Brendan Doms

My last meal out in Iceland was a mouth-watering treat at Sjávargrillið. It started with bread and fluffy butter that used a volcanic rock as a serving dish. Perfectly plated, flaky white fish was the main course. Dessert consisted of a warm, gooey brownie with the most delectable not-quite-ice-cream and sorbet on the side. Of course, the water still had that sulfurous taste to it, but I had almost grown used to it enough not to notice.

I headed to the airport early the next day, groggy and tired in ways I couldn't recall being before, except the last time I traveled internationally. Luckily my flights and luggage did not go through the ordeal that was my arrival in Iceland. Minor delays only. Customs coming back into the U.S. was a breeze. I don't think any of the agents even said a single word to me. They just looked at me, looked at my passport, and stamped.

On the flight coming into Minneapolis, when we dropped below the cloud cover during the final phase of our descent, I caught a sunset in the form of a rainbow: a murky russet touching the horizon, going up through a chromatic scale into a pale blue sky still clinging to daylight. The sunset was reflected by the Mississippi below, meandering lazily back and forth on its snakelike journey south, effortlessly conjuring halcyon days. I imagined whitewashed steamboats down there: smoke stacks puffing out expanding alabaster clouds above, flat vermilion-lacquered paddles churning the water below.

Minnesota has always been a land of 10,000 colors for me, over-saturated to my senses. And it is never more so than when returning from a long furlough. It is sometimes a great, grand thing to go adventuring on vacation, but it is always a good thing to come home.

I was lucky enough to be in Iceland for National Day, their version of an independence day, which was Friday, June 17th. Heading out onto the streets of Reykjavik the city appeared as I had never seen it before. The others who had been there many weeks longer also assured me that it was a unique sight.

There were just so many people.

Police blockades turned major two-lane avenues into pedestrian only malls. Festival rides and games appeared out of thin air. Cotton candy and droves of small children scurried underfoot, as seemingly out of the woodwork as the legendary Huldufólk (the Icelandic version of gnomes). The city was alive with families and laughter in a jovial atmosphere I could never have anticipated.

Throngs of celebrants crowd the streets of Reykjavik for Iceland's National Day.

I worked from the Polish-couple-owned cafe "C is for Cookie" during the afternoon, enjoying free wifi and free refills. Even there, slightly out from the city center in a more residential neighborhood, the extra population in town for the day could be felt, a gravitational force alive with jubilation.

On National Day the parliament building is actually open to the public, and we took advantage of that, arriving for a self-guided tour just before they closed the doors. The Iceland parliament, called the Alþingi (in English, literally "All Thing") has a rich history that spans back a thousand years. There's even a gift from the U.S. in the form of a Leif Ericson statue in the city to commemorate the millennial anniversary. Though the main thing I couldn't wrap my head around was how any group could govern an entire country from a building that small.

A view from inside the second floor of the modern addition to the Alþingi.

That night we pre-gamed with many rounds of Seven Eleven Doubles imported straight from Ann Arbor, and a single game of King's, played according to house rules. Then we joined the Icelanders in celebrating their country, first at a place called Vegamot, and then later at Koffibarrin. The latter is of particular note not just for its role in the film "101 Reykjavik" but also because I got in trouble for trying to use a camera there - it is known for being a hangout for Icelandic celebrities, and thus photography is prohibited.

After the bars we walked home as the sun rose, full of alcohol and life.

Monica stands on a mound overlooking the bay in Reykjavik as the sun rises.

After a day in the city we decided to rent a car and head out into the wilderness again, though with a much smaller group: only five of us this time around.

We headed first for Mt. Esja, a mountain that sits across the bay from Reykjavik and keeps watch over the city. It was a short drive, and a hike that took about an hour and a half to reach the peak of 816 meters (2677 feet).

We approach the peak of Mt. Esja.

The views of the city and ocean below us were breathtaking. And the suburban sprawl of Reykjavik was a lot more obvious from this high up vantage point.

