In which I stand on the carcass of a derelict plane, am engulfed by the spray of waterfall and geyser alike, and bury my fingers in a galaxy of smooth pebbles.

      My last full day in Iceland, and the last entry in my stream of consciousness travel log on the completion of one of my long time dreams: driving all the way around the Icelandic ring road. If you want to catch up with the full week as I go around, no problem — links to all previous entries are at the bottom of each post. Almost every pic in here is a bad cell phone photo, because over the coming months I'm going to break up large, editorial DSLR sets for in-depth posts. I've been slowly going through the pictures that I took on the road, and they're some of my best work... ever. I'm pretty humbled, and sharing this slightly-disorganized, hopefully-entertaining look into my trip and my thoughts has been a great experience.

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

Around 3.25 hours of driving.

About 255 kilometres traveled.

 

• Current running total of all-soup meals: 19 (officially out of soup)
• Kilometres Hiked: approximately 14
• Pounds of black rocks and sand stuffed into my suitcase: 2
• Rainbows over Skógafoss: 2
• Pairs of shoes soaked through by dangerous sneaker waves: 1
• Vikings found: 0

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I wake up suddenly and scramble to fill my backpack in the pre-dawn light; I'm staying right on the far end of the famous black sand beach that is likely one of the absolutely most recognizable places in Iceland. I have about a three kilometre hike to get to the hexagonal basalt columns on Reynisfjara, and want to run down the beach before the first of the tour buses disgorges a seething wave of humanity

      I tilt my head as I read the four successive billboards about 'sneaker' waves crawling up the beach silently to drag unsuspecting tourists into the depths. They seem awfully hyperbolic about something they gave such a silly name to. DEATH WAVES. WAVES OF PREY! I don't know. Something better than sneakers. As I begin to run down the beach to catch the sunrise behind Reynisdrangar, I look nothing like I always hope that I do when traveling — namely mysterious, prepared, collected, and effortlessly attractive in exploring the world around me with a lithe step and spritely confidence. I'm carrying a fifteen pound backpack, teetering as I trudge slowly in the shifting, slowing pebbles and soft sand in some approximation of the gait of a thoroughly over-it hippo. I've also been avoiding brushing my hair because that's just a whole thing at this point.

      The beach has all the beauty I could possibly hope for, and I get a small twinge thinking about how nice it would be to get a smooth water shot using a neutral density filter. (I look up to the sky in memory; at least it went out in a spectacular fashion, I suppose. See day 5 if this makes no sense to you.) Where the foam recedes, it polishes the uniform black pebbles to a wet leather shine. Each colour in the sunrise is amplified and reflected from millions upon trillions of gently domed obsidian mirrors, sparking fire. It feels like someone has raked a field of black glitter outwards from where I stand as a welcome (there are truly no words for how much I adore black glitter) and I wiggle a little happily as I drink in the view... and then I wiggle a lot unhappily as one of those fucking sneaker waves fills my calf high boots to the brim with sea water. There is much thrashing and flailing and swearing and I have to take each boot off to comically pour it out. In the next half hour walking the beach, not one other frigging wave sneaks up that far, or even approaches it.

      The black sand starts out powder fine, almost like ink pigment, and slowly grows into pea sized pebbles as it approaches the cliffs. I'm pretty thankful I'm here early enough to be throwing handfuls of it around gleefully without having to be considerate of spiking unsuspecting tourists in the face with shrapnel. I begin slowly exploring along the base of the bluffs as I head back to the perfect geometric columns and the beautiful cave formation that is on every postcard in every shop and gas station I've hit along the way.

      The columns rupture around the mouth of the cavern, shattered into scale-like shards that give the face of the stone the appearance of sinuous, jointed movement... almost as though some incomprehensible piece of a gigantic lizard armored in slate and shale. I climb up the leveled pillars as high as I dare, and as I ascend I spot the first bus pulling into the lot a ways off, leading to a scramble down to leave with the image of the quiet, empty beach untainted in my mind. I shake my fist at the sneaker wave billboard on the way out with a bit more spite than is necessary. About twenty minutes later, I'm still way ahead of the tour bus cycle and hiking another four or so kilometers over a slope so flat and gentle that I don't realize the curvature until the hulking mass of what is left of a forty-year-old DC-3 fuselage rises into view.

_{Explore this plane wreckage (Part 1) here.}

      No one died here, and it doesn't feel spooky (though, at night I bet it's a whole other tin can full of bullet holes.) It feels absolutely surreal to be clambering about on the stubby, shattered wings of an aircraft; even one that is covered in scratched graffiti... and especially one with wires and components dangling out of panels like glimpses of broken viscera.

_{Step inside the fuselage (Part 2) with me here.}

      The trek out begins, and I pass the first gaggle of tourists rolling in. Still ahead of the pack and I amble and shuffle a little faster as my luck at pretending the entire world belongs to me continues to hold. I pull into Skógafoss, and that's the end of that. The closer I get to Reykjavik, the more busy each attraction gets, as people with short stopovers are questing to see some of the natural allure of the country with the shortest drive and least effort; there are at least fifteen buses clustered along the edge of the grass embankment. The falls are renowned for throwing a mist so thick that rainbows perpetually arc in doubles and triples of brilliant light, and I can see them from almost a kilometre away. I'm not at all prepared for how incredible they look when I'm practically standing in them... the dozens of other people basically drop away. Or, mostly do, until I take an errant selfie stick to the chin and decide it's time to move on before I snatch it and swat the user back.

_{See more of the beauty of Skógafoss here.}

      As the sun sets, I make my last stop at Geysir and watch a miniature version of the original that the phenomenon was named for. (That similarity to geyser is no coincidence.) A smaller, hyperactive brother spout blurbles away between bursts, as Geysir itself lays dormant and forboding. The water is that same milky blue that the geothermic pools here all share, and it rockets into the sky every few minutes, cascading droplets and mist directly into the gloaming. I lose track of how many times I watch the dome form above the shimmering mud, and the excitement each time I try to predict an eruption. I've cut another sentence here about burping and farting, becuse I'm an adult travel professional™. As the night creeps in closely and before I head to my very last cabin, I peer into the depths of the old portal itself. It is blue and abyssal and enigmatic. It's very difficult to reconcile pretty much instantly scalding to death with the smooth, pastel invitation of that cerulean cistern just below the surface. On the way out, I note the sign and tiny mew of admiration escapes my lips... Nature does not care for your money. When you throw it into the boiling hot water, you are polluting and littering the area. If you want to help someone by giving them money, please do.

My god, I'm going to miss this country.

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