Edge of the World

“So you’re just showing up? No guide?"

“Apart from polar bears, I think we have everything under control. They only wash up occasionally . . . but yeah . . . for that, there is no plan”. That’s how conversations went, before I left for Iceland. According to Woody Allen “80% of life is showing up”. Neither of us had ever done anything like this before. There was plenty of preparation and research. I felt like we had it covered—apart from polar bears, that is. 80% is just showing up, right?

Iceland is no secret. It seems like everyone—and their mother—has traveled there lately. Indeed, parts of this beautiful land are teeming with tour buses, but the part I was keen on visiting was not. With its fishing hamlets, the Westfjords is the final resting place of Icelandic culture—both geologically and spiritually, the oldest part of country. The region is ripe with mysticism—elf palaces, the Icelandic Museum of Sorcery and Witchcraft, and another hall dedicated to sea monsters—an intriguing proposition for a traveler seeking an experience somewhere beyond modern life. Rebelling against the circular island, its chaotic shoreline has more in common with an interpretive ink blot. It fans out to north and west, dozens of fingers spread wide, grasping at the Arctic. Hornstrandir is its most extended appendage, and most wild. That is where we found the Hornbarg.

Hornstrandir is empty wilderness. The trails that do appear, slip back into trackless stone and wetland once trekkers become too complacent with their heading. Only accessible by boat and on foot, the narrow bridge affixing it to the mainland is guarded by Drangajökull—the northern most of Iceland's glaciers—a natural fortification that keeps the secrets beyond safe from the outside world. Once sparsely inhabited, the locals left for less hostile parts of the country, the handful homes converted to summer cottages, and some, abandoned. The Hornbarg is its prized position. Where the world ends and the Arctic Circle begins, dramatic cliffs mark the divide. Ireland's Cliffs of Moher look timid by comparison. To stand on its precipice, we’d enter via boat, hike several days to our destination, and after, continue on to our pick-up rendezvous. Four days alone in the Arctic; the price of admission to stand at the edge of the world.

The other part of “we” is my buddy, Tom, who after suffering a week long propaganda campaign agreed to join the expedition. Trekking was new to us both. He had some basic camping gear. I did not—sleeping bag, sleeping pad, trekking pack, a friend's trekking poles—I needed everything. We spent months checking and double checking, pitching a tent on his apartment roof, making freeze dried food with a camping stove, and taking a wilderness survival course. The weather is Hornstrandir is tempestuous. We decided to arrive in mid-July, hoping to catch the best of summer before it turned.

My final act was to find an appropriate read. I decided that there would be no more fitting choice for a land of ice and fire than A Song of Ice and Fire. I'm the biggest Game of Thrones nerd that never read the books. Knowing far too many fan theories and Youtube channels to plead ignorance, it was time I did. And with that most crucial task attended to, it was time. We met at the airport, bags bursting at the seams.

The air was cold, the sky bleak, and even the church was stark—concrete, inside and out. Harsh but beautiful. Wearing wool hats we stumbled into a coffee shop just West of Hallgrímskirkja, passing under the dauntless Leif Eiricsson. Icelanders are proud of their viking heritage. Their language is the modern version of the one used by the Northmen, and even today, the old naming system is still in use. Children take the father's first name as their last. Eiricsson, son of Eiric; Björk Guðmundsdóttir, Guðmund's daughter.

The vikings, were explorers, among other things. Leif Eiricsson had discovered North America. And looking up at his eternal form, his iron eyes fixed on the westward horizon, I had romantic thoughts of intrepid pioneers braving the seas and the unknown. My reverie was broken by a gust from the north—lest I forget the reality of exploration. We came to the right place to find adventure, it would seem . . . a proper one at that.

The cafe was quiet and clean and cozy. Worn burgundy carpets padded the floor, adding to its warmth. Near the entrance a writer scribbled on his note pad throwing back espressos, which, at some point before 9 AM, turned to beer. In close proximity to the resident artist, we enjoyed our own caffeinated drinks, and waffles. Just what I needed. Thirty minutes of sleep never felt so good. We went over our trip's itinerary, the essentials we still needed for Hornstrandir, and how to spend the rest of our day. As we sat, our coffees multiplied, but none turned to beer.

Windswept, Iceland was living up to its name. An odd place for a summer vacation, we thought. Walking along the harbor, our conversation drifted to the trek as it dawned on both of us what weather might be waiting in the Arctic wilderness. Doubts regarding our preparation began to creep into our minds. As the afternoon grew late, we made for our Air BnB. Walking with my loaded pack over evenly paved street I thought to myself, I got this, no problem. Hornstrandir will be a breeze. Famous last words . . .

The Westfjords

There was no room in our bags for the store bought food and gas canisters we'd picked up the night before. Plastic bags, their contents spilling out, littered the back half of the car. Me, the navigator, and Tom, the driver, drove north under dramatic skies, armed with my deliberately crafted playlist; a pair of idiots trying to get as far away from warmth of summer as the land would allow. The roads in the Westfjords are notorious. With large sections unpaved, and spotty cell service at best, I went old school, turning to an ancient device. Historians refer it as a "map".

We turned west off the "Ring Road". Our final destination was Ísafjörður, where we'd spend the night and catch our boat to Hornstrandir in the morning. The cars rattled on dirt roads, water to the right, and sheep—sheep everywhere. There were sheep on the side on the road, sheep on the hill, sheep crossing the road, even sheep on the beach! Marked with ear tags, they roamed free in the summer until September. Then, in what might be the most fantastic tradition I've head of, farmers mount surefooted Icelandic horses and ride into the hills after their flock. They return, sheep in tow, to the cheers of the waiting crowd. That is when the party starts—Réttir. One September, will find my way back in Iceland . . .

As we turned off the treaded pavement, so did our music, deeper and darker. We dove headlong into the surreal. The pounding beat of Army of Me, Björk; the mysterious chimes of Hrafntinna, Sigur Rós; the pulsing rhythm of Don't Stop, Knightlife; they came booming through the speakers, giving voice to the land. Beneath a dramatic sky and completely absorbed by our eerie surroundings, we were consumed by the harsh beauty the of the Westfjords.

Without smooth paving, the going was slow, and around 3 PM we pulled into Hólmavík, home to the Icelandic Museum of Sorcery and Witchcraft. I knew a cafe was attached, and we were hungry. Expecto patronum . . . but first, food.

We sat down, both ordering the seafood soup, and as point of interest I asked what was in it. The server retreated to the kitchen and returned with the chef, who was also proprietor of the establishment. Once again, I asked my question. With a slanted smile across his face he replied, "seafood!" Got it.

Well, I can indeed confirm that seafood was in the soup, quite good, as well. We paid and then of course, had to check out the museum. More than half of the population of Iceland has, a one point in their lives, believed in invisible elves. With hot springs, geysers, glaciers, volcanos, and suns that never set nor rise, it wasn't hard to see why this mysticism is pervasive. The hall was dark and damp and dreary. Grotesque displays were matched with highly descriptive instructions for would be would be sorcerers.

