Whiteout in East Iceland 
When snow blows in all directions 

Auther: Gerrit Marks, Mount Airy, MD

I pulled into an N1 station to call my host from the previous night. I’d never actually met her, just knew her as a voice on the phone. My place was at the top of a long driveway that wound through the rocks and sheep pasture. I’d had the whole house to myself, which suited me just fine.

But now, it looked more and more like I’d be spending another night there. The conditions were worsening, and with the wind and blowing snow it looked very much like a blizzard was forming. My destination was Sauðarkrókur, way up north in the middle of horse country. The lights of the gas station were my saving grace; otherwise, it was nearly impossible to see anything. I was a little outside the town of Egilsstaðir in the east, in a part of Iceland previously unknown to me. I’d made plenty of winter trips to the Westfjords from Reykjavík, so these conditions weren’t exactly a surprise, but it was becoming obvious that I should turn back. Some cars had run off the road in the near whiteout, their flashers blinking at odd angles from high snowbanks. It was a bit of foreshadowing of what awaited me.

I’d checked the weather before departing, and had consulted with my Icelandic hosts. It’s always advisable to check weather conditions before setting out on any trip in any season in Iceland. The storm was unexpected.

I got in touch with Elsa, my host from the night before.

“I’m coming back,” I told her.

“I have a group of guests arriving this evening,” she said. They were driving from Höfn.

“Trust me, they’re not coming,” I told her.

She was not convinced. She and her husband, Óðinn, had grown up here, knew this area and its storms – how violent they could be and how dangerous it was to be caught in one. Nevertheless, she held out hope that this group would magically appear out of the swirling madness.

I made a few more attempts to convince her that these guests had already made other plans by now. The reason we were discussing them in the first place was this: if they didn’t show up, there would be room for me at the farmhouse she shared with her husband and six dogs. Otherwise, I’d have to go back to my old place with the impassable driveway that was completely snowed in.

I gave up on trying to sway Elsa. It was her place, after all – she could manage things as she saw fit. She would later realize her error.

I set out from the N1 station. It being late afternoon in winter, it was now nighttime. I was only about twenty kilometers from Elsa and her husband’s place, but visibility was poor, with strong winds and blowing snow from high drifts. More heavy snow was coming down.

On this night, I could barely make out the yellow markers that act as guides to let you know you are still on the road. Maybe one would pop up out of the darkness at random, and I’d be briefly reassured. I took it slowly, always vigilant for the next road marker, and finally arrived at the dark crossroads that led to Elsa’s place. I stopped the car and got out; I wanted to verify exactly where the road entrance was. It was difficult to tell one feature from another since everything was now painted a uniform white.

In spite of this precaution, I missed the country lane by a little and heard the unmistakable soft crunch of snow against the floor. I was beached on a snowdrift – more than a little frustrating, since the road was right there, just a few meters away.

I started digging out. For a shovel, I had my little plastic ice scraper that came with the car. It was not meant to be an emergency snow shovel, and it would have been ridiculous to suggest it could be used for that purpose. But it was all I had. I would hack away at the snow, get in the car to warm up a bit, then hack away some more.

Rescue and arrival

At about the time I was realizing the futility of the little ice scraper, the lights of a highway-clearing machine came through the snow. This was an enormous thing on rubber tires, with a massive shovel up front to scoop away snow. Nothing could stop it. The operator was seated comfortably, way up high in a heated cab, with a commanding view provided by powerful floodlights.

Yes, I wanted help, I told him. No one was coming.

With his tow rope attached, I got behind the wheel while the big machine effortlessly pulled me off the snowbank. The snow was blowing in all directions, and I had no physical sense of the car even moving; I may as well have been standing still.

I got out and thanked the equipment operator. I tried to help undo the tow line, but my fingers were frozen from my digging activities. He easily got things undone and, as he closed the cab door, told me he was heading off to pull another car out of the snow. He’d gotten a call. The fact that he’d found me at all was pure chance.

I climbed back in, locked the car into four-wheel drive, and headed through a small drift that was starting to pile up. I was only a few kilometers from the farm and there was no other traffic, so I could use the whole road – easier to keep sight of the yellow markers that way. But the fun wasn’t over. Not yet.

The going was slow, and I stopped from time to time when I couldn’t see where the road was. Finally, I reached the farm, where I recognized the driveway from earlier in the day.

