Newbie on the Laugavegur
Hiking the Icelandic wilderness

Author: Gerrit Marks, Mount Airy, MD

Part 1: The departure
I hit the quiet streets of the airport town of Keflavík by 6:30 in the morning. This was the day. I’d been planning this trip for some months, hammering out details, figuring how to get the city bus and the excursion bus to line up with minimal waiting.
That part didn’t work – I’d have over two hours to kill in Reykjavík before I could board the wilderness bus.
I’d bought a tent, sleeping bag, hiking poles, pouches of tuna and chocolate-covered peanuts. For some reason I had faith that these peanuts would save me out in the wilds of Iceland if I ran out of other food. Yes, peanuts. Covered in chocolate. That would save the day.
Everything I’d read about this trail, all the research I’d done, suggested in no uncertain terms that it was for experienced hikers.
“Well, I know how to walk,” I told myself. I imagined that what lay ahead of me just involved extended periods of walking. In this way I convinced myself that I was ready.
And I’d taken my new hiking poles and hit the Appalachian Trail back home for some training hikes. The hot, steaming jungle of Maryland’s greenery and mountain forests bore little resemblance to what I already knew about Iceland. But Maryland had rocks. Iceland, too. That’s about where the similarity stopped.
With my fully loaded pack, I headed through the town’s quiet morning streets, past the cemetery. Instant pain. Somewhere down there below my belt. Groin area. Uh-oh.
“Ok, maybe I just have to iron out some kinks,” I told myself in a less-than-cheerful way. If this kept up for thirty-four miles of rough and uncertain terrain, I’d be decidedly less cheerful.
I’d just have to find out; the excursion bus was already paid for, and I planned to take my seat regardless of what was happening at this moment while I still had a chance to change my mind. I headed to the bus stop.
Getting used to my role as a pack mule, I found that the pain was lessening as I walked the sidewalks and streets of Reykjavík. Maybe I’d be ok.
I sat and had a coffee at an upscale café near the city building – Reykjavík’s town hall. I stowed my pack next to the coatrack and made myself as inconspicuous as possible. No one minded; they were used to weirdos like me coming in for a coffee and killing time instead of waiting out on the street.
I would have been glad to order breakfast except that all the delicious food being offered was for guests of the fancy hotel that this café was attached to. I drank my coffee and made a few notes.
During this time, I watched one guided tour after another pass by the window, with the groups stopping at the impressive sculptures of some well-known artist. Finally, unable to quell my curiosity, I went out to hear what the guide had to say about the art. These were groups of Germans, as it turns out. I don’t know German. So, the guide would point to the thing, say something in German, and everyone would nod and move onto the next one.
I returned to my coffee, none the wiser. Stretching my legs felt good, however – even if I still didn’t understand the art.
The Trex bus finally came. I put my heavy pack down in the storage bay and climbed aboard. Now I was on my way. No café, no fancy food reserved for hotel guests, no more guided tours of German tourists looking at sculptures. I was headed to the Icelandic wilderness where the bus would drop me off at the trailhead.
After about an hour on the paved roads, we turned onto one of the F-roads. These are unpaved and narrow, often in such rough condition that a regular passenger car would soon be destroyed by rocks and deep holes. Or just get stuck.
We drove along for another hour or so, and the longer we drove, the worse it got. The bus was a big, heavy-duty Scania with huge tires and beefed-up suspension able to take the pounding of rocks the size of basketballs. It was made for this.
Toward the last stages of the route, we crossed rivers, with the nose of the bus diving into the water crossings and then bouncing us over the rocks. It was a rough ride.
I was starting to wonder what I was getting myself into at this point; once the bus dropped me off, I’d be setting out on foot, alone, across this landscape for the next four days. No bus.
The transport to the trail was a kind of courtesy – a jump-start on the whole adventure. After that, everyone was on their own.
“This is where you get off. Good luck!” Then it would head back to Reykjavík.
I stepped off the bus, immediately didn’t like the busy scene at the Landmannalaugar camp.
This is the first – or the last – camp of the trail, depending on where one starts the journey. Þórsmörk would be my destination, but I could have easily made that my starting point. But I didn’t, so Landmannalaugar would be my jumping-off point. I would give some tips on how to pronounce the long name, except that I barely know how to pronounce it myself. Best to ask an Icelander.
This was the northernmost end of the trail, where most trekkers start their journey. And there was certainly a good number of them. Tents were already set up on what looked like a dry and very rocky riverbed. Two converted school buses made up a “Mountain Mall” that offered provisions and whatever else one might need.
I knew from many winter visits to Iceland that the weather was unpredictable and could change in an instant. But I was here in August, the end of the warm season. It being just five in the afternoon, I decided I had time to set out for the next campground. This would put me a bit ahead of schedule. I skipped the Mountain Mall; I had what I felt I needed in my heavy pack: tent, sleeping bag, food, some warm clothes, a few first-aid supplies. If I’d forgotten anything I’d just have to make do.
The line at the Information Hut was long and I decided to skip that as well. My main question would be how wise it was to set out for the next camp at this time of day? I already knew the answer: They’d tell me to stay put, that I’d be arriving by sundown, maybe even after dark.
“Don’t risk it,” they’d say.
I looked around this alien and steaming landscape and set out on the famous Laugavegur Trail.

