ICE ICE BABY
- Joelle McDonald
- Jul 2, 2022
- 13 min read
Updated: Jun 12, 2023
Kirkjubæjarklaustur • Skaftafell National Park • Breiðamerkurjökull Glacier • Jökulsárlón Glacial Lagoon• Diamong Beach • Höfn • Djúpivogur
Warning: Some somewhat dangerous decision were unknowingly made today.
The Run from a Fairytale
--- Map Point A ---
To all the fairy tale readers out there—and I mean the Grimms Fairy Tales, not the Disney versions—how many stories can you think of with truly happy endings? Based on what I have read, there are few. Faeries and elves are fun to imagine and stories of other’s interactions with them brought me joy and entertainment for much of my childhood, but enough of those stories were cautionary tales that, today, I have no desire to have an interaction with any faerie folk myself.
However, Iceland is known to be a haven for such creatures. Though not every local will say they believe in faerie folk, according to my research you would be hard pressed to find many who say they don’t. This morning, as my watch alarm brought me to consciousness at the bright hour of 7:00 (all hours are bright here, so that’s not a differentiating adjective) and I sleepily peeled off my layers until I was left in just my running clothes, I had yet to think much about the stories of faeries in Iceland. Little did I know that was about to change.
Behind our home for the night, steep cliffs rose from the ground with grassy bottoms and sharp rocky drops near the top. The cliff nearest to our site had a path of tiny dimples leading straight up the mountain from the campsite’s barbed wire fence, presumably to the highland above. Last night I eyed it with interest, and today I was determined to make it to the top. It was a scramble, but I made it about three-quarters up before deciding that without a rope, shoes with better grip, or company it was not worth the unstable path ahead. Retreating to run on the road of the, albiet tiny, town of Kirkjubæjarklaustur (try saying that three times, or one) I later stumbled upon what looked like a hiking trail at the base of a waterfall that rose straight into the air with the most lush greenery I have seen so far. I arbitrarily chose to follow the red path markers, which took me past a lonely caldron sitting on a patch of dirt next to the waterfall: the first sighting of something that lead me to believe fairies, or something magical and mischievous, were in the area. There was no context or information near it, as there has been for most interesting sites, simply a caldron sitting alone by the falls.
Once I summited the cliff stairs I was in the highland. My senses were shocked by blasting wind pushing itself into my throat, a glittering blue lake, and a bright gold building (which I learned is an art installation). The path was somewhat unclear, but I spent some time taking in the views of the highlands, lava fields, lake, town below, and the fluffy flock of sheep grazing along the path. I eventually turned when the path became unclear, nervous about being far from help in an unknown location if something were to go wrong.
On my return to the hiking path I passed a placard telling the story of the lake. It was once a common bathing location for nuns. One day two nuns bathing together saw a gold hand emerge from the water holding a gold crown. The two women both reached for it, only to never be seen again.
That was the last straw for me. Already nervous to be alone on high cliffs, I did not need the added concern of a lake monster or other magical creature making me a mark. Rushing down the waterfall path I passed the caldron again, but this time I thought of the gold crown and both wanted to step closer to see inside, and not to cross the stick laying across the path in front of it, in case that would lead to me being cursed or trapped by an elf or something of the sort, I don’t know how these things work. I can’t say for certain any of those creatures even exist, but if they do it isn’t hard to believe they would be in Iceland, where the scenery is straight out of a storybook.
Skaftafell National Park…
--- Map Point B ---
…Our first stop on the road today. This national park is known as Iceland’s gem. It is filled with gleaming and picturesque waterfalls, glaciers, and valleys, as if the island knows that it is being watched—so says our guidebook. We didn’t make it past the averagely gorgeous visitor center. We had another stop for a guided glacier hike (spoiler alert) in an hour and a half, so we used the bathroom (they are even more few-and-far-between than buildings along the Ring Road) took a few pictures, and got right back on the road. It would be a great spot for camping and hiking if we had had more time.
Breiðamerkurjökull Glacier (don’t worry, we can’t pronounce it either)
--- Superjeep Ride from Map Point C ---
Next up was our first guided experience of the trip: a glacier walk on the Breiðamerkurjökull Glacier. We had just received word that the hike was a likely “go” after it being nearly cancelled due to dangerously high wind speeds in the area. Hoping that it truly would be safe and that it wouldn’t have to be cancelled We drove an hour to get there from Skaftafell, me behind the wheel and Hannah working on the blog in the passenger seat. When we got close to our destination, Hannah began to doze and I began to feel the car getting pushed, pulled, and swept up in strong gusts of wind. When large tour busses and campers passed us the whole van shook and swayed with the force of their draft. Eventually the jolt of one of those drafts woke Hanah so she could take in my white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. Finally our meeting place came into view, a bright blue glacial lagoon peppered with massive blue, white, clear, and black hued icebergs.