I pulled in, just enough to get the car off the road. I didn’t want to get out; I was warm and safe inside, and the storm appeared to be worsening. Everything happening outside the car suggested I should stay right where I was. My guesthouse was maybe four hundred meters away – up a steep, winding driveway.

I finally steeled myself, held tight to the car door, and opened it. The wind pushed it against me, which was good – at least it wasn’t trying to rip it off its hinges, which is usually the case. I stepped into the snow, holding my little bag with a few food items, and started up the drive.

God, was it cold.

I plodded on and arrived at the first of the deep drifts – ones from earlier in the day, only now they were much bigger, towering over my head. I plunged in, my boots sinking farther and farther until the snow came somewhere above my knees. I would hit uneven spots, maybe where the tractor had been, sink even farther, tilt, and fall over. I’d right myself and repeat the process: take a step or two, lose my balance, do it all again. It was a tiring ordeal.

At some point, I realized I was no longer on the driveway. The concentration required to climb through the snow had pushed navigation to the background. I was now up against a farm fence, barely able to make out what it was. Miraculously, a tall farm light came on from the place next door, which otherwise showed no signs of life – just a light on some kind of timer.

Yes! I could see, if only a little.

The light was enough to steer me back onto the correct path. I regrouped, held tight to my little bag of food, and plunged back into the drift. I sank again, lost my balance, and fell over – but by now it was routine. Falling simply meant tilting into soft, pillowy snow.

The going never got easy, but it became more manageable once I crested the big drifts. After that it was deep snow the rest of the way, my boots sinking to knee level with every step. They were now full of wet snow – no way to keep it out. My feet were wet, but somehow still warm.

The driveway had switchbacks because the climb was so steep. As a result, I didn’t see the house until I rounded the final bend – and there it was. Christmas lights and all.

The porch was filling quickly with snow, but I could still reach the door. With my unfeeling fingers, I used my hand like a paw to bat at the handle. Then I threw my body against the door a couple of times; it had frozen shut. I stumbled inside and just stood there. Snow fell from my clothes, forming wintery puddles on the floor. My fingers slowly began to move again as I started removing my boots.

Worst of the storm

What had kept me climbing over snow like a drunken turtle was the promise of a hot bath in the enormous tub in the master bathroom – big enough for two or three people. I couldn’t justify using it the night before. It seemed wasteful, even if the water was geothermal, which wasn’t guaranteed in this part of the country. Now I didn’t care. I was going to have a hot bath.

It didn’t work. The plumbing on that side of the house had frozen. That settled it – no bath. There was simply no water willing to exit the luxury faucet, and to some extent I was relieved.

The shower, which relied on a different set of pipes, was working. Good enough.

I evaluated my fingers, suspecting early frostbite. My thumb, in particular, had a disturbing lack of feeling when I ran hot or cold water over it or tapped it with my other fingers. The rest of me seemed fine; maybe the thumb would come around.

While waiting, I ate a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on sourdough and yogurt. My phone provided internet service, and I scrolled through social media. Someone had a cute dog. Someone else had tacos for dinner. Palm trees swayed in Florida. I lingered on cat photos.

I resisted the urge to type: “Lost my way and nearly froze to death getting up the driveway. Good night, everyone.”

Sleep that night was anything but restful. The storm worsened by the minute. My north-facing bedroom wall took the brunt of it. It sounded like a thousand angry spirits grabbing whatever they could from the frozen wilderness and hurling it at the house. Along with the living breath of the wind came violent crashing sounds, like dinner plates shattering. The wind was so strong I could feel the house shake.

Most buildings in Iceland are concrete, reinforced against earthquakes. But this was a summer house – wood-framed, lighter, never meant for full-time living. I wondered if it could withstand the barrage.

“Well, this isn’t the first storm it’s seen,” I told myself. “This is Iceland.”

Another gust answered, louder than before.

By morning, the front porch was completely snowed in. The door, which opened outward, wouldn’t budge. I contacted my host and told her I’d have to exit through the back. When the weather eased, her husband arrived with his Kubota tractor – its lights suddenly appearing outside the kitchen window.

It took him half an hour to clear the porch by hand.

“You can drive here now,” he said.

The wind had done all the work overnight. The drifts were gone. They told me it was the biggest storm they’d ever experienced.

I gathered my lighter food bag, warmed up the car, and set out again – this time north, toward Skagafjörður and friends on a small farm. Drangey rose in the distance. I passed Hofsós, known for its beautiful pool and its quiet refusal to become anything bigger.

I checked the fridge one last time, loaded the car, and drove on toward Sauðarkrókur.