Circling Iceland

As we pulled away from the Blue Lagoon, headed toward a small fishing town, I could feel the atmosphere dim. Being this far north, there were still several daylight hours remaining, but the beginnings of dawn mixed with the grey clouds to produce a solemness over the barren land.

The town was as nondescript as the surrounding landscape, with architecture reminiscent of Soviet Russia. At 9 p.m., the last open restaurant was a diner of sorts that served bar food. We ordered four cheeseburgers and a bag of fries, which we ate at one of the wooden tables while searching for nearby campgrounds—Iceland requires all travelers to sleep overnight at designated camping areas.

We drove east along the southern coast for about two hours before pulling off onto a dirt road that led to a camping area near the beach. There were three other vehicles parked around the lot, with a short walk to a mobile yellow washroom. Bret, Shantanu, and I rearranged the SUV for the night: we expanded the rooftop tent, consolidated our gear into the front, collapsed the back seats, and set out a mattress and sleeping bags.

It was raining when we first woke. I could barely see through the droplets on the windows, but the gentle thudding made it easy to fall back asleep. I probably slept for another hour before Bret left for the restroom. When he opened the door, a cold gust of wind filled the cabin.

Driving along the ring road, we came upon a tall waterfall, Gljúfrabúi, on the left. We pulled into the nearby parking lot, which was starting to fill with jeeps and campers, and walked into the drizzle and mist floating from the base. Following a wet bouldering path, we were able to climb behind the waterfall, protected overhead from a protrusion of mountain. We left with some warm coffee and sandwiches from a food stand.

Our next stop was one of the most spectacular sights of the trip. Pulling onto a random dirt road, we drove to within 300 yards of the Sólheimajökull glacier. This massive block of ice is near the southernmost tip of Iceland. It occupies a valley that terminates in a vibrant blue lake filled with chunks of floating ice. Bret picked a piece of ice from the water and started eating it.

We drove onward to a small town on the southeastern perimeter. By 7 p.m., the rain and clouds dispersed to reveal the sun. It was getting warm, but a gusting wind prevented any lasting comfort. We ate dinner at an American diner and then drove half a mile down the street to a large camp facility with hot showers. The attendant at the desk instructed us to park the Explorer near a hill for protection from the wind. “There’s supposed to be a big storm tomorrow.”

By midnight, the wind was whipping across the lot, catching our rooftop tent like a sail and shaking the SUV from side-to-side. Situated in the cabin, Bret and I started to laugh in disbelief—how was Shantanu managing to sleep? After 30 minutes, Bret opened the side door—pushing with force—and offered Shantanu shelter inside the vehicle. He accepted, and we snuggled in the back of the compact Ford Explorer like match sticks.

At 7 a.m. the wind was blowing fiercely, but there was not one cloud in the sky. Faster than the day before, we rearranged the SUV and were back on the road, aiming to travel north along the eastern coast. Approaching an intersection outside of the town, we were waved down by a highway patrol officer.

“We’re advising everyone to avoid travel till the storm clears,” he said, raising his voice over gusts of wind. “The wind is reaching speeds of 40 meters per second [90 mph].” He pointed to a nearby electronic sign with weather data. “Cars have been getting blown off the road all morning.”

“What time will the storm end?” we asked.

“About 4 p.m.”

We shot glances at each other, then back at the officer.

“At this time, we’re not closing the road. You can drive at your own risk.” He looked at the roof of the Explorer. “But with this thing, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Bret pulled into a small nearby lot, which was starting to fill with cars facing the same decision—to lose a day of travel or risk the storm.

“I think we should do it,” I said, after a short period of deliberation. “I support whatever the group wants, but I think the risks are low. At worst, the wind will rip off the tent and Shantanu will have to sleep with us in the back for the next two nights.”

Bret and Shantanu agreed, and we were the only car to exit the lot headed north on the ring road. Moments later, the highway patrolman stepped out of his van and spread a roadblock across the highway entrance. We were committed.

Bret drove cautiously. We were the only vehicle on the road for as far as the eye could see. To our left was the a mountain ridge that ran parallel to the coast; to our right, the ocean. Every few miles, we came across a short one-lane bridge that crossed a small river leading into the sea. Each time, Bret slowed to the entrance and creeped along at about 15 mph. We all sat in silence listening to the wind, waiting for a sudden gush that would tip the Explorer over the rail.

With the strong gusts, we felt and heard the roof of the Explorer deform. As expected, the wind was catching the underside of the flat tent container, stressing the sports rack that was bolted to the vehicle. At one instance, the popping sound was so aggressive that we feared part of the rack had, infact, separated. Bret pulled off to the side for an inspection.

Fortunately, the sport rack and tent remained firmly attached. Bret and I swapped drivers, and I continued along the ring road for another half-hour before turning left into the mountains.

The road became unpaved with a steep incline. Though not as exposed, the wind gusts continued to shake the vehicle and pelt it with rocks. Every so often, we heard an abrupt ding as a large piece of gravel impacted the side of the Explorer.

By noon, it was obvious that the winds were dying down. The sun gave way to clouds and drizzle as we arrived at the vibrant green Fjadrargljufur canyon. The sites were beautiful, but visitors were only allowed to walk on a designated path to protect the surrounding nature. We soon made our way to lunch and then continued northwest through the snowy mountainscape.

