nary a cloud. Minimal wind. Blazing sun. We were in tank tops an hour in, with sweat on our backs and excitement in our chests.
The road up was windy and steep.
The higher we got, the more blue the ocean seemed in the distance, and the whiter the glacier glowed.
A few hours in, we ventured off the road and toward the glacier.
We had no intention of literally climbing to the peak – we'd need ropes and ice crampons for that.
We just wanted to get close enough to touch a piece of history and maybe throw a few snowballs too.
The closer we got, the more rocky it became. Literally like a gravel pit. Mountains of basketball-sized volcanic rock. Unsteady. Jet black. Unforgiving.
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| Getting close. Snow! |
Our feet burned. Our minds second-guessed every step.
But I had my eye on the prize: A bit of glacier a mere 500 ft forward and up.
Finally, after almost 4 hours, we hit the glacier, did snow angels, lunched on a field of fissures, basked in the sunlight and the 360-degree view – Atlantic to the West, volcanoes to the East.
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| Oh yes. I did. And it was c-o-o-o-o-ld. Thanks for taking my breath away, Snaefellnes! |
Like a few days before near Skogar, our trip down was tough on the feet but easy on the eyes. Waterfalls, sheep, and mossy hills all glimmered in the sunlight. Snaefellsnes looked more beautiful everytime we looked back. The Atlantic got bigger every time we looked forward.
At the end: a high-five.
We didn't die.
And then it rained
The remaining 4 days were rainy, cold, and foggy. We put up our tent in the rain. We took it down in the rain. We drove in the rain. We hiked in the rain. But every day, at one small moment, there would be a pocket of sunshine for just enough time at just the right moment. And we would be blessed by Iceland again.
We drove up the north coast to Blonduos, where the land is flat and watery, green and agricultural. Then we drove down through the interior, into Pingvellir and the tectonic divide, where the world literally opened up and grew upward, leaving two extraordinarily incredible walls of rock in the middle of the highlands. It's a historic place for Icelanders too – parliament would settle disputes in the canyon between the two walls. 10th century bodies are buried here. It's a place that feels rich with meaning.
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| Tectonic Divide – Pingvellir |
We veered off the tourist trail and onto a thin, semi-worn trail through the middle of the divide. Then we climbed up and up and up. Until we were on top of the world, with a view of Pingvalavatn – Iceland's largest natural lake and a place that made me think of Canadian cottage country (minus the trees).
"Listen" said Jo.
"What?" I asked. I heard nothing while I was still.
"Exactly," she said.
And we sat in silence on the ridge watching a storm cloud dump rain on the lake to the West while the sun warmed us from the East.
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| Lake at Pingvellir |
We drove east – through Selfoss, Skogar, and all the way to Vik on the Southern Coast.
The clouds were low and moody.
This southernmost village has a beautiful black sand beach. We stood and watched the rainy waves crash. I felt like I was in a black and white photograph or a Charlie Chaplin film. The world was colourless. And it was oddly serene.
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| Black Beach in Vik |
Waves crashed up against rocks jutting out of the ocean. Leftover fissures from Katla's last explosion in 1918.
We camped that night just a few kilometers past Skogar underneath a waterfall and listened to the rain pelt our tent with big drops.
Jo read from her Lonely Planet guide:
Vik is the rainiest city in Iceland.
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| Waterfall near Skogar |
I was getting used the rain. It didn't hinder our trip so much as make it more interesting.
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| Reykjanes |
The next day we drove southwest to explore the Reykjanes, Grindavik, and some geothermal hotspots that were rumoured in the interior. We hiked around bubbling grey mudpots and in sulphuric clouds. The mountains became grey, brown, red and green, like a loosely painted watercolour that seemed both wrong and completely right. We climbed cliff in the Reykjanes, a southwest pennisula famous for it's underwater volcanic activity. Sharp volcanic fissures stick out of the ocean oddly. The "beach" is a lava field – gnarly rocks and no vegetation. Seagulls are en masse, and somehow it's not annoying like seagulls at home. Somehow it's just right and beautiful and organic and perfect.
Every now and again a gust of wind gave us a breath of sulphur from the geothermal fields nearby.
Just a short trek inland, and the ground seemed to bubble everywhere. Literally boiling before our eyes.
It seemed like science fiction.
Midnight golf
We found a golf course near Grindavik with lava roughs and an ocean view and rented some clubs. It was the day of Uncle Phil's annual charity golf tournament at home, and it felt right to swing a club in his honour an ocean-width away from home.
Though it wasn't exactly midnight, the long days made it easy for us to golf well into the night and feel like it was midday.
With no trees, we could see the entire golf course from every tee and had to keep consulting our course map to know which way to go. At every tee we could see four or five fairways. It seemed like fair game.
The great thing about lava roughs is that you can always find your ball in a sea of black rock. The not so great thing is that a ball in the rough means a bounce or two or ten in all sorts of odd directions.
Leaving Iceland
"I don't know how I'll be able to describe this trip to people," said Jo over coffee on our way to Keflavik – and home.
There are no words, I thought.
Yet I'm filling this page with words upon words in hopes of trying to convey with some sort of accuracy how extraordinary this land and this adventure and this country are. And yet I can't find the right words. These sentences do little justice to a place that mesmerized me and healed me and excited me and freed me and amazed me and challenged me and embraced me.
Iceland is a special place.
Indescribable by all accounts.
In my lifetime, I don't know if I'll ever come across the words to truly articulate just how extraordinary it is.
I loved it all.
And my heart remains on a volcanic ridge overlooking a glacier with the sun shining and the wind howling and the silhouette of a Snow Bunting coasting through the sky.