Reykjavik and its suburbs spread out below us from the top of Mt. Esja.

Despite having a relatively easy ascent, the climb down was a lot harder for me. Not because of any technical challenge, but because my body had still not fully recovered from the huge trek earlier in the week. Aches and pains I had almost forgotten about re-emerged with a vengeance; it was a slow, excruciating walk down, every step a jolt of fire in my joints. By the end of it I never wanted to see another mountain again.

After taking the afternoon off we still had the rental car, so we headed out to a natural hot river at night. I imagined it would be like Blue Lagoon, but without the tourists.

It was another hour long hike (though much less vertical than Mt. Esja) to the best part of the hot river. There were sheep and a lot of mud along the way. When we finally did arrive it was a spectacular sight: hot rivers heated by the earth meeting streams cooled by the glaciers threw up massive amounts of billowing steam. We picked a winding tributary that had several man-made dams of stone creating shallow pools. The water was quite hot, and the air cool, making a transition in either direction an uncomfortable experience.

The hot river steams a lot where the geothermal heated waters clash with the glacial cooled streams.

Monica was smart enough to bring along a device I hadn't even heard of: a one-time grill. It's a bunch of coals with some lighter fluid in an aluminum tray. It lit easily, and set up on the bank it made the perfect setting on which to roast some marshmallows for a dessert of smores while soaking in the river. Although used to roasting marshmallows over a fire, smores themselves are a foreign idea to Icelanders: they cocked their heads and asked us about them quizzically. We also never found evidence that true graham crackers exist in Iceland, and had to deal with improvised substitutes by crackers of a lesser quality.

The camera flash catches the steam rising from the hot river as the sun sets.

The heat soaked into my muscles and alleviated most of the soreness that had been plaguing me since our earlier excursion. It seemed to rejuvenate all of us, and the hike back was a good twenty minutes faster with the extra spring in our step. It was a truly unique experience to watch the sunset at midnight while bathing outdoors in a steaming river at that high of a latitude.

I finally got some much needed sleep - well, at least as much as one can get in a country that never gets dark. With the sun setting regularly around midnight and rising around 3 AM, there were three hours of twilight, but calling it that is an insult to twilights everywhere, as the light level was still at about 80% of daytime values during the supposed night. It was more akin to a thick cloud passing overhead. I was thankful for the exhaustion that drove me to sleep.

When I did finally get out of bed the city of Reykjavik was finally mine to explore. Despite the fact that my vacation was half-over already I had spent very little time in the metropolis.

The back of Reykjavik's city hall.

It's city center is quite small and walkable, which is probably to be expected for a city of 120,000. The greater metro area is about 200,000, meaning that 2/3 of the entire country lives either in Reykjavik or in close proximity to it.

There are some slight hills that San Franciscans would scoff at, and a big lake that sits in the middle of it all, loosely separating the downtown area from the university.

An idyllic cityscape of Reykjavik across the lake in its center.

There is a set of Y-shaped streets that cater to tourists in the extreme: offering authentic wares like wool sweaters and selling jewelry covered in Icelandic runes, along with the expected overpriced food and drink. Even with all the tourists the streets are so sparse as to border on silent, though in a peaceful rather than eerie way.

The Iceland Parliament building.

The Parliament building from which the country is run is a much smaller, less-imposing building than the City Hall. It's accessibly located across a small square from a row of bars with outdoor seating. Imagine having a beer outside on the White House lawn with no fence between you and the building, and you'll have an idea of the intimacy this setting engenders.

The sun sets behind apartment buildings in Reykjavik, some of it the same student housing where I'm staying.

By the end of the day I felt like I was finally used to the exchange rate - about $0.88 to 100 Kroner while I was there. The food and drink were still grossly overpriced compared to the Midwest, but I reminded myself that I was on vacation, and that makes those costs seem much more bearable.