So what does it get you? Invisibility. Even Hermione didn't have a spell for that one. After we had our fill of the dark arts, I called on the proprietor one last time. I was looking for natural hot springs, he only knew one. "One, is good" I replied. Not sure whether we were heading for a hot spring or a black magic site, we left the macabre and rejoined the road to Ísafjörður. Off the main road, and far from the few cars navigating this part of the country, we were lost. I stopped for coffee and directions, Tom, to stretch his legs. The only sounds were the occasional gusts wind. After our respite, we made another go of it, and arrived at our destination.

105 degrees Fahrenheit and settled in the middle of nature, no cars or crowd. Only the wind raking across the grass. Well, not exactly. Soon after our arrival, an Icelandic woman and Norwegian man, both living in Bergen, arrived. Excellent bathing companions, we chatted for almost an hour, of which, the most hilarious conversation topic concerned the Norwegian use of "Texas". In Norway, "Texas" means crazy, as in "hey man, yeah, that party last night was Texas. You should have been there!" Priceless.

We still had a substantial drive left. Having too much fun, I glanced at my watch—7 PM. We bid farewell to our new friends. The breeze had wicked the water from suit and body as I stood by the car. Overhead, the sun had the sky all to itself.

As the crow flies, Ísafjörður wasn't far; but as the car drives, that was a different matter entirely. Weaving in and out, fjord after fjord, we tracked the shoreline, the high walls of each unpronounceable inlet on our left, and every kilometer a different nameless waterfall cascaded down, emptying into the sea to our right. Icelanders decided long ago that there were too many to bother naming, reserving that honor for only the most spectacular. Across the strait, Drangajökull crawled toward the water, pushing rock and soil with its girth.

10 PM. After eight hours of drive time and many more since our departure that morning, we arrived. My artisanal playlist ending before our engine died down; eight hours, but the drive was longer. Dropping our gear at Sigga's guesthouse, we walked into the town center looking for food. The buildings huddled in the shadows as the mouth of fjord closed in around them. Walls, who's height was just short of the world's tallest building, fortified the homes of people living here. Even the steel and concrete of Manhattan wouldn't have escaped inhalation. We didn't see many people. A few runners turned at the roundabout ahead and disappeared into the curved streets. A man yelled. Our eyes, following the intermittent runners, saw a man on stilts, dressed in all red, whooping loudly, holding mug a beer. Joggers passed underneath his spread legs as he laughed and drank and shouted, odd. As we moved into town, the crowds and finish line appeared—the anniversary of Ísafjörður, a party that would last all weekend.

With the town out in force, all two restaurants in town were booked solid. We followed locals into what looked like a gas station without the gas, ordered some food to go, and headed back to Sigga's. It was now past 11 PM. Our boat was in less than twelve hours.

We unpacked, repacked, and unpacked again. Finally satisfied, I sat down to look at the map of Hornstrandir. Cell service was spotty in the Westfjords—in Hornstrandir it didn't exist. This was wilderness, and not easy to get to. We couldn't even count on running into other trekkers. I've always liked maps. My bedroom is decorated by them; and the only thing I brought back from Iceland, a map. I knew our path cold. The compass was another story.

Tom and I had taken a wilderness course a few months past. We knew the basics, so I went about adjusting for declination. North and the North a compass points to—"Magnetic North"—are different. And depending where you are in the world, that can be a big issue. In latitudinal terms, we were up there, close to the big magnate, so the real North and where the compass would point were different.

The concept was easy enough, but when I tried to use it at our current location, I wasn't satisfied with the result. I knew our orientation, but I couldn't get the compass to agree. I asked Tom, he insisted it was simple. I made him explain. After my rebuttal and a ten-minute discussion, we agreed. We had no idea how to use a compass. Too tired to think, I went to bed. I'll figure it out in the morning. Before I closed my eyes, I ducked out outside—12:50 AM—and took a picture. The sun, still blazing, illuminated the top of the surrounding fjord, and colored white buildings orange.

Into the wild

Day 1

Not how I wanted to start my morning. I fumbled with the controls . . . no dice. My last shower for four days was a cold shower. The boat was set to leave at 9:30. And at 9:20 I could be seen at a cafe in the center of town, chugging espresso, glued to Youtube videos, compass in hand. "If you're going to Hornstrandir you'll need a compass. Heavy fog rolls in all the time, and it can get tricky." That's what the guy at the camping supply store in Reykjavik told us. Questions that should have been ask weren't, and now this.

"Should we ask the boat crew?" Tom was looking at me with veiled concern.

"I don't know" I said. "If we did, I'm pretty sure they'd look at us and say, 'If you have to ask, get off the boat!" Our burst off laughter cut the tension. I went back to cramming information into my brain.

Time was up. We went to the dock. Our bags were stashed below; we were the last to board. Under the temperamental skies of Iceland, we pushed away from the dock, and took to the sea. Bands of breakaway clouds, tumbled over high walls, falling down into the ocean. Wind hacked at the surface of the bay, spraying Arctic water into the boat, as we slammed into the next wave.

Veiðileysufjörður. Most of the times you try to say it three times fast, I couldn't do it once. And that was our stop, one of the many deep scars in coastline gouged out by glaciers in the last ice age. Despite Icelanders speaking immaculate English, the only way I could communicate was pointing to a map. After dropping the majority of the passengers at Hesteyri, the main access point for day trippers, the boat headed east to Veiðileysufjörður. Our anticipation was palpable. This is really happening. Six months of planning for some far away adventure, and now it's here. We're here. Cutting through the waves, we sailed into the inlet.

The call came. Life vests were donned; the zodiac lowered into the water; our gear tossed into the raft. The operator and four other trekkers joined us as we climbed overboard into the dingy. We didn't take much notice of the other four. Our heads swiveled around, scanning the fjord's topography, distracted only by the soaking chop of the sea as we pulled into the strand.

Our bow collided with the stoney shore. It's time. We yanked our bags ashore, stumbling off the rocks, our heavy packs carried awkward in our arms. Once on higher ground, we turn to watch the zodiac return its mother ship, and after their brief reunion, both slipped past the edges of the inlet. Tom and I, not known for our hasty departures, took some time to situate ourselves. It was forty degrees, windy, and wet. Higher up the fjord, a fog laid siege. Its lines blocked all view of the land above. I had done a good deal of research on Hornstrandir. Even in July, the weather was unpredictable, temperamental, and never stable. I was prepared. Taking it all in, we watched our boat-mates stride over the horizon. We were alone.

Just before leaving we made use of the outhouse. A triangle of wood, painted red, stood nearby. The door secured by a hinged plank, which, in the high wind, made good sense. I lifted the guard and swung the door open.

