Iceland 2024

Dear ladies turn 50 but once in their life and such a vital turn of such a vital lady deserves a notable ceremony. When I turned 50 last year, a modest party in the back room of a local brewpub sufficed but Pam wanted something more adventurous and sophisticated. We had never been to Iceland so Pam deemed it a natural choice for our next misadventure.

After four and a half hours of flying and four time zones later, we exited the airport. The Icelandic welcoming committee consisted of a stiff wind and some light horizontal rain. The following morning we shot out west in a rented Kia Sportage to the eastern most point of our entire trip. For two nights we stayed in the very sufficient and new cottage called Nonhamar near the nature preserve of Skaftafell.

This is a turf church. I do not know if there is an artificial turf church out there.

The following morning we took part of a glacier hike that allowed us to walk upon the glacier of Skaftafell. Our guide was a 28 year-old tall, slim chap with red hair and a matching mustache that simply won the day. Kári was the only Icelandic guide in this particular tour company. What struck me even more fascinating was that he was also the only former Tom Ford model in the tour company. Even on top of this bare, windy glacier, if you were lucky enough to be within five feet of Kári, you would also be lucky enough to enjoy his indefatigable cologne.

Although not a former male model (that I know of), this glacier could still turn heads. So much so, Game of Thrones decided to film their closeups of the ice wall climbing scene here. As we walked, you would sometimes hear a large crack which was actually a release of air that had been trapped in the glacier for 2000 years. The age of this air caused me to refer to it as “Jesus Air”. In one spot, melted glacier water flowed in a small stream in the glacier itself which we were allowed to drink. Kári told us that the water is so pure, it lacks any minerals and therefore will do little to quench your thirst. I said that the lack of thirst quenching properties matters little, for if we bottle this water, who would be foolish enough not to buy “Jesus Water”?

A glacier that Jesus may have walked on (perhaps this is what really happened when Jesus “walked on water”).
Two people that like the song “Jesus Is Just Alright” by the Doobie Brothers.
The great thing about these ice axes is that Kári told us they’re basically useless for this type of hiking and more or less are for mediocre pictures only like these.
No idea…

Pam mentioned to Kári that we saw a large black and white photo of some school children in the common area of a small shopping mall in Vik. The photo was taken in the early 1900’s and the most noteworthy element one with even the most modest level of happiness in their life would catch is just how serious and old these children looked. Kári explained to us that life at that time (and probably all the way back to the earliest settlers) was hard. All you ate was seafood and it was dark in the winter as electricity did not arrive until the early 1900’s and in the darkest recesses of winter, an Icelander has only about five hours of daylight to work with. Kári told us not to listen to any foolish travel guides that claim Iceland is still enjoyable in the winter. He claims it’s awful. In addition to the lack of sunlight, it can be quite cold with lots of snow and winds that feel as if they were born from a tornado.

Eight days before we embarked on our glacier hike, an ice cave accident that achieved global attention took place about 15 miles east of where our hike was. One tourist died and a two-day search was conducted for two missing tourists. To add insult to injury (or death in this case), these two missing persons ended up being an accounting error. They didn’t exist. Kári was part of the search and rescue effort, an effort that brought his life and the lives of his colleagues into serious danger so they were understandably peeved to discover they were risking their lives for two people that didn’t even have the decency of existing.

The American owner of this tour group was a board member of The Association of Icelandic Mountain Guides, a group who, among other things, tries to ensure safe practices during tours like this. Not only has he lost his spot on this association, he has lost all of his certifications, he is no longer allowed to operate a business in Iceland, and he may even be brought up on manslaughter charges.

This story and the fact that Kári was among the last of the Mohicans when it comes to Icelandic tour guides points to some interesting facts. In what was an informative article for me, Ciarán Daly of The Reykjavík Grapevine tries to assess the tourism landscape in Iceland. In a country whose population is about 375,000, he notes that there are about two million tourists a year (although Kári puts it now at three million). After talking with one of the longest running guides in Iceland, Einar Sigurðsson, it’s clear that not only have some Icelandic guides left the industry due to decreasing pay, the demand of tours has increased. These two factors have lead to hiring more people from abroad for less pay which does not always translate to premiere practices in safety.