At one point we crossed a dam and climbed an icy road to a dead end. Off to the right were two gravel side roads that led away from the highway. One of these roads was marked closed with a chain, but the other was open. Shantanu turned onto the road and drove down a hill into the mountainous valley.

The Explorer bobbed up and down as we crossed large stones and potholes. After an hour, when we reached the bottom of the valley, the road became mostly flat and worn. Up ahead we could see a creek that ran across the valley, intersecting the road with a small stone bridge. Approaching the bridge, we saw that the ramp had been washed away, probably from melted snow, leaving a chaotic mess of rubble in its place. The creek had also branched off to form a stream in front of the ramp. To reach the other side, we would need to cross the stream and drive up the boulder path to the bridge platform, which remained intact.

“Now we know why one of the entrances was blocked,” said Bret.

I stared ahead at the obstacles. From the driver’s seat, Shantanu asked if the Explorer was able handle that terrain. None of us knew for sure.

“Our only options are to cross the creek or return the way we came,” said Bret after a few moments of silence.

I glanced over at the fuel gauge, which indicated less than a quarter of a tank. “I don’t think we have enough fuel to drive back to a station,” I said. “I think the Explorer can make it.”

Shantanu switched with me as the driver. He went around to the passenger’s seat, while Bret ran ahead to inspect the ramp. I put the Explorer—an automatic vehicle—into first gear for maximum torque. Then I drove forward through a muddy section preceding the stream. Hesitating, the wheels lost traction and started spinning in the soft earth, sinking the heavy vehicle.

Bret and Shantanu went to the back of the SUV to push, while I bottomed out the accelerator. The Explorer learched forward out of the mud. Now feet away from the stream and rock slide, I paused for a moment to visualize the path. Bret ran to the bridge and indicated the direction with the lowest gradient. With a deep breath, I accelerated through the stream and climbed the loose rocks. As soon as I felt the front wheels bounce onto the top of the bridge, I knew we were going to make it.

I looked back in the side mirror and saw Bret and Shantanu celebrating. They jogged to the car and we continued along the flat dirt road till we reached the terminus and found a paved highway.

After only 15 minutes on the highway, we turned onto a bridge and crossed the Jokulsargljufur Canyon. Parking the car, we walked along the edge of the canyon on a dirt trail. About a mile into the trail, we were able to climb down into the canyon and view the hexagonal basalt columns from below. These columns form from the rapid cooling of lava, the hexagonal cross-section arising from cracks in the rock as it solidifies from below, where it contacts the earth’s crust, and above, where it contacts the atmosphere, eventually meeting in the middle.

Water flowing from streams into the canyon carried iron from the soil, staining sections of the columns orange, and copper, giving a greenish-blue hue to the river flowing along the base. Over time, columns touching the river fracture and collapse, leaving behind basalt “stumps” that created an awkward walkway. We jumped from platform to platform, brushing past travelers of all ages.

From Jokulsargljufur, we continued on the ring road another hour to the nearby town of Reykjahlíð, situated alongisde the volcanic lake Mývatn. Surrounding the lake are heated lagoons, geisers, fumaroles—natural vents that release volcanic gases and vapors—and boiling mud spots. Situated on the lakefront was the Vogafjós Farm Resort, a farm-to-table restaurant with outstanding food. The restaurant procured lamb from local shepherds, sourced local vegetables, and produced their own cheeses from cows housed behind the dining facility. We feasted on tender lamb shanks, then went to pet the cows before dusk.

Down the road from the restaurant was a campground with a pizza cafe called Daddi’s. At 10 p.m., the cafe was filled with travelers from every corner of the world. We ordered a small pizza to share, then took turns showering in the mobile water closet. In the morning, we drove over to Hverfjall, an extinct volcano on the edge of town. It only took 20 minutes to climb the ashy trail to the crater, which easily spanned a half-mile in diameter.

Back on the road, we drove west to one of the largest cities in northern Iceland, Akureyri. There, resting at a cafe, we met an older Australian couple who were halfway through a two-week trip around the ring road. For an hour, we compared various cities and travel destinations. The couple had been on nearly constant holiday since their retirement.

“I don’t think I’ve been to any place that I didn’t like,” remarked the woman to me.

“I’ve enjoyed most of the places I’ve visited,” I started, “but there are only a few where I could live for an extended period of time.”

She also commented on American travelers: “You Americans are never prepared for the weather. Every American we’ve met has been wearing jeans and summer clothes.”

From Akureyri, we sped through the mountains to the western coast, where we stopped at Hvammsvik hot springs, about an hour due north of Reykjavík. This spa was built on the Atlanic coast, hosting several pools of varying temperature. One of these pools was placed a few feet from the ocean waters, and presumably becomes engulfed during high tide. The temperature of the water inside this pool matched the ocean temperature—it was an all-natural Danish plunge.

As the sky grew dark grey and started to drizzle, Bret, Shantanu, and I submerged in the steaming waters.

“Are you going into the ocean?” asked Bret.

“Of course,” I said.

“I don’t think you will once you feel the temperature,” he challenged.

In response, I lifted myself from the spring and stepped over the stone wall. I gingerly walked across the rocky beach to the water’s edge and slowly walked into the ocean. Once my body was half-submerged, I looked back to see Bret and Shantanu on the shore, then turned to face the empty Atlantic. Only a few hudred miles ahead was the icy shores of Greenland. With a deep breath, I dove into the water. When I resurfaced, I saw Bret and Shantanu wading into the ocean in the distance.