"Thank you so much!" I just stared, not saying a word. Is that a person? Yep, definitely a person. And he thanked me? A man, maybe five years my senior, stood in the doorway. He was the owner of the tent we saw on our amphibious approach, hiking alone. Our new friend must have been in the privy when we came ashore. Seeing the door ajar, one of our boat-mates must have locked it down, given the wind. We were this guy's last hope. I'd like to think that we saved a life that day—karma was on our side.

Laughing, we finally made use of our feet. Crossing streams and trudging through unseen bushes, at times knee deep, we made for the river flowing down the back of the fjord. Now we were definitely alone.

We accidentally stumbled across trail running west of the river, barely noticeable, and only occasionally marked by cairns. We fell in line as we marched uphill towards the ever closer curtain of fog, North. Up above the river's power, the numerous rills that feed the torrent below cut the rock. It didn't take long for the landscape was consumed by mist. The path beneath our feet began to fade until in was consumed by a soggy green turf. And now, with no trail and no visibility, we were stuck. Tom walked into the fog, scouting for the trail. He returned empty handed. As the wind howled from the north, we took shelter behind a boulder. The map was needed, and unable to see more than twenty-five yards in any direction, so was the compass. Shit.

The cold hissed around our rock. I studied the map and played with the compass until I was satisfied and the logic appeared to make sense. Tom huddled below the wind. He passed the time trying to make a dent in the industrial-sized bag of trail mix assembled the night before. Twenty minutes later I had our heading. Here goes nothing . . .

We forded the stream and rediscovered the path, barley discernible from the other ground. This time, colored stakes peppered the route. The coverage was limited, but we had some guidance. Even when the winds died down, the fog remained. The green of the stream valley had given way to rock fields divided by snow and small streams. Somewhere in the broken ground, a solo hiker emerged from the fog. GPS unit swinging from his belt, dressed in all black, clad in the most serious hiking gear we saw all trip. Our first human sighting . . . if you don't count the outhouse.

The Frenchman had been searching for the same pass we were, but was forced to turn back after several hours of exploration. We said our farewells, and continued higher. Doubt began to creep into my mind. But we can't waste a day. We have a schedule to keep, a boat on Tuesday. If we go back, we sacrifice the Horn, the whole purpose of the journey. The only way is forward. Truthfully, I never really considered turning back.

"Hello!" I shouted back at the fog. We'd been at it for minutes when two outlines distinguished themselves from the abyss. Petra and Christian were on their honeymoon. Although we didn't know it by looking at them, we shared the zodiac ashore. Both experienced hikers—he actually proposed to her on top of Yosemite's Half Dome—they had been lost for over an hour trying to find a way up. They had met our Frenchman as well. Again I pulled out my map and compass, which at this point, had replaced my point-and-shoot camera in the pocket at my hip. Priorities had shifted.

Their experience agreed with my reading; they had come from the wrong direction. We kept on my heading until the rocks ended, our course intercepted by a snow field. How big? We couldn't discern. This was the southeast corner; that's all we knew. I took another reading. Strait ahead. The compass confirmed our heading, as did the Swiss, claiming they hadn't seen this before. Christian and I headed up the snow, Tom and Petra took to the rocks on the side. The stone we left behind soon disappeared. It was hard, neither snow nor ice. The offspring of melt and refreeze. Today was cold, and it was frozen. We could barley hold a footing. Even with trekking poles our climb became unsustainable. With each step the pitch slightly increased. Finally, Christian and I opted to traverse east, to the rocks running along the side where Tom and Petra were making their attempt. Once safe, we moved higher, and the slope continued to sharpen.

I took another reading. We needed to cross the snow field. The group agreed, and this time all four of us left the safety of the rocks. At the front of the line I slammed my feet down with each step, hoping to create indents for my companions to place their boots. At the rear was Tom, who didn't want to invest in poles and now had to resort to using a diamond shaped rock to keep himself steady. He was bent over, stabbing the ground, in what I imagined, was very the same method used when humans first discovered the concept of tools. We could no longer see the rocks behind us, nor above. The bottom below, the mountain pass, other footsteps—there was nothing but white and haze. The fog began to blend with snow, blurring the line between air and earth. It was steep. Far steeper than when Christian and I had made our first attempt. A misstep would send the offender down into the fog, ending with a hard landing on sharp rocks. We were unbalanced, our packs loaded heavy. Step, twist. Step, twist . . . step. The drum beat in my head. I sent beads of ice flying. Left, right, left . . . focus. My head fixed at my feet. There was no end in sight, our footing more unforgiving with each print. "Go back" I shouted, not this way.

We regrouped on the rocks we'd left behind. I pulled up the rear as Petra led higher. A hundred yards or more and it was steeper still. I called up to them. We need a mountain pass, not a mountain. And the compass still pointed into the haze. While the rocks shot up faster and faster, to our left, the snow had not. Perhaps this was our chance. Hoping my credibility wasn't lost I suggested a new crossing. Again, they agreed, and again, I led us out onto the ice. Pounding each step into the ground, I cut across with a slight angle, slamming my poles down with a force well in excess of necessary. Yet again, the world around us became monochromatic. But this new slope was more forgiving. Robbed of my vision, I began to lose a sense of orientation and time. Five minutes? Ten? I started to worry. But like a pilot trusts his flight instruments, I pushed us forward. To my right, uphill, an outline appeared. Dense white gave way to a dense light gray. Arguably the same shade. Yet, after a considerable amount of time in the void, I knew this was something else. A sloping line ran parallel to our caravan; down, westward. I increased our angle of attack. This is our ridge. I'm sure of it. The snows started to level. In the distance a dark triangle drew contrast with the fog. Feet soaked and cold, landed once again on solid rock.

The party cheered as outlines became objects. A man made pile of stones. This must be the top. To celebrate, the Swiss—as if to prove the stereotype true—pulled out two bars of Swiss chocolate for the group. Only a fraction of their total supply. The Americans, our gargantuan bag of trail mix—"tutti frutti" as it's known in Switzerland—ten pounds strong. And a source of great amusement for the Swiss. Cameras were out and smiles were big. Almost two hours after our meeting, the ordeal seemed at an end. All downhill from here . . .

As the group enjoyed their chocolates, I scouted ahead. Beyond the ridge, an Arctic fox slipped into the fog, glancing back at me, a dead bird in its maw. The path forward was downhill, and this slope was far more mellow than its opposition to the South, the fog less dense—a big relief. Lower, the snow vanished, as did the rocks, and finally we returned to grass and moss and streams. We had picked up the trail at the top but at this point we had thoroughly lost it, a routine occurrence at this point.

The beginning of a beautiful Swiss-American partnership

The gray was lifting fast, but the terrain was uneven, our view still blocked in all directions. We followed a stream. Slowly it grew larger and larger, louder and louder, then disappeared. A great estuary stood before us. Four water falls dumped into the depression, feeding the wetlands and ocean below in one of the most dramatic reveals of the trip. Cliffs cornered the lowland on three sides while the sea hammered at its beach. In unison, and without words exchanged, we shimmied out our packs, jaws surrendered to the downward pull gravity.