We met at a Super Jeep in the parking lot of the Jökulsárlón Glacial Lagoon (more on that later). I genuinely do not have the words to describe the size of the Super Jeep, so you will have to look at the picture on Hannah next to it in the gallery for size comparison. We met our hiking buddies, a family of four from Chicago, and our Guide, who grew up in the nearest town south of the glacier and now lives in the nearest town north of it (a long commute). As we got our crampons sized and harnesses on, our guide discussed our plan, an 8 km hike to and up the glacier after a 30 minute drive there on an F Road (rough roads that require 4WD and a skilled driver). The reaction of the father in the family of other hikers was “8 KILOMETERS?!” Not a good omen, but a good predictor of what was to come. After climbing—and I mean climbing—into the Super Jeep with our harnesses, crampons, and helmets, we began the bumpy drive to a “parking lot,” though it looked exactly the same as everything else around it. As we walked toward the glacier across a field of rocks we took in the other worldly scenery. As the dad of the other group of hikers put it many many times “Wow, we are on Mars. Are we on Mars right now? This is Mars!” His college and middle school daughters quickly shut him down, pointing out a massive river right next to us and that everything was grey, not something that you would see on Mars. I see where they were both coming from. The landscape was like nothing I’ve seen before, with no hints of humans beyond our Jeep and the recession of the glacier from climate change.
After fighting through a wind tunnel (our guide nearly cancelled the hike due to high winds) and crossing a very precarious rope bridge, we reached the glacier base and began putting on our crampons. Hannah looks at me confused, “Is this the glacier?” she asks pointing directly at the largest glacier in Iceland. What did she think we were walking and driving toward this whole time? “Yeah, that’s the glacier” I respond confused by her confusion. To be fair, it looked charcoal-black, covered in what we learned was a mix of sand and volcanic ash. After a brief tutorial on crampon use we took our first steps on the glacier, eager to make it as far up as we can. Then, a mere four steps into our climb we hear, “Sir, how far up are we going?” A nervous question from the dad of the other hikers. The guide is very confused. “About half way up, maybe 200 or so meters gain.” The dad looks sick. “Sir, I am afraid of heights, sir. I do not want to go up. I am too scared.” Hannah and I exchange a look. Didn’t he know what he was getting into? I mean, when you sign up to hike a glacier, you are going to be climbing up a glacier. His family tried to cajole him into continuing and the guide told him it was too dangerous for the group to split up here, but he absolutely refused to continue. Hannah and I feared we would all have to turn back and lose out on a likely amazing experience. While the group deliberated Hannah and I played around taking pictures, until eventually a decision was reached: the dad would go back to the foot on the glacier and just sit there, not move at all, and wait for the guide to come back and get him once we finished the loop. When he asked how long it would be, the guide said “about two hours.” “TWO HOURS?!” I don’t think that he would have chosen to book this tour had he known what was ahead. With a solution agreed that every felt okay, if not great, with we set off again, only turning to check that our left-behind-hiker was going the right way to the bottom of the glacier. He was not. Yikes, that could end poorly. We tried to yell to him to go the right way but he couldn’t hear us. Eventually he sat down not too far off the path, good enough.
We hiked along the glacier and saw patches of deep blue ice among the sand and ash covered clear ice. Even though the glacier looked all brown from the road, up close every step revealed a different angle of light and contrast of ash that made the glistening ice change almost constantly. We saw craters and tunnels through the glacier, each with ash and sand contouring the bright ice. Our guide pointed out a section over a small stream on the glacier where the ice was solid on either size, but there was an impossible to see space between, just big enough for a foot, that whet many feet down in freezing cold water with loose ice tinkling as he stirred it with his ice pick. The ice there sounded almost like a wind chime, peaceful tinkling that you had to listen for in order to hear.
As we began to descend the glacier opposite the side we walked up it, the mom of the family we were hiking with began asking the guide questions about ice caves. I missed most of their conversation, but he mentioned that they are very rarely found or visited this time of year because the ice becomes unstable as it melts, making them dangerous. She seemed disappointed but hopeful that we would still see one. Off the glacier, our guide told us to take off our crampons with a sly smile and guided us away from what we thought was the way back to… prepare yourselves… AN ICECAVE! I had just assumed we definitely wouldn’t see one with so much glacier recession every year and the tour’s website warning not to expect to go in one. The guide indicated that this cave still looked very stable so we put up our rain hoods and walked under the ice ceiling, which was dripping in constant streams all over the place. I asked if it was okay to drink the water and he said yes. If you too would like to know what water dripping into a glacial ice cave in Iceland tastes like, I have included a recipe below:
Glacial Cave Water Recipe
Ingredients: Sandy dirt, cold water
Instructions: Mix and enjoy
Later, walking back toward the Super Jeep we passed over a small, perfectly clear glacial waterfall. I decided to give this water a taste too; it was perfect! It tasted exactly how clean snow does if you eat it. This time not only did Hannah and I try the water, but our hiking mates finally decided to give it a taste too. We made it back to the Super Jeep and the dad of the other family, who really did not follow safety instructions, walked back to the Jeep on his own. He went the wrong way, but made it back to the Jeep in one piece. Wrong formula, right answer… thank goodness. We drove back across the glacial field toward the road. The drive takes about 20 minutes, but 130 years ago—before human industrialization really took off—the glacier went all the way to where the road is now. The recession is so significant it is unimaginable.
