Trekking Iceland’s Interior

The magnificent landscapes of Iceland's interior have inspired centuries of myth and legend and lured millions of curious adventurers into their ambivalent embrace. Most live to tell tales of strange and supernatural beauty; some are never seen again.

Not one to be daunted by superstitious talk of goblins and ghosts, death and disappearances, and eerily unperturbed by the fact I had never walked further than the local shop for a pint of milk, I decided that my first visit to Iceland wouldn't be complete unless I ventured through the heart of the region.

I chose the most famous trail: the world-renowned Laugavegurinn. Starting at Landmanallaugur and ending in Thorsmork, the walk is a hard-core 53km shlep over glaciers and volcanoes. There's no provisions en route; you carry all your own food and clothing with you, and the only accommodation are rudimentary wooden huts positioned every 12-15km or so.

As every seasoned walker knows, there are certain cardinal rules for mountain trekking. Never step out in brand new walking boots, for example, and don't wear heavy clothing such as denim. Also, never try and survive four days in the mountains on a diet of tinned sardines in tomato sauce.

However, I was as seasoned as a sandwich purchased from an Icelandic petrol station - i.e. not very. What I lacked in experience, I made up for in naïve confidence, bounding optimistically into Reykjavik's bus station sporting new boots on my feet, Levi's on my legs and - yep - a rucksack loaded with canned fish.

Ignoring the bemused stares of the Goretex-clad, walking-stick-brandishing, lightweight-Macintosh-wearing hiking professionals that were also waiting in the bus terminal - pfft, what did they know? - I cheerfully bought my ticket and boarded the bus.

The weather that morning was spiteful. Rain and hail lashed at the bus windows as we wound upwards through the mountains; the wind howled like a lunatic, and we blew a tyre. As if that wasn't foreboding enough, the 100m stroll from the bus to the start hut, in what was by now a fierce storm, resulted in my jeans tripling in weight from the rain and my heels developing what looked suspiciously like - you guessed it - blisters.

Since the weather was so bad, I couldn't start the trip right away as planned. I had to stay overnight, which meant consuming a night's worth of provisions. Which meant walking two sections of the walk the next day. Which meant taking on 25km in one go. I tried to work out how many consecutive milk-shopping trips that would be but the skeletal face of reality kept looming. It had bad teeth and matted hair and breath that smelled, funnily enough, of sardines.

The next morning was clear. The sun sent out rays of optimism and we set off with happy hearts. As those who have experienced it know, the interior throbs with an otherworldly energy and the landscapes morph constantly. One minute you're traipsing through pastel mountains gracefully sculpted from rhyolite; the next you're surrounded by fields of shiny black obsidian, or lava, or snow. There are no animals, not even birds. Just mountains and glorious silence. Oh, and lichen. Lots and lots of lichen.

These ecstatic views got me through that long first day. I pretty much collapsed at the second hut and woke the next morning to find some prankster had broken in and replaced my limbs with planks of wood. And my blisters? Even they had blisters.

The next two days were shorter and easier. Aside from some boring stretches of flat black sand, the vistas were again magical. I took a lunch break in an ice cave, laughed out loud to myself, and felt myself reborn every hour or so. There wasn't much chance of giving up anyway. No matter how exhausted I felt - to this day I have never known aches and pains like those - there was always a glacial river to cross. Wading through ice-cold temperatures in bare feet scarred with weeping blisters is a very, very foolproof way of making your body wake up.

I must have looked like a refugee when I emerged at Thorsmork, where the sudden sight of trees and vegetation made me feel I was back on Planet Earth. At least, the knowing smirk the bus driver gave me suggested he hadn't confused me with Ranulph Fiennes.

It was one of the toughest experiences of my life - much, much tougher than the milk shop walk. I didn't see elves or goblins or any of that other trippy Icelandic stuff, but it did inspire further treks through mountain ranges all over the world. Of course, I don't wear jeans any more, and my boots are broken in now. And when I need to take my own provisions, let's just say fish and tomatoes are no longer on the menu.



Paul Sullivan is a writer/photographer, and the author of 'Waking Up In Iceland', an exploration of Icelandic music, history and culture.