The moss made for gentle pillows. That was a great relief after hours of heavy steps, rock, and ice. Perched on my cushioned roost I stared at the first real view of the day. On the far side of the indent, the Horn reached out into the Arctic Ocean. Our destination was in sight. Our tenacity vindicated. We were in no rush to leave this place. A good deal of time passed, but, all good things must come to an end. I was quite hungry, thinking at first to stay a little while longer, then thinking better of it. My stomach growls had the final say. Hornvík was the bay, and Höfn, the campsite. Originally, we planned to have an additional 5 km trek that day, spending the night in Látravík. I thought better of that as well, tomorrow. It was already past 7 PM and we'd earned a hot meal.

In clear and obvious view of the camp we saw our first sign of the day. Good thing we didn't need that earlier . . . wait. Höfn was the largest site in Hornstrandir and after seeing only two other parties that day, it was strange to see only a handful of tents. I cooked dinner—freeze dried lasagna with meat sauce—and Tom pitched the tent. The Swiss prepared risotto. We should have known when we saw their chocolate stash—Europeans trek with style. While eating our American mass produced meal, the weather reversed. The intense cloud cover was broken by a vanguard of sunshine, clear skies rushing in behind it.

I was thrilled. All day I'd been saying I didn't care what the weather looked like the other three days, if I get clear skies Sunday, let it rain. I came for the Horn. It's why we got on the boat, and it was why we came this abandoned part of Iceland. Tomorrow was Sunday and I prayed for sun. I zipped into my sleeping bag, forcing my eyes shut as I had the night before. Waking around 1 AM, I opened the tent to see clear skies. I pulled out my camera before returning to sleep. If it was cloudy tomorrow and didn't have this picture, I'd never forgive myself. I tried to sleep, even though, in truth, I had half a mind to leave for a hike right then and there.

This is the way the world ends...

Clouds. . . dammit. It was sometime after 6 AM. I'd woken up thirty minutes before. Maybe it was the cold or the anticipation or the yelping of foxes. I wasn't sure. All the same, I was up. When I opened the tent flap, hoping I was hadn't slept through the clear skies. Now, clouds. I was boiling water and hadn't woken Tom—no point really. I wanted this to pass. Hopefully, the more time I gave it, the better.

Just after seven, he was awake too. That's when I saw it. Looking back over the ridge I shook the tent. "Look"! He poked his head out. Over where we made our descent the prior day, change was brewing. At first, Tom had no idea what I was talking about. I had been watching the sky with diligence for sometime, he had been asleep. Coming in the from the ocean, a low flying cloud blew south across the Horn obscuring the view, but high above, the thick clouds blocking the sky were under attack. Blue sky, our champion, charged forward. The day, it would seem, was not lost.

The enemy lines were pushed into retreat, and I had a big grin on my face. We left our tent, sleeping bags, and pads at the site; we carried our food and fuel with us, just to be safe. Today would be long. At 8 AM we set out across the tidal basin, over sand and reed and driftwood. We plunged into tidal waters, a river of snowmelt, its painful freeze clawed its way into our bones. Looking back at the waterfall from yesterday, we were reminded of how far apart things were, despise being clearly visible. "Beware of clean air." I came across that queer warning online. The unpolluted sky allowed you to see far into the distance, and combined with a landscape bereft of trees to compare scale, objects are further than they seem. By day's end, I couldn't agree more.

The arm of the Horn stood high above the sea. Its northeastern face is the Hornbjarg. 1,400 feet high—the height of the Empire State Building—it's the nesting site of thousands of birds, lands end. To the north lies open Arctic Ocean. Our approach would be from the west. Unlike the vertical Hornbjarg, the western ridge allowed a small window of ascent. We would skirt the coastline until the trail led upward. Our destiny stared us in the face, giving strength to my battered feet.

Scurrying ahead, five furry figures darted down the trail. The baby foxes had taken cover. One adorable nugget tried to hide behind a bush as we passed—one eye exposed, and fixed on our movements. This is so adorable it's melting my heart! Three of its siblings were more curious. Emboldened by numbers, they headed us off, snuck behind a large rock adjacent to the trail, watching. We turned to see three pairs of eyes peering through the grass.

My feet were in rough shape, and we'd had barely made a dent in the second day. My old hiking boots weren't up to the challenge—I needed serious waterproofing. My new boots were recommended by an avid hiker—who had trekked the PCT and Appalachian Trail—and broken-in by Your's Truly. They were low tops, Gore-Tex trail runners with a good treads. If they're good enough for the PCT, they're good enough for four days in Hornstrandir. My mistake.

Petra couldn't believe I was using them. The first day she kept telling me, "you're crazy!" I didn't notice. But today was different. My ankles were shot. Reviews on Hornstrandir—mostly chat forums—all emphasized the wet, but failed to mention just how broken the ground was. It's rugged. Ankle support is a must, especially when you're sporting forty pounds on your back. Adding fuel to the fire, my nemesis, had appeared. Blisters. I did my best to prevent them from the onset, to little avail. And despite their claim, the waterproofness was nonexistent. Without the impending threat of slipping into oblivion, or trying to keep the proper heading with no trail and no visibility, my damp feet were now obvious. Despite my utmost caution, each puddle brought a cold trickle into my boots.

I sat on one of the seaside boulders. Steps could be taken to deal with blisters; but for ankles, there was nothing to be done. A feeling crept over me, it's going to be a long three days. Sitting on that rock, the Swiss caught up with us. Patched-up to the best of my ability, we joined forces once again and climbed up above the waves.

Bugs. I was so worried about polar bears, I didn't think of insects. But really, why would I? This is the Arctic, not the rain forest. It didn't occur to Tom either. But they were everywhere, swarming around a certain humble shrub that just happened to be everywhere. Our pictures were littered with tiny photo-bombers, shot after shot. Have you ever heard of anyone getting photo bombed by a fly? Their interests included ears, noses, wild flowers, and plastic heated by the sun. Thankfully, they weren't all that interested in us. The Nordic countries have a mosquito problem. In Alaska, it's state bird, so goes the joke; and in Greenland, their ravenous appetite has been known to kill caribou calves. But Iceland is the exception, its ecosystem spared from the most disliked life form on the planet. As if we needed another reason to love this country.

As were started to ascend, the bugs thinned out. We were now far from the beach and the flowers the they adore. We were close. My pace quickened. We marched up a slab of green earth angled halfway between the heavens and the horizon, where land met sky—the edge of the world.