Perhaps the increased demand itself is to blame, tempting and ultimately causing tour companies to really push the envelope by offering ice cave tours in the summer. How stupid is our species?! The words “ice” and “summer” and “cave” together in the title of a tour would scare off the dumbest of God’s creatures…but not humans.

I’ve done a decent amount of travel and although I prefer my own quiet exploration over tours, I couldn’t help but apply this cautionary tale to my own pursuits. I’ve taken part of a few tours that could have gotten downright butt-ugly in a hurry without much divine intervention (jumping 45 feet off a cliff into a river in a jungle in the Philippines comes to mind). When most of us book a tour, our brains are in vacation mode already so we don’t always analyze the risk like Ben Stiller in Along Came Polly. We see an acceptable amount of positive reviews online and in a heartbeat, without fully realizing it, we potentially put ourselves at great risk. Yes, travel in general brings about a heightened risk but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that hiking into a melting ice cave brings about more risk than a food tour in Quebec.

When I searched for Icelandic glacier tours, the ice cave option did pop up. If I had already done the “regular” glacier hike and if I wasn’t such a cheap bastard, I may have chosen it. It looked really interesting. It goes without saying that I’m psyched I did not choose it (since my cave tour would have happened a week after the accident, it probably would have been canceled anyways).

After walking on thick ice, Pam and I drove east to the Glacier Lagoon known as Jökulsárlón. Here we observed large icebergs in a lake so inspiring it that not one but two James Bond movies were filmed there (maybe that’s not inspiring). The lake did not form until the 1940’s and continues to grow as the glacier that supplies the lake with icebergs shyly retreats over time. When small enough after a certain amount of melting, the icebergs roll out to sea. Some of them end up on the black sand beach called Diamond Beach.

If Robert DeNiro had a show that was all about how icebergs are better than iceberg lettuce, this might be what that show looked like.
Neil Diamond Beach

Pam and I celebrated our magical day of ice by enjoying what was probably our best meal of the trip at Fosshotel. Our waiter, Rui, was a gentleman in his late 40’s from Portugal. In fact, he still lived in Portugal and passed his time as a software engineer and as someone that teaches this sacred art. He decided to spend his summer in Iceland as a waiter at this high-end chain of restaurants as the pay was too good to pass up. Rui and I shared two things in common: we both lived in Galway, Ireland and we both spent far too much time playing EA Sports’ NHL hockey video game. I spent just a semester in Galway in 1995 while Rui lived there for several years. It was in Galway where he worked for EA Sports as a tester that also provided technical support long after I ceremoniously put down the controller but we were able to laugh as I recounted my stories of conquest in EA Sports NHL from the 1990’s.

The next morning we packed our things, said goodbye to Nonhamar Cottages and drove west to Fjaðrárgljúfur Canyon. This 100-meter deep canyon was formed by thousands of years of erosion from glacial water. Here and on the glacier, I noticed a pest whose presence seems to be sadly growing in recent years at pristine natural parks all over the world. The pest is known as Irritating F#ckwit Drone User. While providing a technical and exciting experience for themselves, they also provide an industrial-sized buzzkill for everyone else around them who: a) if surveyed, would probably indicate they would rather not be listening to or seeing a drone flying around and b) whether they realize it or not, came to this park in the first place to get away from infuriating reminders of advanced human civilization. Our glacier tour guide from the previous day, Kári, told us that Iceland has seen a 40% drop in their bird population due to these relatively useless drones which has caused the government to outlaw them in many areas. There are many species of birds that pass through Iceland on their way to somewhere else or have traveled thousands of miles from other continents to mate in Iceland and are sometimes scared off when seeing these drones.

Fjaðrárgljúfur Canyon with no drones. Maybe we could train hawks and eagles to destroy drones? Or at least drop ungodly amounts of fecal matter on the drone users themselves?
Pam is not afraid to place herself where only eagles (and unfortunately drones) dare.