We rounded out the night at a bar downtown to watch Game 7 of the Stanley Cup. Even though bars stay open in Reykjavik all night over the weekend, they are obliged to close at 1 AM local time during the week. The bar we were in did so, which happened at the end of the first period. Our server pointed us through a door in the back to an adjacent establishment, where the staff had set up some thick curtains to block prying eyes from seeing that they were still selling drinks to cheering patrons.

When we abandoned the throng of disappointed Canadians at the bar to head home later, we were sent through a back courtyard to avoid some suspicions out front, which forced us to unlock and navigate a minor maze of gates and alleys. The heavy curtains in the back of the bar had convinced me it was actually dark out, but of course, the sun was already rising on the walk home.

We woke up bright and early on Tuesday the 14th - a fact I bemoaned greatly - in order to catch a boat down at the Reykjavik harbor. It was whale watching time.

After plodding around the ship hold turned museum turned gift shop, we boarded the Elding. The harbor was peaceful in the morning, and we were some of the first to arrive aboard.

Reykjavik's harbor stands still in the morning quiet before we embark.

By the time we embarked the ship had filled with tourists speaking a dozen different languages. Our very Icelandic-accented, conspicuously young and female tour guide rattled off in English and German about life-vests, life-boats, and our plan for the day. To prepare for the cold and wet we opted to suit up in bright orange jumpers, the kind you would see on a real fishing vessel. They added some weight and made walking slightly more awkward than even the usual listing of the deck, but the extra warmth was worth it.

Our first stop was an island full of puffins, those penguin-like birds that can actually fly. They squatted on ledges, chomped on fish, and darted through the air before us, competing with seagulls for land and prey.

An island of puffins and seagulls in the bay.

We then headed out into the open water, excited for the main attraction. We saw a lot of "harbor" porpoises, and the occasional minke whale, though it was never much more than a dorsal fin and a shadowy back, the water forming an impenetrable surface we couldn't see beneath. The only warning to their arrival was the rare snort of the whales gusting water out of their blow holes upon surfacing. Sadly, we never got to see one jump or breach, although it was comforting to see them free in their native environment.

Back at the docks, we made a quick lunch of lobster soup at the Seabarrin. It was a scrumptious and thankfully hot meal with which to split the day in half.

We then boarded a bus for a good forty minute ride out to the world famous Blue Lagoon. It is Iceland's main tourist trap, and while I knew it was some kind of commercialized hot spring, I wasn't sure what else to expect.

The bright but murky water of Blue Lagoon greets us on our way in.

In order to go back into the bathhouse we were required to get waterproof electronic bracelets. These things were awesome, and I firmly believe that every pool, community center, resort, hotel, etc. should be using them. In the changing room they secured the locker for you - a key you can't easily lose. And in the pool they charge any drinks you get at the swim-up bar to the bracelet, which you pay for all at once on your way out when you give the bracelet back. It really is an elegant system.

The main pool of Blue Lagoon, filled with tourists.

The Blue Lagoon itself was just a big, naturally ground-heated pool that never got more than three feet deep. There were some showers, a sauna, and an artificial waterfall to round it out. Free white mud placed at regular intervals along the edges made for convenient ammunition for smearing on your friends' faces.

The second half of the day spent there lounging in the hot water was a welcome relaxation after the strenuous hike. My aching muscles welcomed the relief. And when it was over I slept the entire bus ride back into town.

The day after the infamous trek we had a four hour drive back to the urban area of Reykjavik to look forward to. Luckily, it was cut into several distinct pieces, which made the ride less tedious.

Here I have to mention hitch-hiking in Iceland. It is far more common - and seemingly far more acceptable - than in America. We picked up a total of seven hitch-hikers throughout our journey in the wilderness (having a 14 person van to accommodate them). Two were government officials keeping the trails clear of brush and bramble. There were travelers from Germany and Sweden. Two were young Quebecoise backpacking around the island. Despite our initial reservations, they were all polite and well-adjusted individuals. It was actually a fun way to get to share some more stories of international traveling and adventures both in Iceland and abroad. It made me wonder how hitch-hiking came to be such a worried-over, malfeasant act in the U.S.