The breeze carried with it the stink of salt and dead fish, the crash of the ocean below muffled by the cackling of Arctic gulls. But none flew above us. As if we were to high, they would pass a few feet above our heads or at eye level, skirting the brink. They glided by, then swept downward into the waves. I took my final steps, stopping inches from the edge. I am here. I felt dizzy. Like the Sirens of Greek legend, the birds beckoned me to chase. Vertigo grabbed at my mind. The edge is perilous. It was intoxicating—the sounds, the smells, the movement of flight—all suspended high over the sea. My vision started to shift. As I slowly stepped away, a gull swung by my position, so close, my instinct was to jump out to touch his feathers. I shivered. Refusing the call, I turned around. Eating lunch, I looked south.

That view was even more was even more stunning. Running east-west across the arm of the Horn, great walls divided the plateau into three huge sections. The partitions were so huge they defied natural science. This was the most ancient part of Iceland, where ice had carved deep scars in the earth. Hornstrandir's wounds were many. But these were different, too spectacular, too imperial. These were what made me come to the Hornbjarg, what I saw in that picture that inspired this trip. It was if long ago, the Norse gods fought a great battle, bending and breaking the earth.

They warred high above the seas, wrestling. They smashed each other into the ground. Each impact pushed stone towards the heavens, until finally, the victor named. Millennia passed, and time colored the slopes green. I'd probably never see a view like this again. The sun warmed our faces. Untouched by man—this place was special. In today's world, travel has become a homogenized experience. Even adventure travel or travel to a strange part of the world, everyone is seeing the same things. But not this—not many have made it up here. In fact, while we were hiking that day, we might as well have been the last people on Earth. This was where the lands of our planet halted their expanse, and we had it all to ourselves. And what an epic ending, it was. After a time longer than any of us can recall, we packed our bags. The edge was beautiful, but other impressive views laid beyond, still unseen.

How are we still walking here? By the time we sat to lunch, it was already 1 PM, yet the finale of Horn had been visible to us all day. Things are much further than the seem. We were still walking up to the first divide. To convey scale of this place, we tried to get people in the photos; even taking sequential shots of the same rock face as we approached.

We mounted the first divide. Over our shoulders, the grassy tip of the Horn speared the sea, so far behind us now we couldn't even find the landmarks that marked our ascent hours past. Turning to our south, we laid eyes on Kalfatindar, springing high above the ground. The site of the most ferocious contest among the gods, so abruptly and violently was rock pushed into the air that even to this day, no grass can grow. Looking down into this second depression, we said goodbye to the Swiss. Tom and I warned them we'd be awhile . . . we wanted to simmer in this place as long as possible.

Walking at a slow pace, and with frequent stops, we snapped picture after picture. At the brink of the Hornbjarg—the northeastern face—even our own thoughts were silenced by the gulls' cries. I'd never seen so many. We traced the edge south, just feet from a sharp fall, the cliffs singing in our ears. Their drop was sheer, and absolute. Only birds could call this place home. Too steep to pass head on, the only way to cross Kalfatindar was to cut across its base and up the western flank. Directly below its impassible wall, birds taking a break from their nesting duties flew back and forth between two large flocks resting on the water of a pond. Doubtless it was carved in by the winning blow, the same impact that laid bare the stone crown above our heads.

The third section could have fit the other two inside its boarders. The crossing would be long. It was already late afternoon and there was still much land to be crossed, not counting this expanse before us. We had heard rumors of a lighthouse that served waffles lying beyond. Tom and I split up. He refused to walk downhill only to retrace the same altitude and more on the other side, while my ankles couldn't take another walk along a slanted pitch. Each step would be painful. I took the low road, hoping it was level. He went high, tracing the rim. It didn't take long to loose sight of each other. Down in the valley I crossed over streams and wet lands of standing water; the trail was no trail at all. When I finally saw him again, his figure was scarcely more noticeable than the flies buzzing around the wildflowers. I yodeled to reveal my position—a trick the Swiss taught us. I tacked east toward our meeting point. Below, two shots, same valley, different angles.

We were beat. No sight of the lighthouse. Looking northeast off the edge, there was nothing but ocean. Even if we could see two thousand miles it wouldn't make a difference. A speck of white, highlighted against the dark waves, I took for a boat. But that was a loose interpretation. I struggled to my feet and doled out Advil. If it weren't for the prospect of waffles, I doubt we'd have left.

Shangri-La was in sight. Searching for my strength, I marched downhill. As we closed in on our beacon, we crossed a series of streams launching themselves off the crag, into the waves. Surging back to their source. The Hornbarg had been diminished to a bluff; its current height, only a fraction of the storied cliff. Moving up the walkway, I knew salvation was nigh. But my ecstasy was cut short. As we arrived, the Swiss were leaving. No waffles. I didn't even have the strength to show my fury. Waffles or not, this is our stop. That was a boat anchored offshore—the lighthouse master and his son fishing for dinner. Despite their absence, the door was open. Both a guesthouse and a way station for weary trekkers, it had all the modern amenities we'd nearly forgotten. We used the kitchen behind the coffee and tea station to whip up our dehydrated mac & cheese. We shared the tables with several Icelanders staying in this remote refuge. And just as our dinner was ready, the fisherman returned with fresh cod—we got our waffles!

The meal strangled the last of our fight. But we couldn't rest. We were far from camp, and it was almost 8 PM. This was the part of the hike we opted to cut from yesterday's milage—a Lannister pay's his debts, and it was time for us to make payment on past luxuries. With an audible grunt, I took to my feet and swung my bag over both shoulders. Adjacent to the path leading us back into the wilderness, the proprietor gutted his catch, pausing to wave us off.

My feet were tender and swollen, and my quads and hamstrings burned. Each time I saw a ridge line I thought we'd made it, we'd see a new outline appear in the distance. With each false flag the grind higher continued . . . until finally, we stared down into our estuary, struck square by the evening Sun. I was so happy on our decent, I started singing. We were completely alone, as we had been all day—lucky for everyone else, unlucky for Tom. I owed him one for all the dad jokes he so casually flung around. Camp was still a far way off—he would be paid back in full.

Down the waterfall, we reentered the basin. Sitting down to remove our shoes, I thought perhaps this crossing would be more pleasant. My feet were burning, and the ice water would no doubt soothe them—I was wrong. The pleasantry scarcely lasted a second. The blood in my veins started to freeze, and icicles stabbed at my feet. I limped ashore as quickly as I could move. We sauntered into camp around 10:30 PM. I fired up the cooking stove and prepared second-dinner, nearly collapsing on my sleeping bag before I'd even filled the pot with water. We'd left over fourteen hours ago. Up and down, ridge after ridge, each one burned our legs and extended no favors to my feet and ankles. If not for Tom's insistence, supper would have never occurred.