After stopping at the very popular Skogafoss waterfall, we split a fish and chips plate sold nearby at Mia’s Country Van which was a food truck that has probably not moved in 25 years. The owner/chef was a kind, gentle-voiced creature who sold pretty much only fresh fish and chips, and mayonnaise. About three bites into this meal, I had already forgotten about the majestic, overcrowded waterfall we just visited.

Where’s Waldo, I mean Pam? That rainbow is not a deep fake.

A short drive brought us to our next destination for two nights: Umi Hotel. This hotel was a modern, minimalist structure, set back from the ocean three quarters of a mile and in the middle of a sparse, flat plain filled with that abundant straw-colored tall grass you find frequently in Iceland. Checking us in was stocky young chap named Lucas that seemed to wear multiple hats at the hotel in addition to his official title of manager. One of the first things we had to do was to clearly indicate the name of every person staying in our room. Lucas said the Icelandic government just implemented this new rule as a result of the incorrect head count that occurred during the recent ice cave search and rescue.

Trying to place his accent, I made the grave error of thinking he was Russian. Doing his level best to contain his distaste at this incorrect and insulting (for him anyways) classification, he civilly informed me he was Polish. I told Lucas some of the staff at our previous accommodation were also Polish. He said we would encounter the same trend at Umi. He went on to tell us that the Polish are the biggest minority in Iceland. What started as an opportunity for Poles filling labor gaps in Icelandic shipyards in the 1960s became Poles filling gaps in many other sectors, including tourism.

We asked Lucas about a natural geothermal pool close by that we heard about. He said in addition to the entrance fee being very low, the lukewarm water had lots of algae, and the changing rooms were filthy. We decided to pass on this experience and instead walked to the beach that was covered in black sand and a constant forceful wind.

After sweating out every imaginable toxin in the hotel’s roasting sauna, Pam and I had a lovely meal. Whether in the sauna or in the restaurant, one could enjoy the cleansing view of a flat grassy nothingness. Afterwards, Pam went to the room and I sat at the bar and tried a glass of Iceland’s own sheep dung whiskey. While sheep dung is not an ingredient of the whiskey, the barley used in the whiskey has been dried by burning hardened, dried sheep dung. I like whiskey, scotch especially. This would not be a whiskey I went for every week. I would probably drink it when I really needed to take my mind off of something or if I was hoping to encounter my spirit guide. It tasted like a very expensive leather belt. If you went to a nice department store and buried your face into their display of hanging belts and took a profound whiff, this whiskey would taste like that would smell.

As I tried to make sense of the strange liquid before me, I asked Lucas what he did in Poland for a job. He said he was a fairly senior software engineer but that he makes far more money in his hotel managerial position in Iceland then he did as a software engineer in Poland. He also told me one of the reasons he left Poland was that due to the 10 million strong influx of Ukranian refugees, the job and housing market took a beating which forced him to look for employment opportunities elsewhere. He claimed that Poland can border xenophobia at times and then went on to describe some of the grim history between the Ukraine and Poland.

The perfect climate conditions of the day before had been completely eradicated and replaced by a rain of varying intensity. If you found yourself at the coast, you were slapped rudely by a gnarly wind. This was our experience at the rocky, dramatic, and unforgiving seaside environments of the Dyrholaey peninsula and the Retnisfjara black sand beach that would make an Ironborn of Game of Thrones feel at home. I asked a Spanish mechanic how he found this weather in comparison to his home country.

“Ahh!! You get one sunny day followed by seven days of rain!”

Visiting Iceland has made me appreciate why there are so many legitimate tourism cautionary tales in this country. At Fjaðrárgljúfur Canyon, Pam and I saw a two-year old child come very close to tumbling 40 meters into a canyon. On the beach and on the top of the cliff near the lighthouse of Dyrholaey where the wind shows you no quarter, the only thing keeping you from a death that will be talked about for generations is a flimsy barrier consisting of two thin chains held up by thin metal rods staked into the ground every eight feet or so. This is why a toddler or a tall frail person is potentially toast if they are caught off balance and off guard near this dental floss barrier when a furious blast of wind comes along.

