Into the Land of Fire and Ice

« Return to Iceland

It is 5am on a small island off the coast of British Columbia. I awake, just two hours after shrinking away from a wedding party going full tilt. I kiss my wife on the forehead, pad quietly to the parking lot. It’s a 40-minute winding drive to the ferry terminal, with only deer for traffic. I fall asleep in my car waiting for the ferry, which takes me across the strait to Victoria. Then another ferry, 90 minutes to Vancouver, where I beeline my Kia directly to Vancouver International Airport. Here, I board a flight to Seattle, and several hours later, an overnight flight to Keflavik, Iceland. I connect with another weary traveller, and we take a half hour taxi to the capital Reykjavik, just in time to meet a small Adventure Center bus departing on a weeklong adventure into the southwest. Before the day is over, I would have slept 3 hours in the previous 48. The last thing I remember before passing out is: God, I hope Iceland is worth all this.

There are few countries as fabled as Iceland. The second largest island in Europe straddles two continental plates, formed by colliding crust between 12 and 20 million years ago. The result is a stark, otherworldly landscape, ripped apart by jagged mountains, littered with sharp igneous rock. It is land alive with active volcanoes, earthquakes, and a small, hardened population that throughout history, has endured one catastrophe after another. Besides having to impress a tired, red-eyed travel writer, it would have to impress my friend Pat, another travel professional with 125 countries under his belt. Not to mention the tourists we were joining from New Zealand, England and the US. That’s a fair amount of pressure for any country, but then again, this entire island is one big pressure cooker, waiting to explode. Here is a nation ready for anybody’s expectations.

The bus departs Reykjavik, and within minutes, I stare out the window at a wasteland of gnarled rock covered in furry moss. It’s not quite as bleak as described by Jules Verne in his classic Journey to the Centre of the Earth, but perhaps that’s because the highways are smoother than the saddle of a small Icelandic horse. The south-western countryside is barren and flat, alien, and unforgiving. We stop to hike the rim of Eldborg, an extinct volcano, and stare out over a tundra, our bright teal bus resembling an extra-terrestrial spaceship below. It is mid-summer, but I am wearing 4 layers, my gloves and beanie, barely keeping the Arctic wind at bay. It feels like a cold swim in a lake – invigorating, exhilarating, but glad there’s a cup of cocoa waiting back at the cabin. At Gerduberg, the basalt rocks take the shape of hard-edged symmetrical columns, topped with perfect hexagons, formed by lava rapidly cooling on contact with air. It looks like a fantasy artist has been busy with an airbrush. Icelandic folk tradition is rich with elves, trolls, giants and fairies. The landscape inspires superstition, the belief in powerful forces at work, beyond our control. Earthquakes, eruptions, landslides, floods – who am to I argue with an entire nation living at the mercy of nature?

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