Part 2: On the trail at last
“Oh, this is just like The Wizard of Oz,” I thought, referencing one of my favorite movies. Granted, I had on my well-worn hiking boots instead of ruby slippers as I took my first steps, but the path was flat and wide and wound through a surreal dreamscape of hills of varying colors.
There was even some yellow on the path. This was an area of great geothermal activity, and the trail led through steaming hot springs and bubbling fumaroles.
“This’ll be a breeze!”
Then I encountered my first climb. It became less dreamy after that. Trudging up and over mountain passes would be a recurring theme for the days that followed.
My practice hikes on the Appalachian Trail back home were entirely inadequate, for the simple reason that I was not loaded with a full pack. All that weight on my back changed things considerably – and not for the better.
However, it wasn’t impossible to wind and twist this way and that on the ever-narrowing track and find a foothold on ground that was often muddy or damp. I wasn’t the first to attempt this, after all.
This was an area of beautiful steaming springs bubbling along the trail and the smell of sulfur in the air. Twelve kilometers to the next camp, which is a little over seven miles. Ok, seven miles. I can do that.
For some time, the hot springs were a constant presence, then little by little I found myself alone in a no-man’s-land of stark beauty. Now there was lingering snow from the blizzards of last winter.
From my previous trips to Iceland, even a calm day with no hint of storms can be a bit terrifying. You just never know what will happen next. For now, it was surreally calm, not even a breeze, and I found myself crossing the leftovers of winter – the deep snow fields that yielded underfoot with sun-softened white.
Winter in August. With September just around the corner, the trekking season would soon come to an end. There would be no more support out there, no campground huts to spend the night in. Early storms would blast this highlands wilderness with unrelenting snow and winds, obliterating the features of the landscape for possibly days on end.
The next chances for hiking would be towards the end of June – and even then, it was not guaranteed that conditions would allow it. Winter might hang on just a little bit longer.
Maybe one-third of the way through this first stage I stopped and unpacked some food. I sat overlooking an isolated hot spring and munched on crackers and some cookies while the spring bubbled and steamed nearby. As I finished up and was getting my pack together, another hiker appeared from the other direction. He wanted to know if I was ok.
Yes, yes, just stopping for a bite to eat.
Reassured, he told me that I was close and pointed in the direction he was heading.
No, I’m going to the next camp, I told him.
He looked worried. “You’re going the other way? You’re quite a long way off.”
This was really not what I wanted to hear; I was already having second thoughts about what I’d gotten myself into. I didn’t need someone telling me I was being foolish – even if that were in fact the case. And I’d really gone beyond the point of no return for this first part; there was no way I was going to retrace my steps then do that climb all over again the next day. No. I’d continue on.
I assured him I’d be ok, and not entirely convinced myself, I picked up the pace. At this point, the pack was heavy but there was no discomfort other than the effort of carrying an extra forty pounds or so.

Part 3: Into the wilderness
Another two hours through more snowfields and climbs and descents brought me to the heights overlooking the next campground. There were tents spread out on the rocky ground. And there, too, were the huts where a bunk was maybe available. It was a little after 9:30 in the evening, so the walk took me about four-and-a-half hours.
I talked to Bryan, a world traveler who was this campground’s warden. He’d been in Brazil before this, and it seems he’d stayed there for a year or so. Deep in the Amazon rain forest.
I had questions about spiders, which always come to mind whenever that region enters the conversation. He told me that the spiders he encountered were huge and held his hands apart to give me an idea. And they’re everywhere, he added; they get into everything.
Ok, huge spiders – and there’s no escaping them. I’d heard enough. I made a mental note to cross off the Amazon jungle from my list of places to visit.
I’ve gotten somewhat better about my spider phobia but I’m mostly ok around the little ones. I don’t like the idea of those big Amazon spiders.
We discussed the huts. I felt, as tired as I was, that sleeping in a hut would be preferable to setting up my tent. At that point I’d been up since five in the morning in order to catch the city bus into Reykjavík, then catch the excursion bus to the trail.
“You can go take a look,” he offered. I’d already told him I was new to this, didn’t know huts, barely knew tents. I’d learn as I went along.
I peeked inside the room where he said a bed would be available. It looked full to capacity – people crammed into bunks, some milling about, a table with a meal, some hikers eating. Some drinking. A few people turned to see who this late arrival was. The contrast between the cool Icelandic night and this jam-packed hut couldn’t be more complete.
“I’ll set up my tent,” I told Bryan.
This would be the first and last night I used it – aside from the practice run in my grassy yard back home on a warm summer evening. I’d set it up and taken it down twice. Satisfied with this little exercise, I felt I was ready for the wilds of Iceland.
There was still some daylight remaining, and I scouted around for an attractive campsite. A large group of Dutch campers had settled in already, and mostly the best tent sites were taken.
This, like most of Iceland, was a rocky expanse of wilderness not at all inviting for anyone wanting a nice, comfortable place to sleep. But previous backpackers had set up rock-rings to buffer their tents from the elements. These weren’t the work of a few hours – rocks had been piled on by a succession of campers over the course of weeks or months. I found one of these rings – a sad example, mostly in disrepair, and not at all as attractive as its neighbors. That would be mine. It was really the only one left, so I couldn’t be picky at that point.
I considered travelers in another universe, choosing which room would have the best view, sliding aside curtains to see the ocean or a green river valley. Looking at the offerings for room service. As for me, I was searching for a place that had the best rocks. It was like that.

This is the first of four instalments. It was edited for publication by Katrín Níelsdóttir, who hopes it may encourage others in our community to consider contributing their own stories and perspectives to Lögberg-Heimskringla. 
“Whether your connection to Iceland is through travel, family history, or cultural curiosity, there is room for many voices in our pages,” Katrín writes. “I hope this thoughtful and often humorous reflection on hiking Iceland’s famous Laugavegur trail will inspire others to write, share, and celebrate their experiences.”