Down at the black sand beach, authorities are clearly more concerned about the natural dangers. Here, the ocean waves are unpredictable. “Sneaker waves”, as they are called, can literally snatch someone off the beach and drag them into the ocean. At least five tourists have died this way at this beach which is why a large sign with blinking lights and a beach map greet you as you approach the beach. If green lights are blinking, conditions are relatively safe, allowing you to go somewhat near the water. Yellow lights mean you must avoid the areas shown on the map. Red lights mean you must avoid an even larger area. Yellow lights were blinking the day we were there and just like clockwork, what could have been the cast of Idiocracy was walking through an area of the beach that was clearly marked as off limits in the current conditions.

Pam showing off one of Iceland’s hysterically unsafe barriers.
At first this picture was all about how cool the rock formations (and Pam) are but then I realized this picture was more about celebrating what could be an extra in Idiocracy, standing a bit too close to said rock formations while taking his picture.
I always encourage Pam to do what she feels.
And Pam encourages me to do what I feel.
I crap you not, this must have been the fifth or six couple we saw in Iceland taking their wedding pictures next to a dramatic waterfall or in front of an iceberg. I’m pretty sure the internet is to blame for this phenomenon of wedding photo one-upmanship.

Back at the hotel, we put away another fine meal. For my obligatory night cap, I decided the novelty of sheep dung whiskey was not to last more than one night. Tonight I would play it safe with the mid range Japanese Nikka Whisky From The Barrel. As I sat there at the bar, I took notice of a group of about ten American women sat in a circle discussing their failed marriages. The conversation, however, did not appear to be idle or random. It seemed to be part of some kind of planned therapy retreat. Interestingly enough, at dinner, Pam and I took notice of a group of men I thought was a business meeting but we were later convinced was a gay men’s retreat since there were no women and their conversation seemed to be the kind you might find in a very casual first date. In both groups, most of the members seemed to not know each other very well or were just meeting. Please bear in mind that there are only 28 rooms in this nice hotel with no legitimate function space so any sort of themed meeting or retreat really does stand out. I then began to wonder if the hotel booked the Gay Men’s Global Encounter and The American First Wives Club at the same time on purpose? Was this a provocative social experiment or did the hotel simply try to book two groups together at the same time in their hotel that they knew would not cross pollinate?

These matters were above my pay grade so I instead spoke to an Icelandic tour guide at the bar. We discussed the many viking shows streaming at the moment which lead to some interesting historical points to ponder. I wish I could have spoken more but my eyes wanted to close and I excused myself.

The next day we visited the Seljalandsfoss and Gljufrabui waterfalls. Both were amazing and filled with more people than I could have prayed for. After 30 minutes at Kerid crater, we went to the Hruni hot spring in Fluoir. It was a charming little hot spring out in the open surrounded by grassy hills of nothingness. As we sat there in the comfortable warm waters that protected us from the raw weather conditions, an American couple of 70 years old or so approached the little pools. The husband was still quite slim and agile and navigated his way over the slippery and rough rocks with ease and popped into the pool like a frog. His lady was a different story; she had nowhere near the physical confidence of her husband and struggled to make her way to the pool. I looked for her husband from the tiny mini pool Pam and I were occupying and wondered why he was not helping his wife. Flabbergasted that her husband did nothing to assist her, I stood up and offered my hand to help her balance. She gladly took it and was genuinely appreciative of the support. When she finally reached the edge of the pool where here husband was, it took her a good two minutes to work her way into the pool. Again, although in plain sight of this struggle, her husband did nothing.

Pam and I moved to another pool where a young German man was busy minding his own business. Pam and I retreated to the far corner of the pool. Moments later, the inattentive husband leapt into our pool and started conversationally probing the German for his political leanings. It was soon discovered that both saw eye to eye on these matters which caused The High Priest of Spousal Neglect to start dumping all over Trump. When he was finished with that, he provided the world with his unsolicited endorsement for Kamala Harris.

“It’s time for a woman to be president!”