Our first stop was a couple waterfalls, but each far more unique than the ones we had previously encountered. We saw a glacial fall, which was frozen ice slowly moving over a cliff. The next was a tourist hot-spot: a waterfall you could actually climb behind with little effort. I had been hoping to see such a thing all along.

My silhouette standing behind the waterfall.

We then made a more educational stop at a hydroelectric powerplant. Iceland boasts that all of its electricity comes from renewable resources: geothermal, temperature differentials, wind, solar, and dams. The public part of the plant itself was set up like a very modern museum, explaining the concepts and showing consumers how much power their various electronic devices use. The power company is owned by the state, so it's a totally non-profit enterprise. I think that's a model that makes a lot of sense for utilities.

The best part of the tour in the plant by far was the free coffee. I certainly needed it the day after that exhausting hike.

The powerplant we visited.

After leaving the plant, we headed to a nearby "turf house," which was a reconstruction of what the original Viking settlers' houses on the island were probably like. Since there are virtually no trees in Iceland, wood had to be imported from the very beginning. That made the Vikings use things like grass and sod for their housing materials, since it was readily available.

The Viking turf house we inspected.

With our final stop behind us and a pair of hitch-hikers aboard, I dozed during the final leg of our return. I woke with welcome relief to find the city winding down for the day. I was more than ready to join it in slumber.

We circumnavigate the volcano and the steaming hot land of magma turns quickly into a frozen horizon of ice once again. I learn from the professor about the concept of "dead ice:" ice that during an eruption has such a thick layer of ash fall on it that when the lava comes it can't melt the ice below before it solidifies. This creates a layer of ice the effective ground level that will never melt, hence the "dead" part.

The descent ahead of us is a wide open vista of hills, mountains, ice caps, peaks, valleys and basins, eventually leading towards our camping grounds at Þórsmörk, which I am told actually translates to "Thor's Forest." Everything is just so huge here that the sense of vertigo is overwhelming at times. I slowly begin to understand the concept of agoraphobia.

From near the volcano the long descent looks long and ominous, with no signs of civilization in sight.

We come to a fork in the footprints: one path follows the marked trail, the other goes down a steep hill of ice. The professor assures us it's safe - and a shortcut - so we take the latter. Beginning slowly, I build up speed going down the hill, bounding from one leg to the other, making long gashes in the soft, crunchy ice. I level out with a hopping slide that lasts far too long, a testament to the momentum I had build up.

Looking back at the massive ice hill we half-ran half-slid down.

Then we meet up with the trail again, and soon enough there is a rocky climb down to another ice hill. This one steeper looking than the first. The professor assures us that although there is no trail per se, if one went down the hill and followed the valley, one would arrive back at camp faster than following the trail. About half the group is daring enough to be persuaded by this supposed shortcut. I was happy to stay with the trail, and found myself pondering the leadership qualities of a professor who would gladly split a group of students in half when only he knows the terrain and none of us are equipped for an extended stay in the wilderness. You can doubtless guess what my conclusions were.

A perilous ledge made of only ice that we had to cross to continue the trail down.

The vast majority of our trip down was spent on the next leg: a dusty trail cut into the mountainside called the "Cat's Back." The name is very literal, and meant to conjure the image of a person trying to successfully balance across the spine of a feline. It is an apt name. At one point the gravel of the path slips beneath my feet and I slide for a couple inches along the ledge. Nothing gets your adrenaline pumping as much as harrowing moments like that.

The dusty Cat's Back Trail - the treacherous path set into the side of mountain.

When we finally get a glimpse of the Krossá river valley below it is washed in sunlight. My spirit soared at the uplifting feeling of having our destination in sight. It would take another couple hours of hiking to actually reach it, but just being able to see it was enough for a final spurt of energy to reach the bottom.

A first glimpse of the sun glinting off of the many rivers in the valley below, our future campsite nestled somewhere among them.

