Soloing Iceland

Going it alone across Europe’s most severe landscape

I like venturing out on my own. Going solo is a risk many will shake their head at, but like any other soloist will tell you, the rewards are carefully considered. Like any outdoor pursuit, risk assessment and management is proportionate to the task at hand. If done right, it minimizes the dangers. Although an element will always remain, that just adds to the thrill.

I consider solo hiking a hobby and lifestyle, creating mini-expeditions for myself in places of interest. Italy’s Dolomites, Northern Africa’s highest peak, Spain’s Pyrenees, Norway’s Interior and of course Iceland. I’m not a complete social reject, but when it comes to nature, something in me longs for the solitude amidst it. My father is to thank for the outdoor joys bestowed to me. Many weekends were spent as a child in thick New Zealand rainforests, hunting, camping, and generally doing the outdoor Kiwi thing.

So why Iceland? It’s a place that’s almost prehistoric. Full of history and sparsely populated, it’s a not just a geographers paradise, it’s a hiking paradise too. The phrase ‘one of the best hikes in the world’ gets thrown around a lot when you start talking about Iceland.

To set the scene: I went self sufficient for several days, 4 of which were spent hiking solo from Landmannalaugar to Skógar in June, covering a distance of 48 miles. One of any hikers greatest adversaries is time – or more accurately, darkness. Well, this isn’t so in summer in Iceland, where sunset is at midnight, and sunrise is at 3am. No matter how long you take, you won’t get a chance to lose your bearings in the dark before you make camp. The trail is also well marked, perhaps due to the popularity of the Laugavegur Ultramarathon, which follows the same route.

Day 1

So off I went, 27 kilos cutting the shoulders of my 75-kilo frame, meandering up from 670m through multicolored rhyolite mountains and expansive lava fields. All around is a diverse moonscape, with hundreds of steam vents billowing an ethereal veil between pockets of old sun-cupped snow.
Higher up, into the snowfields that lead to Hrafntinnusker (1050m), most hikers will spend the night. My first-day enthusiasm drove me to double my distance, heading down to Álftavatn Lake (537m) to camp for the night. Nestled between rocky shoulders, the lake stretches off into the interior. With a perfect patch of grass to pitch my living room, I unzipped my doors to take in the view.

Day 2

How quickly the terrain changes! Over a ridge, and the expansive sandy plateaus of Laugavegur were in sight. Volcanoes break up the vast area, and the distant mountains were a dangling carrot beyond my reach. An impressive gang of wild Icelandic ponies came thundering past; they often tag along with the organised horse treks in the area. An icy river crossing early on was to come back and haunt me for the following days: not wanting to get caught up in boot-removing crowds, I made haste after a dainty frigid crossing and pushed on with everything I had to speed ahead.

Day 3

Waking up in Emstur had me contemplating my ability to walk out. It took a while to work out why it was so painful to stand. Put simply, cold Achilles’ and prolonged exertion in tight boots had me wincing.

With never-ending daylight, the only thing for it was to take a couple of painkillers and patiently meander along the path, accepting my fate that I would be overtaken that day by nearly every hiker on the trail. Still, a new love for my walking poles had emerged; without their support I may have needed a few more days to make up ground.

Following the edge of a gorge, I came up against my newly-acquainted nemesis: another cold river crossing. I decided not to follow the fresh tracks of passersby that forked right on the opposite side. With my close map-monitoring, I decided my route differed, and was in fact to the left. Just 30 minutes later, it became clear I had miscalculated my position. With renewed vigour, I retraced my steps to the correct route, about 10 minutes from camp in Thorsmork.

Thorsmork (230m) is a destination in itself for many on four-wheel-drive buses that commute along the riverbed from Þórsmörk. Nonetheless I had previously decided to spend a day or two making my way over the saddle between the Eyjafjallajokull and Mýrdalsjökull glaciers to Skógar. With Katla's last major eruption occurring in 1918, and Eyjafjallajokull's in 1823, I could be forgiven for assuming all was calm under foot. This years volcanic eruptions causing evacuations and air space closures over most of Northern Europe have me re-assessing my ignorance.

Day 4

With my continued slow progress, I had planned to camp on the lee side of the high point, near Baldvinsskali (875m) and take in the vistas for one last evening. It simply wasn’t to be: gale force winds had me off my feet once or twice as my rucksack spun me round to face the wind like a weather vein. Pitching a tent just wasn’t an option. I decided I felt fit enough to continue the day by doubling my progress once more, heading down to the safety of Skógafoss waterfall in Skógar. This is where the right storm gear can make the difference between feeling threatened and elated. It’s one of the most important parts of any hikers arsenal and made the gales thoroughly enjoyable.

Skógar campsite was deserted, bar one last poor fellow whose tent had shrinkwrapped his belongings inside with the flattening winds. It turns out I wasn’t the first to evacuate myself to a hotel and all was booked. After some discussion, and a lobby filling with Gore-Tex wrapped enthusiasts, an old school gym came on offer. This would provide a handful of those in need shelter under basketball hoops from the howling winds.

That leg of Iceland’s hiking experience finished, the following day was a bus to Skaftafell National park, to summit Iceland’s highest ice cap (roped up with a guide of course, soloing through crevasse fields would be madness).

Lastly, I guess this article may come under some criticism and debate, though I suspect the majority of its readers are like-minded souls. I will, however provide myself with something of a disclaimer.
Surviving solo is about knowledge, experience and preparation, all of which could be lumped together as ‘empirical wisdom’. Even so, 55% of hill walkers involved in rescue incidents in the Scottish mountains are considered experienced*. No matter how versed you are in the great outdoors the dangers of soloing should not be taken lightly.

For more information on solo hiking, preparations and planning, see How to... hike solo

*Scottish Mountaineering Incidents (1996 – 2005) Research Digest no. 102: A research study for sportscotland by Dr. Bob Sharp FRGS. Published by: © sportscotland