In which I get completely outfoxed, ford a fjord, and step to the edge of existence.

      The response to my first attempt at a 'stream of consciousness' travel log has been so fun; I never imagined that something silly that I do mainly for myself would touch off so many rousing discussions. Though I'm not available for most of each day (because I am a skinflint traveler who refused the "make your rental car a WiFi hotspot" option — it even apparently works on remote glaciers?! When the hell did this become a thing?) I've tried to check in with those of you sending messages and tips as I can. This is one of my favourite little habits, always kept to myself, but taking the extra step in the evenings to rewrite my journals here serves a twofold purpose — my memories of sensations and locations and motivations are more vividly remembered in the telling, and I'm now able to share the completion of a lifetime wanderlust goal with all of you.

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

Around 2 hours of driving.

About 150 kilometres traveled.

• Poop nuggets observed/stepped in: ∞
• Kilometres hiked: approximately 30
• Icelandic Horses aggravated: 6
• Stops made: 5
• Current running total of all-soup meals: 3
• Waterfalls climbed in: 2
• Arctic Foxes found: 0
• ANY living, wild mammals found: 0
• Vikings found: 0

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Hiking Westfjord beaches, fjords, and grasslands

      Touching my toes to the wall radiator before getting up the guts to let them drop to the pine floorboards, I look out over the fjord inlet to a completely transformed Ísafjörður. As I slept, that incredible wind scoured the streets and swirled the tops of waves into drifting spray that lifts on the air to mingle with the mist that followed me into town. The ocean lapping right up to the pavement on both sides of the apartment is turgid and deep teal, and the sky is silvery and ever-changing. Clouds don't even get a chance to settle and spread before being pushed forcefully out and along the valley, their edges scudding along the buildings like they're scrabbling for purchase, grasping to stay perched over my head. Today the wind seems more like a playful challenger, a world shaper, a prodding encouragement at my back. I'm still so pissed about that headband, though...my playful, encouraging, world shaping entity is nipping at my friggin' ears more fiercely than my heels.

      My mind and GPS are both set on the edge of the peninsula, determined to go as far north as I can before I follow the blue line mindlessly into the ocean. I don't account for my companion gale summoning a slanting, sideways onslaught of rain as I stand at the edge of the F road that has been upgraded to cautionary with the first hints of winter. It looks steep; steep enough that I briefly consider turning around. The runoff washes the mud and surface scree down the hill at an alarming rate, and a realization with the same inevitable momentum tells me I will never be back here again. Decension wins.

      I creep down, around, over and through, and it's just all so damp. Forty minutes of quarry like walls, abandoned structures, and the occasional isolated cairn. It reminds me a lot of Ireland, actually; the bones of homes stripped of any wooden features, stacks of stones unwitnessed in unlikely places. I pull to the very edge of the black sand and marvel at the noise of the waves. I live near the ocean, have been to island cliffs all over the world. Maybe it's the turn in the weather or the extra force from the wind tearing around my shoulders that lends them such violence. Why is standing unmoving in solitary silence and the dispassionate deluge so overwhelmingly loud? The waves are taller than I am, right until they collapse on the sand in an explosion of stirred up muck and shreds of kelp. The sound never stops. I've heard the words thunder or roar or rumble but they're not enough. This is relentless, sonorous, and vehement.

      I wander the length of the coastline and up the bluffs as far as I can go. The still feathered wings of a raven are hidden in the sparkling grass behind what's left of a cabin. The kelp torn up at the roots thrown to the base of the cliffs is decaying into unnervingly pink ropes of viscera and I have to look twice at the first pile I see to figure it out. What I think may have been a seal tumbles in the bubbles cleaned pristinely pearl, almost translucent, and missing the skull. Foam and bones out here. The verdant pictures I've seen online from the summer don't feel nearly as authentic as bones and foam.

_{Let me tell you about the beautify of bones and foam here.}

      The rest of my day I chase foxes, no different than at home. I drive the scenic routes from likely den locations, meaning I try to stick to the coasts (not that there's many other ways to go here) and my failure to prep for any Icelandic communication and general stubborn nature means I have to backtrack because I fail to respect a road sign. It was just a vehicle-sized boulder sitting in one lane, with a pleasant enough pole embedded in the pavement in front. In my defense, a road closure should block the entire road or be bright yellow and red or maybe have some flashing lights or maybe a scary sounding word or something that does a better job at discouragement. ...Yeah, I know.

      Despite stumbling across rabbit, sheep, and what I'm fairly certain is fox scat nearly everywhere, I don't find a damn thing. No dens, no animals, no adorable wildlife photos without the heavy prep. Clearly, my tracking skills are complete bollocks, but I'm blaming the rain for 'obscuring game trails.' My climb up the sides of the valley sides becomes more of a challenge to ascend as high as I can into the waterfalls that ring the fjord edge. I nearly put my foot through a wet and weakened crossing at the base, leading to sustained swearing and a brief thought of, "Indy would walk on the edges of the spars" to stop my heart from thumping and coax my feet back into movement.

      On my way back down, two hours later, I cross through the middle of the fjord shallows to clean the mud and shit off my boots. The tide is further out, and the wind has whipped the rain into a new dusting of snow high above my best climbing height for the day. I love the beauty and the wistfulness I've found out here, so at odds with the endless blue of just yesterday, but fuck me that wind and rain combo is cold. I head back to the apartment to make more soup, and I'm listening to the windows rattle with the force of the gusts. Apparently only around 10% of tourists ever even make it out here to the Vestfirðir region. Tomorrow I rejoin the ring road, heading towards Akureyri where it's warmer, the mountains and lakes are boiling, and where I plan to meet up with my group. I'm going to have to make all those switchbacks again on the way out... shit.

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