Through Fire and Ice

A Journey Across the Veins of Iceland

Once upon a time, in the land where glaciers breathe and lava flows like ancient blood beneath the crust, a lone traveler arrived at the edge of the world with two wheels, a pair of trail-worn shoes, and a stubborn, burning dream.

She came to Iceland not for comfort, but for wildness—the kind that tests your body and steals your breath, not just from beauty but from sheer, unrelenting effort. This was no casual adventure. She had been dreaming of this for years: to ride from Reykjavík to Skógar, run the Fimmvörðuháls trail to the legendary Laugavegur Trail, exploring the vast landscapes along the way, through the spine of Iceland.

The locals in Reykjavík, wise to the mood swings of their homeland, looked at her with that Icelandic blend of admiration and concern. “Fickle weather,” they warned. “Ever-changing.”
“Not just one trail,” they said, “but many lands stitched together by lava and cloud.”

And they were right.

A Trail of Many Worlds

From the coast, she pedaled eastward, through stretches of open road, wind-swept plains, and mossy lava fields that curled like sleeping dragons under grey skies. She saw giants resting in these hills as she road by. It was there, at the base of Skógafoss, the roaring waterfall that sounds like ancient thunder, that she traded pedals for footfalls and began the long climb skyward.

The Fimmvörðuháls trail is not for the faint of heart.
It threads between two massive glaciers—Eyjafjallajökull and Mýrdalsjökull and climbs into high, exposed terrain where the wind whips without mercy and snow lingers even in summer. The land here is raw: freshly scarred from eruptions, the trail etched into shifting ash and lava flows. There were moments of near-climbing, scrambling over jagged rocks and skittering scree. At times, she felt more creature than runner—crawling toward the sky.

Then came the descent into the Laugavegur trail—a portal into another world entirely. Here, the land turned golden and red, painted by sulfur and rhyolite. Steam hissed from cracks in the earth. Geysers and bubbling pools whispered secrets of fire below. The air was thick with minerals and magic. It felt like she had stepped into the pages of a myth, where trolls hide behind hills and time warps between footfalls.

Weather, Willpower, and Wildness

Iceland tested her at every step. One moment, the sun would shine with impossible clarity, lighting up the glaciers like polished silver, and burning her skin. The next, clouds would roll in, sudden and sharp, bringing rain sideways and hail like tiny knives. Her gear was soaked, dried, and soaked again within the span of an hour.

And still, she moved forward.

There were days when the wind howled so loudly, she couldn’t hear her own thoughts. Days when river crossings numbed her legs to the knees. Nights where exhaustion sank into her bones, and every muscle begged for mercy.

But she didn’t come here for easy. She came here to feel every part of it - to move through a land that asks for your full attention, full effort, and full surrender. Her body ached, yes, but it also awakened. With every step, she felt more alive, more attuned, more connected to the ancient rhythm of earth and sky.

Landmannalaugar, and the Turn Home

At last, she reached Landmannalaugar, a geothermal oasis at the heart of Iceland's highlands. It was quiet here, sacred. Pools of steaming water welcomed her sore legs, and the mountains pulsed with color: ochre, green, ash black, and snow white.

Most would end their journey here. Rest. Soak. Find a bus home and return to home.

But not this traveler.
She turned back.

And she did it all again.

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Yet somehow, it wasn’t the same.

The trails she had just run, every climb, descent, and river crossing, felt different in reverse. Not easier. Not harder. Just… altered. The terrain had shifted, or maybe she had. Familiar ridge-lines loomed with new shadows. Footprints she’d left only days before were now washed away or buried beneath fresh weather.

On the return journey, she no longer moved with the wide-eyed wonder of the unknown, but with the quiet wisdom of someone who has seen what lies ahead, and still chooses to go anyway.

The wind tested her again. The rivers were colder. Her legs, heavier. But her resolve had deepened.

She found beauty not just in discovery, but in remembrance. In retracing her steps with a new kind of presence. In choosing to go back through the storm, knowing full well what it would ask of her.

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This adventure was just the beginning. I’ll soon be sharing a full breakdown of the gear that held up in every condition Iceland threw my way—wind, rain, sleet, sun, mud, and volcanic ash. Spoiler: it was a lot.

If you’ve ever dreamed of doing something that scares and excites you in equal measure, chase it. It might lead you to the edge of the world. And if you’re lucky… it might just bring you home to yourself.

Thanks for being part of this journey.

With wild legs and a full heart,
Hillary