As we roll by ‘my uncle*’ points out the quarry.

“It’s filled with stones but there are never any lorries. That’s why we say the trolls are throwing them down from the mountain”.

This is a big part of the magic of Iceland. The way history, saga, Norse myth, and folklore weave together to tell the stories of people and places. How the lines between fact and fiction are blurred. Or perhaps just irrelevant.

The rest of the magic is of course Iceland itself.

If the world was indeed birthed from the giant Ymir through the cunning of Odin, then Iceland was certainly his heart. After just eleven days of exploring bits of the north and south, it becomes quite clear why history and lore are so deeply intertwined. There is simply no better way to rationalize so much unblemished beauty than through fantastical legends. And there are plenty of them! Which is why I feel quite lucky to have ‘my uncle’ give me the insider story of Iceland complete with fact, fairytale, and family anecdotes from his Icelandic childhood and adulthood.

Though they might seem like the runts of a seagull litter, don’t be fooled. ‘My uncle’ shared the raw reality. Adult fulmars spend the first two months of their chicks’ lives helicopter parenting. And after fattening them up, the parents quite literally fly the coop, abandoning their young to learn how to either fly and fend for themselves or become dinner.

As we walk along, ‘my uncle’ spots more native fauna and an opportunity for a folktale about the ptarmigan, which owes its plumed feet to its rebellious, and quite frankly astute, refusal of the creator’s orders to walk through fire. Consequently, it was cursed to a life of evading the falcon, its brother. The latter would forever hunt the ptarmigan, only to realize it had devoured its sister upon reaching its heart. A morbid and unfortunate fate for both ptarmigan and falcon. The Grimm brothers have got nothing on Icelandic lore…

But hundreds of years ago, ships did not fare better. ‘My uncle’ paints a picture of Vík’s early years. When unforgiving surf claimed the lives of many a fisherman and explorer. And a humble farm family might find itself the fortuitous heir of a fine bottle of French cognac washed ashore. One man’s folly…

As mischievous as the North Atlantic Ocean is, it is hardly the region’s only temperamental neighbor. Eyjafjallajökull (yes, that one!) and Katla flank its northern border. As ‘my uncle’ approaches Katla, one of the regions most active volcanoes, he is ready with another tale.

“Every place has its story.”

The base of Myrdalsjökull

Katla was a moody sorceress with a pair of magic underpants, which helped her run without tiring. When a naive farm boy dared to borrow them, she retaliated by drowning him in a vat. Upon discovering her crime, the townspeople chased her out of the village. Thanks to her magic underpants, she managed to evade them by running to the glacier Myrdalsjökull and hiding in a crevasse. But soon after, the volcano beneath erupted more forcefully than ever causing glacial flooding. The eruption was attributed to Katla’s rage and henceforth became her namesake. My takeaway: keep your hands off other people’s underwear!

This folk legend provided the perfect backdrop to my personal highlight of the trip: the crossing between Eyjafjallajoküll and Mýrdalsjökull: Fimmvörðuháls.

Before beginning our drive down the road to the trailhead, ‘my uncle’ warns me that it is “not a good road”. We then spend over an hour traversing 30km as our jeep plunges across one river crossing after another. The Fimmvörðuháls adventure begins way before the trail!

‘My uncle’ calls this hike a “humbling” one. Indeed, it is not for the faint of heart. The views are otherworldly, but the terrain can kindly be described as challenging. And for the few hundred very steep vertical meters we ascended through fine black sand, I’d have to resort to more pejorative language. So I’ll just say that my thighs felt like I had dipped them in boiling lava.

Fimmvörðuháls

There’s a dense fog as we head towards the pass between the two volcanoes. It is sprinkled with black dust and pocked with craters. Sheets of ice cover large swaths of the path. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve suspected our jeep had taken a detour to the moon.

Skógá river

But about an hour after crossing the pass, the trail hits the Skógá river. Ice, dust, and craters morph into the lushest landscape in the most verdant shade of green (un)imaginable. I count no fewer than a gazillion waterfalls. And I’m quite sure that the stream “water” I refill my bottle with is actually ambrosia. By the time I reach waterfall number gazillion and one my eyes are damp. And for anyone whose eyes don’t mist up when they see this place for the first time, you must be a heartless ptarmigan!

Waterfall gazillion and one

I could go on ad nauseam about what else we discovered when we drove down the “roads” less traveled. But I’ll just leave you with this: Iceland is a fairytale, the hidden people are real, and there’s magic concealed in every cranny, crater, and crevice.

* You might have guessed that my uncle is not really my uncle. He is, however, the father of a dear friend and one of the most engaging, enthusiastic, and informed tour guides I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing the world with. He offers private tours as well as group tours, and an authentic glimpse into the past and present of Iceland. I can not recommend him enough!

EXTRAS:

If you’re interested in taking a deep dive into Icelandic nature, geology, folklore and mythology, check out these books: Icelandic Bird Guide by Jóhann Óli Hilmarsson, Living Earth by Ari Trausti Guðmundsson, Njal’s Saga, and The Trolls in the Knolls 35 Icelandic Folks and Fairy Tales.

And if you’re planning a trip, add the LAVA Centre and the Skaftfellingur Museum to your itinerary.

And for those of you who love watersports and surfing, adventure, and a bit of insanity, I highly recommend watching Under An Arctic Sky.

The following pictures are of other amazing places, which I did not write about for the sake of brevity…