Terra firma never felt so good. It was another solid mile from the end of the trail to the actual camp ground. Twenty minutes of walking on a flat surface never felt so easy.

At the end of the hike I was exhausted both mentally and physically. My shoes were caked in mud, my feet freezing. I was sporting the worst blister of my life and my knee ached - though I've never had knee problems before. Despite all that, I felt truly triumphant when the day was over. I had conquered the beast (I estimate that with all our detours I hiked at least 16 miles), even if it took ten hours and every ounce of willpower I could summon.

I almost didn't have the energy to worry about the other half of the group - the one that opted for the "shortcut" down the second ice hill and into the valley. They did not beat us back as was expected. It was well over an hour later when they fumbled their way into camp from a completely different direction, delayed by getting lost and the lack of a clear trail. After we rejoined our companions there were a multitude of complaints and stories to be shared. It was good to have everyone back together in one piece. And for a moment, however briefly, I was utterly satisfied to do nothing but sit down and rest.

A solid seven hours into our hike, and the fog clears from above the frozen glacier, pushed aside by the radiating heat of the Eyjafjallajökull volcano.

Through the clearing fog we catch a first glimpse of the volcano, with other hikers atop while steam rises from the ground.

We must pass through a final test to reach the volcano's base: a field of solidified magma rock. It is all twisted and random. Fractal patterns of ochre-tinged obsidian stick out in jagged formations while wisps of smoke dance slowly in the air. It could easily be described as "hell on Earth."

We skirt the edge of the field by walking on a thin sheet of ice. But as we approach our destination, the surface cracks, breaks, and I fall through. It is a drop of about four feet before I land on something solid, the walls of the hole coming up to my chest. After the group is assured of my safety the moment becomes comical: when falling through ice near a volcano at the top of a mountain in Iceland, all one can really do is laugh.

We stop to consider whether climbing the volcano itself is worth the time. We sit, and everyone discovers that the ground is warm to touch. Our shoes were thick enough to mask its true heat, but not our pants or bare hands. Certain sections are unbearable for more than a few seconds, and we shift and shuffle to avoid those spots. It is decided that we will perform a last ascent to the top of the volcano.

The final climb up the volcano is steep, the craggy ground hot beneath us.

The top greets me with a face full of wind containing the most powerful sulfurous odor imaginable. I am reduced to coughing, and when that stops I still find it hard to breath. We discover that facing away from the wind - such a small gesture given the magnitude of the surrounding land - does great wonders to make the air breathable.

We survey what's below us. The actual crater, the mouth of the volcano, is clearly visible and filled in with ice. My knowledge that Icelandic volcanoes spew water vapor was transformed at that moment from purely academic theory to empirical fact. The rest of the area contains hills and valleys that are the direct result of the most recent eruption in March of 2010. Heat waves obscure my vision.

The land below the volcano smolders, dried magma forming geological features barely a year old.

After snapping some pictures of the top and taking in the breathtaking view for a few long minutes, I begin the climb down. Others stay to cook hotdogs and light a cigar in the heat of the volcano. They join us at the bottom eventually before we move on once again.

The thick sulfur on the peak of volcano stains the red rock bright yellows and greens.

At about two o'clock in the afternoon - three solid hours into our hike - we crossed the river on a wooden footbridge (supposedly constructed after a pair of brothers had drowned trying to ford the river) and the transition from a verdant, azure-sky land of running water into a macabre, cloudy one of freezing ice was complete.

The glacier rises in the distance.

The glacier itself and the position of the ice leave no room for a debate about climate change. Even if you somehow disregard all the evidence that NASA has compiled there is simply no denying this: every year the glacier here retreats. Its footprint gets smaller and smaller, racing towards evaporation as the globe heats up. To be there and see it and still choose ignorance is not politics, but madness.

It is here that I begin to feel alone, and discover there is no turning back. We haven't seen another group on the trail for so long that I begin to imagine we are the only beings in the universe. A dozen souls crunching and sliding across the ashen ice. And when we stop moving, cease our conversation, the air is so still, so silent, that it becomes an easy fiction to believe.