As I tell you this story, forget about how you feel about either candidate or politics in general; that’s not what my politically underdeveloped mind is driving at. Instead, I ask you to be tickled scandalously by this boob’s hypocrisy. Roughly five minutes before proclaiming: “It’s time for a woman to be president!” in a manner that convinced me he expected a collective pat on the back from all within earshot, he dashed into the warmth of the hot spring while leaving his wife hanging in the wind. Perhaps it is time for a woman to be president but regardless, here’s what this man should have said: “It’s time for a woman to be president! But in the meantime, if you are a woman with mobility issues trying awkwardly to join me in a potentially dangerous geothermal pool, you’re on your own.”

Seljalandsfoss
Pam doing her best to be cuter than a crater.

We pulled into the last hotel of our trip: Geysir Hotel. It was located right across from a popular active geyser that would blow every five to seven minutes. At dinner in the hotel, a waitress by the name of Juliana fulfilled our culinary wishes. Juliana was a former IT recruiter from Moldova, making her at least the third immigrant worker in a hotel that we have encountered that had a very good professional career back in their home country but chose to come to Iceland since the pay was better here in the service industry. Granted, if Rui from Portugal or Lucas from Poland or Juliana from Moldova had their respective tech careers in the United States, they would be making more money than in their home countries and probably more than in their service industry jobs in Iceland but it is still fascinating to observe this small case that seems to go against normal economic trends.

I slept very little that night so while Pam remained in bed, I walked across the street by myself around seven in the morning to observe the geyser. Normally filled with people, the only things joining me at this early hour were a man and woman, a father and son, and a lot of fog. Although the fog remained, soon the four people dispersed and I had this modest yet thrilling natural wonder to myself. Although not a morning person, it was a reminder as to why some people wake up early.

Thankfully “pickpockers” always dress in red so they’re easy to spot. Some advice though, if you are carrying money, don’t put it in a bag with a dollar bill sign on it.
The geyser and the pickpockers work together as a team to liberate you of your valuables. The geyser distracts while the pickpocker goes to work.

After breakfast, Pam and I drove to Thingvellir National Park. In addition to also hosting a Game of Thrones scene, it hosted Iceland’s annual parliament known as Althing from 930 to 1798. From a geological perspective, this park is perhaps more impressive. It is the meeting point of the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates. It’s interesting that these leaders chose a place by chance in 930 that happened to be also an important meeting place of tectonic plates (a fact not known until early 1900’s).

Thingvellir. This is sort of one of those boxing promotional posters where the fighters are face to face except here, the fighter on the left of the path is the North American tectonic plate and on the right is the Eurasian tectonic plate. We’ve all seen Rocky IV so we know how this ends.

In the afternoon, we visited yet another impressive waterfall known as Gullfoss. Since Kerid crater, all the sites I mentioned were on a route known as the Golden Circle. It’s a large loop one can self drive or bus around from Reykjavik in a day, visiting all or most of these major sites I have mentioned but allowing them to return to their city hotel. Because of this, the Golden Circle seemed to at times be an area where the Reykjavik tourist and the non-Reykjavik tourist overlap. On this trip, Pam and I are of the second category with our rain jackets, rain paints, water resistant/proof hiking boots, etc. and the first group often look to be dressed as if they were trying to impress friends at a really nice outdoor mall on an autumn day. Pam and I may have looked like geeks but we fared far better when the unrelenting over spray of a massive waterfall made a mockery of fashionable outfits.

Gullfoss. Pam may not look it but she was impressed.
Gullfoss down and dirty. I think that’s Pam’s head in the lower right.

On our last night we did something we never do: watched TV in bed. The reason for this was that we stumbled upon ABBA in Concert which was a film that tracked the group during their 1979 world tour. Considering ABBA’s appearance in the Iceland-centric movie of Will Ferrell’s Eurovision Song Contest, it was the perfect thing to absorb on our last night in Iceland.

You didn’t believe me when I said Jesus was in Iceland. In a little-known passage in the New Testament, this critical event is discussed: “After walking on glaciers, Jesus removed his crampons and traveled south towards the sea. Upon a large hill, he spoke to the people and that night while the unbelievers slept, he miraculously built a tall Expressionist Neo-Gothic church so all would know Him.”