Phantoms in the Fog

Clear, exactly like the night before. Walking unladen was a challenge for me. Today is gonna suck, I thought—or maybe even murmured aloud—as my feet whimpered beneath my weight. Today's hike was the shortest of the trek. That was most welcomed. Although we were quick to rise, we were slow to break camp. The Swiss had already left. Our exhaustion was starting to show. I had watched the whole camp wake, yet at 9 AM, we remained. An Icelandic couple—the other two members of our shore party—had also started out. Our entire zodiac to Veiðileysufjörður was following the same path, ending in Hesteyri tomorrow evening. Petra and Christian were to spend an extra day, but their sentiment seemed to be changing. Before we left, a furry friend scampered through camp and said his farewells . . .

The day started nice enough, but the hike was already inflicting pain on my ankles. We skirted the shoreline over rock beaches that shifted below my steps. And with each tip, agony. Eventually, much to my delight, we left the beach. The path only slightly wider then our boots, followed the shore. With no wind and no rain, the bugs were worse than ever. Their favorite plants were scattered along the slopes, and the path cut directly through the patches. Our hands swung back and forth near our faces, joining our legs in a state of perpetual motion. It had only been an hour. We had started under clear skies, but now a thick fog covered everything but the strip of land closest to the sea; a cold breeze the the Arctic held wall at bay. When the trail turned up into the mountains we traded bugs for our old friend. As we passed through the curtain, I thought, here we go again . . .

We reached a plateau, maybe. That's what it looked like on the map, and although blind to anything more than fifty yards away, we'd been walking over small slopes, but not uphill. Each step up was met with a step down. From what we could see, it was a wasteland of rock; and with no slope, any direction could be the right one. It started to seem like we had everything going for us on first day, clinging to an ice cap. At least we new we had to go up. The labyrinth was trackless, and as we found out days ago, stone leaves no trail. Time after time, we'd be walking the path, then suddenly, intersect the actual the path. The map added to my directional suspicions. Two routes: ours, and another—one that would take us miles into the wrong fjord—danced around each other in the mist. Touching, then pulling away; touching, lingering together, and moving apart again. But when the music stopped, they'd return home alone, each going their separate way. When they did meet how would we know the right one? I kept the compass close, holding a strict westward course.

With vision lost, other senses were heightened. A gentle breeze skimmed my face. Water trickled over moss. Shifting stones cracked underfoot, and snow crunched; its chill seeping into my boots. The old gods whispered in the fog. We were in a different dimension. In this place, light came from the ground, not the sky. We were at the edge of night, but it was neither the dusk nor dawn we knew. Our eyes strained for silhouettes in the fog—cairns wriggling out of the haze. Inconsistent, these watchtowers guarded the "trail". When we lost sight of our guides, I'd keep us west—over stream, ice, rock, and green—until our phantoms reappeared.

My feet burned with each step, but stopping and starting again was worse than an unbroken march. Tom told me a story. Somewhere, he'd heard of this Navy Seal; he ran what was supposed to be a long distance relay, solo. By the end, he'd broken multiple bones in his feet, but his mental strength pushed him beyond physical limits. A strong mind can bend reality. The pain is in my head. I recited my mantra as each cringeworthy step connected to the ground. Iceland is harsh, its people hearty. Crossing the broken land I thought its founders, the vikings, warriors and shield maidens crossing the sea, sailing to unknown places in only a longboat. This is nothing, this pain. I'm up to the challenge. I am viking. With no grand vistas to distract my mind, I was left only with my mantras. I am viking . . . I am viking. Lost in the fog, I searched for my strength.

After twisting and turing for hours, something new—the sound of gentle waves, the scent of salt. More time passed until we finally saw the shore below. I wobbled downhill. Emerging from the heavy mist, we discovered that the Icelanders we'd passed along the way were close behind us.

In one last test of will, not a hundred meters before the campsite, a wide stream gushed into the ocean. Once again we removed our shoes and entered the freezing water, and once again, it cut into us. Unlike yesterday's sandy tributary, the stream bed was made of river rocks—slippery, round, and covered in algae. The crossing was treacherous: the bite of the water more fierce, and pain with each slip. No matter how hard I dug in my poles or how I secured my next step, the rocks would move or my feet would slide sideways down into cracks. Each blow traumatized my extremities. All the while, the water attacked. I wanted to hurry, but with each uncalculated movement I lost my footing, stumbling to another precarious mark, my ankles twisting beneath my weight. The more careful I was, the more time it took. And the flowing ice showed no mercy. I paid dearly for each pause.

I sat on the stoney bank, alone. Tom had walked to the campsite and was talking with the Swiss and the Icelanders had stopped at the research center we passed. I was at my lowest point. Cursing the wind, I limped into camp and sat down. It was 4:30 PM.

Dinner made me feel better. It was a highlight of each day, although nothing fancy. After the day's struggle a warm meal was always welcome. The freeze dried packs tasted better than any New York dinner, with it's famous chefs and pomp and circumstance. I sipped my tea, warming my body when we received yet another fox visit. After he tried to drink from my Camel Back, I called it a night. It was barely seven, but I had had enough for one day. Tomorrow, I wanted to get an early start. My performance concerned me. The final hike would be longer, and we had an appointment to keep. Our pick-up point, Hesteyri, was the main excursion hub, and home to the Doctor's House, a place where one could find pancakes served among other refreshments. But that was the least of my worries. The boat . . . that's what I thought about reading Game of Thrones . . . and my burning feet.

Above the Clouds

4 AM, 9 PM, 9 AM—no difference. Apart from the wet grass, there was no way to tell this wasn't the night before. The fog was the same; the waves gently crashing, the same; even the light was identical. There was a supposed to be a seaside peak just west of camp. It was still as invisible as the night before. I felt better after my sleep—eight hours, by my calculation. I was up and restless at 4:30. Just before 6, I left the tent for good. I can't sleep a full night, especially not here. To make it even more confusing, every time I opened my eyes there was always the same light in the tent. If not for my watch, I'd never know if I was waking or falling asleep. Days bled together. My body was sore, but my mind was sharp. The constant Sun never let me slip. I didn't yawn and I never felt tired—at least when my eyes were open—it was my body that needed rest. Thus, when I went to go water some flowers the rains had missed, 4 AM looked just like 8 PM. When we left at 9 AM, it still hadn't changed.

But I felt better. Even though blisters covered my toes and new hot spots scorched my feet, I was upbeat. We got to talking with the Swiss and instead of leaving early, we left at 9 AM, a party of four. A haze covered everything. Christian and I had a quick trail discussion. The hidden peak and faint trail drew them of course. I called them back. We pulled out our maps. The dispute was settled, and in agreement we continued on. West of the monument's base, we turned south, moving away from the coast and into the highlands. The day's path was simple: a long climb up to the ridge separating the two fjords, and on the opposite side, high along a plateau until descending just before Hesteyri.

