In which I have a standoff with a sheep, some espresso on the edge of the world, and second thoughts about switchbacks.

      Normally when I wander, I take a backpack, a road map, and a journal; I meticulously mark the roads that I choose, the stops that I make, and jot down notes about random things that I see and feel along the way. This time around, I'm going to take the extra step in the evenings to rewrite my journals here — both to help me commit everything better to memory, and to share the completion of this goal with all of you. We'll see if this turns out to be at all interesting, as I'll only be sharing a few phone photos here, and I've never really coalesced any of these types of things into a coherent(ish) whole before. My regular editorial works will come later, when I'm home and settled.

Day One of the Iceland Ring Road Mission by the numbers.

Around 9 hours of driving.

About 700 kilometres traveled.

• Stops made: at least 6
• Insane switchbacks made: 5
• Layers worn: 4
• Icelandic sheep aggravated: 2
• Ounces of espresso drank: 2
• Waterfalls climbed in: 1
• Bags of steak jerky eaten: 1
• Words said either to me or by me in the Icelandic language: 0
• Vikings found: 0
  
  

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Open space, and the beauty of Ísland

 Leaving the airport before the sun rises, I find myself standing dwarfed by the monument of Hallgrímskirkja before any other tourists arrive at the church. I expect throngs of gawkers and instead, stand by myself, shivering in the biting wind. I forgot my fucking wool headband, because of course I did. Tugging each piece of fabric I have in proximity to my nose down or up tightly, I snap a selfie in the bent mirror sculpture in the plaza. I run my fingertips over the old brass fittings adorning the doors and the carnelian mosaic underneath, and I realize that mornings without gloves just aren't going to be a thing either. I read somewhere along the way that Iceland is the third windiest place on Earth? It also just so happens to turn out that the first two are uninhabited; yeah, I believe that. I suck on my burning fingers and wait for the diesel to grumble disconsolately back to life. I reach the outskirts of Reykjavik just as the sun begins to trace the edges of sloped hills and scraped stone mesas with slim lines of gilt. Shortly thereafter, I plunge into midnight.

      Oh, no — wait. It's just an underwater super villainesque escape tunnel hewn from the living rock. My bad: travel makes me fanciful. I still pretend I'm in the batmobile as I rev the engine of my gutless four by four and rocket out the upturned slope on the other side of the inlet. In this fervor and a general state of not really knowing where I am or going, I also blow through an "Electronic Tags Only" tolling station in a car that has none, which I do not own. Details. Eventually I stop in the middle of nowhere and close my eyes in the breeze, just to stand and be unfolded. As I start to get back on the road, a sheep trundles directly in front of the vehicle and smirks at me. I am now glossing over the amount of time I spend honking at, playing chicken with, swearing at, and eventually pleading with my wooly and I hope-to-soon-be-mutton tormentor.

      Climbing along lava rocks twisting skyward in a bizarre imitation of kelp, the moss that blankets everything reminds me of walking along the sea floor, but if under the ocean was actually the moon, and maybe also a jungle? It may as well be, you know, what with the floating and the glowing, and the damn nature, you scary of it all. However, outside of the asshole sheep and some fat, glossy ravens, I see signs of no other animals at all.

      Some quiet stretching and a pensive and respectful walk through the Hellnar churchyard cemetery with graves dated in the 1830s reinforces the silence even more. Stepping carefully around the edges of plots, I right some of the wind toppled artificial plants. I have a real soft spot for cemeteries; especially ones with history. I stand looking up at the snow covered mountain framed by the whitewashed gate to the memorial garden until my eyes droop, and I walk into the glass building perched awkwardly on the slumped remnants of a stone cottage for a double shot of espresso. It's like stepping into a Scandinavian modernist's home, except I'm allowed to touch things and the furniture is comfortable. The barista passes me a small cup under jangling lines of twine strung with spoons and tea set accoutrements, and I sit with my legs folded nonsensically under and to the side of me, looking out the window at the relentless, story high waves.

      Ahead of me, brilliant blue skies stretch as far as I can see, blending into blush hues as the sun outruns me; behind, in my mirror, a roiling mass of mist and streaked grey miasma bears down, driven by that frigging wind again. It feels too much like an omen, so I speed along towards the Westfjords and enter a stunningly beautiful and eternally frustrating set of switchbacks along the coast line. Each time I double back on myself, the sullen grey flows forward and envelopes another ridge, so I focus on the turbulent clouds and halcyon bars of filtered light and the last peninsula that should be hiding my destination for the evening...it keeps me from thinking too much about how apparently here no one gives a shit about cliffs and roadside barriers, or even a respectable distance between painted lines and open air. It takes me two hours to wind through to Ísafjörður and I pull on another pair of woolen socks in the apartment and shuffle around in a half-assed attempt to make soup. Another night in the fjords means I'll wake tomorrow to go looking for arctic foxes probably much more early than I'd like.

All of these photos, stories, and words are my own original work, inspired by my travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them. 🌶️

Follow this journey: DAY 1 | DAY 2 | DAY 3 | DAY 4 | DAY 5 | DAY 6 | DAY 7