Landið handan allra landa
Iceland had been a dream of mine for as long as I could remember—so much so that it started to feel like a faraway land, unreachable except in my imagination. Now, in hindsight, I smile. I made it. And it exceeded anything I could have conjured in my mind.
It was my first solo trip overseas, just after my eighteenth birthday, and one I will always hold close. My parents asked why I had chosen one of the furthest places possible—39 hours of travel time from Australia—but I could only laugh and tell them I had a gut feeling pulling me there.
I spent two weeks trekking through the south toward Landmannalaugar, immersed in landscapes that felt like another planet. I also spent time in the west with rescued snow dogs, learning the art of mushing, and explored Reykjavik and the breathtaking south coast. Vik, a fairytale-like coastal town, had been a place I longed to visit even before my flights were booked, and standing there in the crisp, salty air felt like walking into the pages of a story I had always known.
I know I’ll return. A piece of my heart remains there, and Iceland left me with lessons of bravery, resilience, and discipline that I carry with me every day. It made me feel physically small in the most humbling way, instilling in me an even deeper respect for this planet. I met incredible people who made me wonder if I, too, could live off-grid in the mountains, sustained only by the bare necessities. The people of Iceland are filled with pure intentions, genuine joy, and warm hospitality, and I will always be grateful to them.
Langidalur, also known as Skagfjörðsskáli, was a breathtaking welcome into the mountains—our first step away from civilization and into the wild. The campsite was nestled between the valleys of Langidalur and Husadalur, surrounded by soft, tall green grass that made pitching our tents easy, the pegs sinking effortlessly into the earth. An ice-cold river stream ran through the site, where we filled our bottles and washed our faces, careful not to use soap to keep the water pure.
The small hut at the campsite overlooked Mt. Valahnúkur, a towering presence that loomed over us as we gathered around the campfire, its silhouette casting shadows against the night sky. Those first two days, we explored the valleys and crossed our first glacial rivers, the water biting at our skin before we made our way toward Emstrur. It felt like stepping deeper into something ancient, something unspoiled—our journey only just beginning.
Reaching Botnar felt like stepping onto another planet. The landscape was eerily lunar, a stark contrast to the lush valleys of Þórsmörk. Our first stop on the trek to Emstrur led us to a canyon carved by the river Markarfljót, a breathtaking but humbling sight. The conditions upon arrival were less than forgiving—the trek had been a challenge, winding through steep valleys and terrain unlike anything we had encountered before. The ground was a shifting expanse of smooth, slate-grey rock, both soft and treacherously slick underfoot. Every step required strength from deep within—legs and core working in unison—because a simple misstep wouldn’t just send you stumbling; it would send you flying.
The final valley before the campsite loomed ahead, impossibly steep. We hesitated at the base, exchanging glances that all asked the same question: How are we supposed to get up that? But we did, inch by inch, one after the other, following carefully in each other’s footsteps. The wind was sharp and unrelenting, and setting up camp on such unforgiving ground proved just as difficult. Driving steel pegs into the rock felt like hammering into solid concrete—some bent under the force, refusing to hold. We gathered heavy stones to anchor the tents instead. Heavy rocks and prayers, we joked, laughing despite our exhaustion.
By the time we finished, it was nearly midnight, yet the sky remained a soft, glowing grey. That night, we warmed ourselves with bowls of stew while the boys, undeterred by the biting wind, played hacky-sack football outside. I stayed inside the tent with our guide and the other girls, sipping piping hot chocolate laced with a splash of Bailey’s, our voices hushed but filled with quiet exhilaration. Outside, the wind howled, but inside, we were safe—tired, aching, but deeply, profoundly alive.
By Álftavatn Lake, we woke to a shaking tent and rain coming in sideways, driven by an arctic wind that had barreled through the mountains overnight. A storm had settled into the valley, its cold grip seeping into every layer of fabric and skin. The night before, I had used one of my shower tokens, relishing the luxury of boiling hot water, even as the wind howled through the half-open stall. The doors covered the essentials, but the icy air still funneled in like a wind tunnel. By morning, my fingers were near numb, and the damp cold had settled deep in my bones.