Petra set the pace—that was good. She was a strong hiker, and relentless. We needed a good push. Regardless of pain, if left to our own devices, Tom and I would meander the trail, harkening to the spirits of the wild. Our friends would be much needed if we were to catch that boat. Christian and I followed her, discussing the histories of Switzerland and its peoples. Tom held the rear. Higher and higher, this was the longest climb yet, but our friends gave me strength . . . and laughter, of course. Somewhere in the fog—as was tradition—we lost the trail. I pulled out my map, now the official map of our party, and myself the navigator. I adjusted our heading. Led by Petra, we moved higher.

Light crept into the fog. A golden halo hung over the mist. Before we knew it, the haze was behind us, breaking more swiftly than could be believed. Taking deep steps, we mounted the ridge. Now we could see blue. I was shocked. I'd expected to see fog all day, and lost somewhere in it for that matter. I couldn't contain my elation. We stood at the mouth of a valley, surrounded by the highest edges of the fjord. The pass so clear and obvious, I thought it was a trick. That can't possibly be it. How could we be here already? Sunshine and our climb's end in sight? The party was ecstatic. That was the last time I noticed my feet. Today is the last day . . . I leave everything on the trail. The decision was made. With huge grins we moved to apex above. Snowballs whizzed past, a few hit their marks. Behind us fog flooded the valley, engulfing the earth—but we were long gone. Ours was the sapphire sky . . .

We stood at the apex. The view was surreal. Like water that covers and smooths the bottom of the sea, fog flooded into Hornstrandir. An etherial plain stretched out beneath the sky. The rocky heights and snows were all that escaped the veil. We were somewhere between two heavens—a land above the clouds.

The blinding snow baked our skin and the caps melted under the heat of the clear day. The power of the Sun hit us square: from above our heads and below our feet. I was sweating, the ice as well. The hard pack had yielded. We skid downhill, surfing the frozen beads now dislodged from each other. A few hundred meters beneath the peak, we retired for lunch. Tom and I gnawed on our final pack of beef jerky and still swollen bag of trail mix. The Swiss prepared pumpkin soup—always the chefs.

We were making great time. And pancakes seemed inevitable . . . and a hot cup of coffee, I thought. Just what the doctor ordered. The remaining hike was strait forward clouds on our left, the spine of the fjord to the right. And we'd follow the high lip of the inlet all the way to our destination. A rescue helicopter buzzed overhead in a routine survey of the area. Other than the occasional run-in with our two Icelandic compatriots, we saw no one. I was floating. Not even my feet could dampen my mood.

For hours we walked above the clouds. We crossed rills funneling into the canyon. When we grew thirsty, we'd dip our bottles into the flows, refreshing ourselves with a cold drink. The later it got, the further the mist pushed out to sea. By the time we began our decent, the facades of Hesteyri gleamed bright in the distance. For the first time all trek, something turned out to be much closer than we thought. At 4 PM we arrived the Doctor's House steeped in sunlight. A splendid hour for coffee and pancakes!

We joined the Icelanders at a table, and our zodiac was reunited at the end of the journey. Tom and I treated the Swiss. A wedding present. After four days in the wild, the payoff was ten-fold the cost. Eight pancake orders—two for each person—five coffees, three glasses of milk, no hiking boots, and smiles all around. Our socks and shoes, soaked through from the melting snow, sat drying on the porch.

A German girl with an Australian-English accent served our manna; she had been working at the Doctor's House for the summer. Over her cigarette, she told us about the people that used to live here, their hamlet, even pointing out an elf palace on a near by hill. Excuse me . . . did you say elf palace! And those stacked rocks, once assembled they turn into a troll and bring good luck to the builder! I love Iceland.

They arrived a day early, but when it was established there was enough space, the Swiss joined us on the boat. Tom and I sat inside as we returned to Ísafjörður. After four days outside, we wanted a roof overhead. Pulling into the harbor, I checked my email. I hadn't seen my phone since we left. Somewhere between Youtube videos on compass usage, I fired off an email to our Air BnB host Tjöruhúsið, the acclaimed fish restaurant in town, required reservations. With the restaurant closed the last time I had cell service, I threw a Hail Mary. I scanned my email for a response. The message read clear: Sigga had booked us for 9 PM!

We had less than an hour until our table. We dropped our bags, showered, and donned fresh clothes, leaving no time to sit and relax. We met the Swiss at the restaurant, hoping to add them to our slot. When our efforts proved unsuccessful, we agreed to breakfast in the morning.

The restaurant was provincial and simple. Tom and I were given a spot at a long table, a bowl, and plate. The buffet was full of whatever the fisherman caught that day, and each time we went up, new cast iron pans were filled with different fishes. Paradise. The hype was real. It was unequivocally the best fish dinner I've ever had. I couldn't have imagined a better day even if dreamed for a hundred years. Sometimes, life is better than fiction.

Dinner was a silent affair—save the moans that followed the first bite of each new fish. We sauntered back to Sigga's, the soon to be midnight sun creeping below the high walls around us.

Westfjords: Part 2

Umm . . . what? Strange . . . this has got to be the first time I've ever seen a tunnel with an intersection. We were halfway through and halfway below the mountain, driving south. Thirty minutes past, we'd shared our last meal with the Swiss—as well as each other's contact information—and and hit the road. On our way out of town, I picked up a new map of Hornstrandir, my only souvenir of the trip. Our original had been mauled by the wind and rain, reduced to nothing more than shredded paper. This new copy would be given a place of honor on my apartment's walls. But now, we were on the road, and underground. The subterranean turn was certainly provincial. Although home to significantly more people than Hornstrandir, the Westfjords was still at the outer edges of the map—a corner of Iceland, in a corner of the Atlantic. My head was buried deep in another map. Judging by its depictions, the intersection was not unexpected, albeit strange. Tom's face, on the other hand, showed the look of unadulterated surprise. Getting a chuckle from his reaction, I glanced back at the road. Um . . .what?

Concern griped my face. Two lanes became one. My eyes dropped to the map, but even before they did, I knew I'd find no answers there. Headlights! Faint, but no doubt. I didn't say a word. I was busy thinking about how this had happened. In a few seconds the head lights had become so obvious that even Tom's comatose driving style was broken. Awareness shot through his eyes, mouth wide open as if someone had just woken him from a brief nap. Terror raced across his face. "Pull over", I shouted!

"Where"?!

"That turnoff! Speed up"!

I had a few extra seconds to work it out, but it wasn't until we stopped that I knew. It's a one way tunnel. And with the gaps on our side, we are supposed to pull over in the face of oncoming traffic. With that revelation Tom hit the gas. His tranquility had turned to a nervous furry. Each stop broken by a frantic attempt to get to the next safe zone before the next approaching car. As does a cornered beast, the engine roared.

We bolted into the sunshine. Two lanes. Cheers filled the car. The water ahead shimmered in the morning light, signaling our safety. A one-way bridge spanned the blue and silver—a routine sight as this point, unlike the anxiety of the tunnel. Yet, something was amiss here as well. "Tom!" I shouted as we rolled on the bridge. "Stop, back up!" The crossing was already in use. While having the biggest laugh of the trip, we waited our turn. Sheep! Rush hour up here is "Texas".

