Iceland’s Indifference

Finding Place Through Vastness

My days have grown contained, and so my thoughts travel elsewhere. They return to Iceland, to a stretch of walking I now carry like a second landscape within me. I walk it again, this time in words.

I began in the volcanic highlands of Landmannalaugar, a moonscape of solidified lava where sculpted hills break through charcoal basalt flows. As if warm dunes had been dusted with Indian spices, the slopes were stained with burnished hues, dusky olives, splashes of yellow and dusty pink, offset by gullies of snow melting in the late June sun.

Lava flows lay in fossilised motion, scattered with jet-black shards of obsidian, glass formed when molten rock cooled too quickly to crystallise.

I was charged with awe at entering a world within worlds. The ground felt ready to tear my boots from my feet, while the billowing vistas offered a welcome. It was both inhospitable and inviting.

As I gained elevation, the scale became clear. Vast fields of frozen fire stretched for kilometres, filling valleys with cracked, ankle-breaking plateaus. Plumes of steam rose from beneath the earth, carrying sulphur on the breeze.

Higher into the chalky, granular rhyolite, the path cut through pockets of snow and around volcanic outcrops that had forced their way to the surface.

Deeper into the interior, snowfields revealed their depth as the bare south-facing rock melted them back into steep walls of ice. The sun flashed in and out of cloud. It looked like T-shirt weather on spring snow, yet the breeze was bitter.

Rivulets scalloped caves into the drifts, large enough to stand inside, as the trail undulated across abraded slopes. I paused for photographs and noticed how far I had come from the sounds of people. There is a bodily calm in knowing I’m alone, invisible, comfortable.

Ribbons of snow still clung to stream edges, defying gravity.

After a period of frozen desert, the land softened. Grass appeared on the descending slopes and fluted peaks rose from valleys braided with rivers. Beyond them lay blankets of glacial ice fading into cloud.

As my pace quickened downhill, the rivers revealed their convergence, gathering into lakes that pocketed the mountainside. Clouds formed above the water and darkened, drawing moisture from the valley.

My first night’s lakeside camp emerged from the distance. I was surprised by how quickly the day had passed and eager to pitch and replace lost calories. The eroding gravel steepened into widening views below. With no trees and little obstruction, the landscape offered clear lines of travel for miles, and with them the freedom to choose my way.

The weather held through the evening and I pitched by the stream that marked the boundary of one of the refuges, settling in to study the remainder of my route to Skógar.

The trail crossed plateaus of shingle cut by silted streams and weaving channels carving deep canyons to the south, glinting in the changeable weather.

Flushes of crimson heath broke the monotone stone, scattered with rich purple Arctic thyme. Icelandic horses thundered across the flats and vanished before I could dig out my camera. By the time I registered the mileage, I was pitching again and sleeping heavily.

With worsening weather, the geology grew steeper and more fractured. Scree slopes folded into crumpled forms divided by endless run-off from surrounding glaciers. Moss and rust-coloured sand muted the land. Soot-brushed ice cliffs framed waterfalls that bored through the drifts and reappeared below.

Wind battered the high ground as I made for Skógafoss, one of the most powerful waterfalls in Iceland. Gusts knocked me sideways beneath the weight of my pack. With equal measures of awe and concern, I watched the cloud formations being whipped into the storm.

Below, the campsite lay exposed. One tent had collapsed entirely, its occupant struggling to pack within. The Föhn wind poured down from the high ground, making pitching impossible. The site was evacuated and I was led to a local school to sleep on the gymnasium floor with others stranded by the storm.

For all my willingness to endure, I was grateful for the safety of solid walls.

The following day, I ventured into Skaftafell in Vatnajökull National Park, beginning at the hexagonal basalt columns of Svartifoss and climbing shale and knife-edge ridges to view sprawling glaciers and the distant coast. The weather improved and I shared part of the walk with fellow travellers.

On the final day I chose safety with guidance. I wanted to go as high as Iceland would allow and joined a tour to Hvannadalshnúkur. At just over two thousand metres, the glaciated summit required crampons and ice axe. Though reluctant to be roped to strangers, I met two Norwegians who later offered me a lift back via Strokkur geyser, erupting in boiling columns of water.

I felt both held by the vastness and reduced by it, as if I were briefly part of the same vapour rising from the land. In a country that seemed conjured from prehistoric time, I gained perspective, and with it a steadier way back into ordinary days.

The journey ended not in triumph but in human warmth, set against a land that remained indifferent to our presence.