That day marked our longest and most grueling trek—eleven hours in total, eight of which were spent marching through a white-out blizzard, stomping our way through Jökulgil. The irony was almost laughable. Before departing from Reykjavík, our team had gathered for a briefing, where we were told we'd be doing the trail in reverse to avoid the worst of an incoming snowstorm. Yet, instead of sidestepping it, we walked straight into its heart. Murphy’s Law at its finest.
At some point during that treacherous day, we stopped at Hrafntinnusker hut, half-buried in the snow, before continuing onward toward our last camp. This was, without a doubt, the most mentally challenging leg of the journey. A white-out is something I cannot fully describe—it is not just weather but an experience, a disorienting immersion into nothingness. My boots filled with wet slush, my last dry pair of socks were already used, and at waist-deep river crossings, we stripped down before plunging into the freezing water, gasping and laughing through the absurdity of it all.
At one point, I felt delirious. I no longer knew which way was up or down, the vast whiteness consuming every point of reference. The only thing tethering me to reality was the rhythm of my boots, stomping into the fading footprints ahead of me. Without that, I might have believed we were walking somewhere in the ether, lost in an endless void where the sky, the clouds, the glaring sun, and the glowing snow all melted into one.
Our campsite in Landmannalaugar was nestled at the edge of the Laugahraun lava field, 600 meters above sea level, surrounded by mountains streaked with green fields, lingering snow, and bands of ochre, red, and gold. As we entered this surreal landscape, it felt as though we had stepped into a science fiction movie set—otherworldly, untouched. The scent of sulfur from the geothermal hot springs clung to the air as we navigated through a maze of hardened lava formations, their jagged, black ridges rising like ancient fortresses. Steam hissed and curled around our boots as we hopped over bubbling pools, careful to avoid the deeper pockets of boiling, sulfuric water.
As we descended from another mountain, we came across an expanse of snow still clinging to the slopes, a reminder of Iceland’s relentless winter, which had lasted longer than any in the past two decades. We reached the top of a steep hill, realizing the only way down was to slide. But as I made my way down, the inevitable happened—my leg punched through a hidden gap in the ice, sending me tumbling. Pain shot through my knee. Walking, let alone hiking, for the rest of the day was agonizing, but I pressed on. Luckily, we didn’t have to put our newly learned "how to save someone from a crevasse" training to use.
Despite the unexpected snowstorm and our hopes of seeing the famed wildflower fields of Landmannalaugar in full bloom, we couldn’t help but laugh. It was July—mid-summer—and yet we trekked through ice and wind as if it were the depths of winter. The cotton grass meadows we had imagined were instead buried under drifts of snow. We made a pact that day: we would return together one summer, to see the cotton in full swing, to witness Landmannalaugar as it was meant to be in its fleeting season of warmth.
Not far from camp, a wooden path led toward the steaming hot springs, mist rising in thick ribbons above the pools. That morning, before our final afternoon hike into the mountains, we spent time in the kitchen tent, discussing the landscapes, the myths and folklore of this place, and the art of map-reading and solo trekking. Our final night in the wild was spent cooking dinner together, swapping stories, and soaking in the silence of this otherworldly land, knowing it had forever left its mark on us.
According to old Icelandic tales, the faeries who live and wander along the mountain tops stack these rocks one upon the other to lure away mountain trolls.
Leaving Landmannalaugar, I found myself sitting on a bus once more, a sensation that felt strangely foreign after weeks of trekking with my backpack. The smooth motion of the vehicle as it carried us across the vast landscapes almost felt like cheating. My legs, conditioned to relentless movement, itched for the trail again. A thought flickered through my mind—hold on, let me off, I’ll walk.
