Iceland

by Jon Crane (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Iceland

Prior to my trip to Iceland, I’d seen my share of mountainous island roads – from cliffside switchbacks of St. John to Maui’s Hana Highway. I expected challenging conditions on Iceland – after all, it was mid-February, but nothing prepared me for what I encountered on day four of our journey around the island. We arrived in Reykjavik for a long-awaited adventure of Iceland – myself and my wife, Jess. We planned to stay in Reykjavík, but soon realized we would have to sleep in various cities around the island if we were to see all the spots on our list. So we cancelled our reservations in the capital city and on the second day headed north up the west coast of the island with no booked hotel rooms and limited GPS. A true adventure. The new plan was to circumnavigate Iceland in seven days. By the third day we made it to Husavik, a charming village nestled on the shores of a deep fjord, surrounded by snow-capped mountains. We hadn’t encountered anything that bad about the roads – most weren’t paved, but they had been drivable. We were alive. The vehicle still worked. We found a hotel room with windows that overlooked a serene bay dotted with fishing vessels. We ate dinner in our room and scoured the deep sky for the elusive aroura borealis as we planned the next day’s adventure. In the morning, we drove with hopes of making it to the icy coastline at the mouth of Vatnajokull, Iceland’s slowly melting glacier. At my insistence, against Jess’s better judgement, we decided on the most direct route – it would take us through center of the island and bypass the northernmost fjords. Jess was hesitant, but it was a calculated risk – the fjords would add hours to our trip, but the direct route took us through snow and potentially more hazardous conditions. A few hours into the journey, we entered the higher plains – an alien landscape of lava and black sand dusted with snow. Although unpaved, the road was in better condition than we expected, which helped calm Jess’s nerves. By mid-afternoon, I was breathing relief. We were making good time and a light snow was falling. We stopped at a point where the road crossed a half-frozen river, stepped out of our vehicle into the icy air, and snapped pics of the crystal gray water rushing under bulbous mounds of frozen snow. But the tranquility was short lived. After our pit stop, the road began its descent from the center of the island towards the south east coast. The gentle snow quickly turned to a driving rain. We came to a Y in the road that was not on our map. Two mud-soaked dirt roads converged – and neither seemed a good choice. The rain was increasing. A river of mud was forming on the road. We were both on the edge of panic. We chose the road that seemed the least treacherous, although we couldn’t see past a blind curve ten yards ahead. As we rounded the curve, my mouth dropped open and Jess crumpled away from her door – there was a sheer drop on one side of the road that led to a deep ravine with a raging river. The one lane road cut a steep decline towards the coast. Panic set in. There were no guard rails. Every turn put the tires within inches of slipping into the ravine. I glanced at Jess – fingers like claws, rigid body, terror on her face. “Watch the road!” she yelled. Thirty minutes later, we stopped and took a moment to breathe – we had survived. I looked back at the slick cliffs and the raging waterfall and shuddered. But the day wasn’t over. Sunset was near and we were isolated on the eastern edge of Iceland. We continued our journey into more unknown territory, and as we approached the tip of the fjord, where the road turned south along the east coast, I glanced in the rearview for one last look at the glaciated valley we had just traversed and relished in that rare feeling that only comes when you know you’ve put your life in danger for the pursuit of adventure.