Our laughter lingered in the car long after the incident, and long after the last words were exchanged. The atmosphere of humor persisted until we caught sight of Dynjandi—a waterfall that certainly deserved a name—tumbling down the crux of yet another fjord. But this water did not fall; there was no drop. Its wide girth stepped down, over and past each layer of rock—stairs made of water. It widened as it fell, splaying further with each level. Hit square by the power of the sun, rainbows streamed across the mist, the white water reflecting light back into the air.

Returning to our car, we twisted into the highlands, tracing the water to its source. Pavement turned back into dirt roads. Tom returned to his driving zone and I zoned out. My navigational duties were not needed at present. My mind drifted. Our journey's apex behind us, and even today with all its strange and happenings and incredible sights seemed to strike with a blunted bladed. Air was being slowly let from the balloon. We both felt it. Our feet would soon find the realities of modern life. But not quite yet. Now, it was only a thought. We zig-zagged south, toward a new coastline, a new ocean, and a new hot spring.

After our seaside bath, we left the Westfjords behind us for the Snæfellsnes peninsula. The pool was crowded, and when a family with three kids arrived, their intent for the entire party to join us clear, we declared our soak at an end. At a rest stop along the way, I forced a candy bar into Tom's hands and pulled out my phone. The first thing you notice about him—after that Tom Smile™ , of course—are his jokes. Dad jokes with bad delivery, and I'd been listening to them all trip, grinding my teeth when they missed their mark. Big Corny—it was his candy bar, and now his nickname. On another dirt road, we traced another shoreline. We had dinner plans in Stykkishólmur and a hotel in Grundarfjörður.

Snæfellsnes

We should have gone last night. Eh, I thought to myself, it is what it is. Kirkjufell—Iceland's most famous earthwork—was shrouded in clouds. I had no idea this landmark would be so close to our hotel. The thought had crossed our minds, to visit as the sun went down, but we opted for morning. Oh well.

Neither of us cared. With another night's sleep, our excitement had waned again. We saw our first tour buses, few in number, but still. We were ready to kick back and relax. I cancelled our tickets to the Blue Lagoon that morning. We opted instead for leisurely day in Reykjavik—a coffee shop, a local bath house, a last taste of traditional Icelandic cuisine—all sounded to be far better options than the island's number one tourist destination. As we made our way back to civilization, I began to feel like I was sightseeing, that homogenous experience that has, thanks to a rash of books and a booming travel industry, become less than special. The adventure was gone. And the irony of documenting my own experience wasn't lost to me.

Originally we spoke of climbing Snæfellsjökull—the only Icelandic word I could pronounce, after much practice I might add—but that was off the table. Not enough time: and let's be real, I wasn't climbing anything. The brief walks to and from the car were about all I could take. Snæfellsjökull was the inspiration for Juels Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth. A monstrous volcano covered by a glacier, ice and fire. The whole peninsula was formed from its lava eruptions. It was a lunar landscape, empty and black. What light the skies let seep through was quickly sucked up into the porous cracks of lava stones. While stopped for a late lunch—or an early dinner, depending on interoperation—we gleaned a bit of information. An Aussie, working at the cafe for the summer, told us about a local hot spring. Thanks mate.

We came to the lava field, and as instructed, turned off the road. That's where we found it. Cut into the pumice, a waist deep hole, fit for no more than three people. Algae slicked the bottom corner where hot water bubbled from the center of the earth. Dreary skies and wind and sub-summer temperatures—the natural womb shielded us from them all. We watched storm clouds dance to the rustling grass, bending and shaking under the wind. While both land and sky rippled in the breeze, we sat in comfort.

I didn't know it at the time, but when we emerged from that spring, our adventure ended. The Golden Circle was a cattle drive. Ragnar, our driver and curator, had a encyclopedic knowledge of Iceland—that was terrific. But being herded between sights, dodging caravans of tour buses, and protecting ourselves from rogue selfie-sticks, that was less than magical. It was mayhem. We both smiled when I received the email confirming our Blue Lagoon cancelation.

Sitting on that bus, something dawned on me. I'd known it for years, but until now, it had been tangled in the cobwebs of my subconscious. Iceland was the best trip of my life. Why? Doubtless many factors played their parts, but in the end, it was a proper adventure: one outside the typical travel model of taking a picture, and moving on to the next thing.

Life is a journey not a destination, so goes the cliche. Why should a vacation be any different? My time away has always confounded me. Once I arrive at a place of tourist interest, I'm left unsatisfied. Is this it? Why doesn't this feel profoundly special? Something is missing. What? We all feel it. That's the problem with sightseeing—it lacks substance. It's only a picture. Despite saying a thousand words, a picture doesn't really say much of anything. If the goal is to travel from one snapshot to another, you miss the important part, the journey in between. And If that's not worth telling, all you have is pictures—the same ones as everyone else.

This time we had a story. I picked a place at the edge of the world, an expedition that I knew would be challenging, but we got there. We plunged into the heart of Iceland and took a zodiac into the Arctic wilderness. Pelted by wind, blinded by fog, we hiked across a slanted ice cap, one misstep away from tumbling down into the void. We walked the precipice of the Hornbjarg—a fourteen hour hike—up and over one massive earthwork after another. We stumbled through stone forests shrouded in fog, hunting shadows in the gray. Each day we climbed fjords; we crossed snow and wet and broken ground. Putting one pained foot in front another, we turned shapes at the horizon into giants. My feet started to lose feeling. They were bloodied and soaked and cold. My ankles made me cringe with each step. But we did it. We got there. On our own—no guide—and we made it back to tell the tale. We planned an adventure that would hurl us outside our comfort zones. We showed up. And polar bears—what polar bears?

The Iceland vibe, in 10 songs:

Lisztomania - Phoenix
Dirty Paws - Of Monsters of Men
Don't Stop - Knightlife
Army of Me - Björk
Hrafntinna - Sigur Rós
Lights - Ellie Goulding
Human Behavior - Björk
Headlock - Imogen Heap
Hoppípolla - Sigur Rós
Mountain Sound - Of Monsters of Men

On the same roof where we pitched the tent and made our first freeze dried meal, we exchanged our photos. Even our pictures, the best ones captured the essence of a journey. Tom hiking ahead in the fog; the Swiss cresting the final fjords; all of them conveyed the same message, forward. We talked briefly about our next adventure, but mostly, we talked about Iceland. I still do. Each day, I look above my desk at the map Hornstradir. I hunt for new routes and trace old ones. I study my pictures, placing them on the map, studying the distance between shots, developing a new perspective of the trek.

What's next? I don't know. The Swiss offered to take us alpine climbing in their country, or maybe a motorcycle road trip. Either way, we agreed—it would be a proper adventure. No more sightseeing for either of us.

And my feet? Sensation is slowly returning to my big toes. :)