Our return followed the iconic Golden Circle route, stopping by some of Iceland’s most breathtaking landmarks. Gulfoss roared with ancient power, Seljalandsfoss cascaded like a silver ribbon, and Skogafoss thundered in its endless fall. We stood in awe at Geysir, where the Earth itself seemed to breathe, its steaming waters hissing into the cold air. In Þingvellir National Park, history and geology intertwined. Here, the oldest surviving parliament in the world first assembled in 930 AD, its legacy now safeguarded as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Yet, beyond its historical weight, Þingvellir held another marvel—the meeting point of two tectonic plates. I stood with one foot on the North American plate, the other on the European, conscious of the Earth’s quiet movements beneath me. This island is alive, its bones shifting, its skin splitting along the ridge that runs north to south through the Atlantic. Iceland is growing, evolving—every year, the land stretches a little farther apart.
Glacier hiking on Sólheimajökull and Svínafellsjökull was another surreal adventure. Svínafellsjökull, a frozen giant, had been a filming location for Interstellar. While walking along its ridges, we met a local who shared a story of how, during the movie’s production, enormous set pieces resembling space station structures had been placed on the ice. One morning, unaware of the filming, he peered through his binoculars and saw what he believed to be an alien landing. Imagine that.
A few days later, drawn by the call of Iceland’s West, I hitchhiked toward Húsafell and into the mountains of Langjökull, Iceland’s second-largest ice cap. There, waiting in the snow, was a team of rescued snow dogs. These animals, once abandoned or surrendered by owners unprepared for their energy and endurance, had found a new life running free across the frozen expanse. Many had been house pets, bought for their beauty but never truly understood. Now, they belonged to the wild again, given endless love and purpose. As I watched them stretch their legs into the wind, tongues lolling, paws kicking up fresh powder, I felt something deep in my chest—an understanding. Freedom is not just about where you are. It is about being where you are meant to be.
As I stood, breathing in the crisp, clean air and letting the soft mist of the waterfall settle on my skin, I felt something rare—a stillness, a presence so complete it left no room for longing, no space for anything but contentment. Iceland had stripped everything away, leaving only this moment, only the land and the breath in my lungs.
I remember the final sunset. Standing at the bus bay, waiting for my ride to the airport, I watched the sun hover just above the horizon. The sky bled crimson red, and I knew that in ten minutes, it would rise once more. That beautiful, relentless midnight sun. I felt so small beneath that endless sky, but not in a way that frightened me. In a way that humbled me.
Iceland imprinted itself on my soul in a way no other place ever has. Its beauty is a quiet kind of magic—one that sneaks up on you slowly and refuses to let go. It doesn’t shout, it doesn’t demand, but it lingers, settling in the spaces between your ribcage, in the pauses between heartbeats. Iceland has the personality of someone with an old soul but a young heart. It is quiet and stoic, gentle yet fierce, steady yet unpredictable. It feels like the land itself is watching over you, guiding you, whispering its ancient wisdom into the wind.
In Independent People, Halldór Laxness writes, “Under the ice caps and glaciers where the rivers of fire meet the glaciers of the sky, there lies a land beyond all lands…” It is exactly that—a place beyond all lands. A place where fire and ice collide to create something both ferocious and serene, where contradiction becomes harmony. It does not just offer landscapes; it offers something deeper, something that stirs the marrow of your bones. It is a reminder that there are places in this world still untamed, still timeless, still wild.
Now, back in the hum of daily life, I catch myself slipping into daydreams. I return to those landscapes in my mind, to the mist rolling off the black-sand beaches, to the waterfalls tumbling endlessly into the earth, to the stark white snowfields stretching into infinity. It calls to me softly, like a distant lullaby, a pull I know I will one day answer. And when I do, I will find myself once more in the heart of it all, standing beneath that endless sky, waiting for the sun to rise again.
And this time, I will see those damned wildflower fields.