Jökulsárlón Glacial Lagoon
--- Map Point C ---
Back at the lagoon we say goodbye to our guide and quickly headed toward the lagoon (it is way colder than the glacier and windy). The lagoon is a bright turquoise with huge dramatic icebergs of many colors floating inside, broken off from the glacier just above. The lagoon empties into the ocean below, so crowds were gathered to watch one particular iceberg as it very slowly made its way toward the beach. Tourists of many languages were awing over the view and clamoring for pictures, making it really hard to figure out who to ask to take one for us. We awkwardly stood along the lagoon eyeing the tourists around before jumping that the closest person to walk by—they had to be good enough, right?—to ask for a photo. He seemed unenthused, but willing.
Diamond Beach
--- Map Point C ---
Our final stop for the day! This beach was a 30 second drive from the lagoon, (we could have walked, but we would have had to cross a busy road) and the recipient of icebergs washing out from the glacial lagoon. Having just been on the beaches of Hawaii a week ago, I can confirm that the attire required for subarctic beaches is different than that required for tropical beaches. Tropic beaches don’t have literally icy water. The black sand beautifully contrasted with the blue, white, and crystal clear ice on it. To be honest, the pictures we had seen of the beach, named for its icebergs, had much larger ice chunks than what we saw, but seeing ice on a beach is cool no matter the size.
Höfn
--- Map Point D ---
The home of our campsite for the night. After racing to reach our campsite by 10 PM last night, we were over the moon to arrive at our campsite’s town at 6:30 tonight. It was a big town with a nice looking site. With visions of soon-to-be completed blog posts and pasta night (in other words, no meal packs tonight) we were optimistic and high energy. Tomorrow is our biggest day of driving yet, over 5 hours, so we are eager to refuel and prepare. Maybe overeager. On the way into town we passed the sign for the town that is our first stop on the drive tomorrow. “We could just get a head start on tomorrow” I suggest to Hannah. She is interested so we look up the campsite there and the distance on Google Maps: an hour and a half. No problem! That will still get us there at 8 PM, our earliest campsite arrival yet. We gas up and off we go.
Djúpivogur: The Drive to it and the Town
--- Map Points D to E ---
Djúpivogur: population 350. One of Iceland’s oldest fishing towns. Seems like it could be a cozy home for the night. On the road and glad to be getting ahead, we are optimistic until the first gust of wind. Oh no. We didn’t check to see how bad the wind would be (en.vedur.is if you are interested). In Iceland there is virtually no crime, but the weather conditions can easily turn deadly, especially if you aren’t aware and prepared in advance. We were not aware and prepared in advance. To all of our loved ones reading this, we are sorry. You would have had a heart attack had you been able to see us as we were driving the Ring Road to Djúpivogur. The wind gusts were enough to blow skin off your face, assuming you were brave enough to exit your car. Clearly we survived because the tone and existence of this blog would be much different had one or both of us died, but for a bit I wasn’t sure that was a given. The road zigzagged fjords (little mountainous peninsulas) with no guard rail and often on cliffs prone to rockslides just a few feet from the ocean. Hannah had a death grip on the steering wheel the whole time and I had a death grip on my car door. I was supposed to be writing this blog, but my mind was too deep in survival mode to focus on anything but the imminent threat of wind that seriously wanted to push us off the road. With just a lone building or three popping up in the distance every 10 or 20 minutes, help would have been hard to come by had anything happened. Just the sound of the wind alone was exhausting. I was seriously wishing we had opted to stay in Höfn for the night. That bowl of pasta and early bed time was sounding really good. After an hour and a half of absolute misery, we arrive in Djúpivogur at the campsite coordinates I had found online. We saw nothing but a lone picnic table. That couldn’t be right. We had just survived the worst drive of our lives and there was no campsite?! There was no other town for well over an hour in any direction and the wind was still raging. Desperately I went to the only hotel, which was said to manage the site we were looking for. To get into the building I had to use all my strength to pry the door open against the wind. It was comedy watching others try to fight the wind and open the door once I was inside, but it felt a lot less funny when I did it myself. Even closing the door took effort because without providing resistance, the wind would have slammed the door so hard it surely would have shattered. After talking to a very intimidating man at the front desk with tattoos and gauges in his ears, we had a campsite! He told me where to go and let me pay. Tonight we decided to pay extra for electricity, we earned a night with our heater on after what we had just been through. We later decided we would also treat ourself by paying 300 Icelandic krona each for a seven minute timed shower. Hannah had to walk back to the hotel in the wind to buy the coins for the shower system—the last thing she wanted to be doing—but standing in the warm water was worth it.
After snuggling into the common building at our campsite (this one had a couch, what luxury) we stayed there until 1:30 AM. The midnight sun makes time feel like Monopoly money here. We weren’t alone either. We chatted with a couple from Chicago who had been in the common room as long as us to compare travel plans and recount experiences. They thought it was wild we were undertaking this adventure on our own as just a college student and recent college grad. Honestly, after our drive to Djúpivogur I concur, but every experience—good or bad— is a memory.
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