Fog sweeps onto the glacier.

A thick fog descends, obscuring our view to only twenty or thirty feet at times. We have mere glimpses of our interim destination: a red, gable-roofed shack that sits on top an intermediary peak. We have already ascended over 1000 m (3280 ft) and I consciously notice for the first time the thinness in the air, how each breath seems to do less to supply my limbs with the strength to keep going.

A few of the group take a breather on the trek up the glacier.

By staying on the trail of other footprints and keeping sight-lines between us, we eventually reach our rendezvous. Lunch is the sandwiches we prepared earlier that morning, which already feels like it happened some other day, to some other person. I change out my soaking socks for a fresh pair. At around four o'clock our professor/guide Orri finally arrives.

A lone figure stands on the glacier, almost lost in the cloud.

We begin to move again, my muscles stiff from the brief respite, and my energy seems to have fled entirely, probably in search of the sun, of which there is no sign. We continue to ascend, and because of the fog it seems a never-ending process. There is hill after hill of soggy ash-mud, rise after rise of the never-ending gray ice. Every step becomes tortuous. The ice compresses beneath my weight and I slide back half the distance I gain each time I set a foot down, a rhythmic sapping of my will. I am at my lowest point mentally, my weakest physically. My body ached and my brain could only focus on how much I hurt, how tired I was, how I only wanted it to end. But stopping or even slowing significantly would put the fog between me and the rest of the group, which would leave me without direction on the hazy, frostbite mountain, a thought more terrible than any my sore muscles could conjure.

When we finally start to descend again the peak is passed with little fanfare. It is probably somewhere near 1500-1600 m high: we have gained a vertical mile since our start. It is the highest I have ever climbed.

The breathing gets easier with every step. I find a second wind lurking just beneath my skin. Layers shed from all of us like snake skin.

Then the fog clears.

After one night of barely sleeping two hours on the airplane, and then two nights in a row of sleeping four to five hours in a tent, where I was woken up by the roaring wind and the constant light of a country that never gets dark in the summer, I was in the tiny hamlet of Skógar and about to begin the longest hike of my life. Fueled by adrenaline, oatmeal, and Snickers bars, we had the whole focus of the camping trip before us: the popular, estimated seven to nine hour, twenty kilometer (12.4 miles) Fimmvörðuháls trek.

The hike began just after 11 AM at the base of the massive Skógarfoss waterfall, which had at least one double rainbow. It was absolutely gorgeous. I was energized, and all bundled up for the chilled Icelandic air.

A view of rainbows across the Skógarfoss waterfall.

By the time we got above the waterfall, it became apparent that I would have to shed some clothes. I discovered that the ability to remove and add layers rapidly is really pivotal for hiking in Iceland as the temperature and your own body heat can shift rapidly.

The next few hours were spent following the river Northward along rocky crags, mossy mounds, and a continually bleaker and bleaker landscape. The moss had an especially memorable spongy quality to it: a veritable bounce when you stepped on it. One person said it was like "walking on pillows," but I would equate it more to akin wearing moon shoes.

The group climbs a particularly steep part of the path.

I eventually lost track of the total number of waterfalls we passed, but there were at least a dozen impressive specimens. The river would be nearly silent one moment, and then a rush of sound would pierce my ears as I came over a rise to see another magnificent display of nature's power. It was also easy to lose my sense of scale. The mountains and hills and every feature of the land were just so huge that without a proper reference the sheer enormity would baffle my eyes.

We stop to eat and refill our water bottles.

We stopped occasionally for pictures or a snack, and by two o'clock eventually came to a footbridge that crossed the river. We knew it was the last chance to drink water from the cold and clear glacial streams, but other than glimpses of ash covered ice near the chilly water, we had no idea about what really lied ahead.

The higher and farther North we went, the less flora and fauna we encountered.