07-13-2026 exploring a bit of Ísafjörður Iceland

We woke at 5:00 a.m. and opened the curtains to a foggy sea. Too excited about our first port in Iceland to sleep any longer, we ordered coffee, and it was at our door before 5:30. The ship's location map showed we still had several hours before our scheduled 12:30 arrival in Ísafjörður.

In the meantime, we took our time getting ready before wandering up to the Explorer's Lounge once again to watch the sea. Within moments the fog lifted, and there they were, the wild basalt cliffs of Iceland.

The landscape somehow felt familiar. It reminded me immediately of the Columbia Plateau, where repeated lava flows built layer upon layer of basalt over millions of years. I could see the sedimentary interbeds between the darker basalt flows and immediately began thinking about the quiet intervals between eruptions, when lakes formed and sediments accumulated before another flood of lava buried everything once again.

Layer upon layer, over unimaginable spans of time.

Even before we reached Ísafjörður, Iceland felt strangely familiar.

We settled into another pair of comfortable chairs overlooking the Icelandic coast, coffee for Mo and a cappuccino for me. That morning I finally decided to try one of the little Norwegian waffles made fresh each morning at Mamsen's, the cozy café tucked into the Explorer's Lounge. Warm, crisp around the edges, and topped with traditional brown cheese, it turned out to be every bit as good as everyone claimed.

At last Neptune entered Skutulsfjörður, the deep, sheltered fjord at whose head sits the little town of Ísafjörður. Later I learned that the fjord's unusual name recalls an early settler who supposedly found part of a boat washed ashore there and named the fjord for his discovery.

From our perch we watched Captain slowly coax Neptune toward the dock. It never ceased to amaze me how something the size of a small village could slide sideways with such precision. Inch by inch the ship eased alongside the pier until, almost imperceptibly, she came to rest. A few moments later the announcement we'd been waiting for came over the speakers.

We had arrived in Iceland. I had dreamed about this island for months, and somehow it already felt familiar.

Our morning tour in Ísafjörður began not with one of Iceland's famous waterfalls or volcanic wonders, but with a simple drive through a town that seemed to exist in complete harmony with the mountains surrounding it. Somehow Viking had reserved the front two seats on the bus for Mo and me, making photography much easier.

As our bus left the harbor, our guide explained how life here has always required adaptation. Lumber had always been expensive because it had to be imported, so people protected their wooden homes by covering them with corrugated metal siding. That's why so many Icelandic towns are filled with brightly colored metal houses. Today many newer buildings are made of concrete. We also passed salmon farms floating quietly in the fjord and avalanche barriers climbing impossibly steep mountainsides. A tunnel bored through solid rock had replaced one of the country's most dangerous coastal roads, a reminder that in the Westfjords, geography still shapes everyday life.

Only a few minutes later we stopped beside a small campground where a soft green path disappeared into the trees. I caught glimpses of the waterfall as we approached, but the full force of the roaring water spilling over the dark basalt cliffs was almost shocking in its beauty. Bunárfoss is not one of Iceland's great iconic waterfalls, yet it felt like the perfect introduction. Mountain water poured over volcanic rock into a crystal-clear stream below, carrying with it the freshness of snowfields high above us.

As I stepped onto the soft Icelandic turf, I realized I was walking more easily than I had in days. After the ship's constant motion and the hard surfaces of ports and sidewalks, the springy ground seemed almost to carry me. For a little while I put my full trust in my walking sticks and simply enjoyed the feeling of moving through the landscape.

I walked up the grassy path toward the falls, delighted by how secure my feet felt on the soft green earth. For those few moments, my legs seemed almost normal again. I simply stood there in silence, amazed that I was actually standing at the foot of an Icelandic waterfall.

Our guide filled plastic cups directly from the stream and invited us to taste the water. I gladly accepted. It was astonishingly cold and impossibly pure, a simple welcome from Iceland itself.

Standing there, listening to the steady voice of the falls, I realized that not every unforgettable moment on this journey would come from the biggest landscapes. Sometimes a quiet path, a mountain stream, and a cup of water are enough to begin falling in love with a place.

We weren't there long, but my soul felt full. This was the Iceland I had hoped to find. Incredibly green. Filled with clean water and impossibly fresh air. It was the perfect introduction.

After a time our guide called us back to the bus, and we returned along the fjord, passing through town before continuing south toward another glimpse of Icelandic life.

Once again we stepped off the bus, this time onto a rocky shoreline where the path was slippery with wet grass. We walked toward an old fishing boat pulled up above the tide. Leaning against it was an old man who looked exactly as I imagined an old Icelandic fisherman should.

As our guide described the hardships of a fisherman's life, she casually added, "Oh yes...our fisherman just happens to be my uncle."

We heard variations of that story again and again throughout Iceland. Guides mentioned an uncle, a grandmother, or a cousin as naturally as if everyone knew everyone else. It quickly became clear that Iceland still feels very much like an extended family, where generations remain closely connected and people genuinely seem to care for one another.

The fisherman's clothes were made of leather, heavily waterproofed with fish oil, and his shoes of sealskin. In the steady rain it wasn't difficult to imagine the cold, wet work of making a living from the sea. Nearby, several eider ducks bobbed contentedly among the seaweed beside the old boat. It was our first close look at the birds whose down is prized for making some of the finest comforters in the world. I had to smile. Anyone who knows me knows I adore a really good down comforter. Home, the motorhome, even draped across the sofa in summer, I almost always have one nearby. Seeing the little birds that made them possible somehow made those comforters feel even more special.

We ducked into two of the seasonal fishermen's dwellings. Their thick stone walls and sod roofs sheltered dark, cramped rooms where men had once slept shoulder to shoulder during the fishing season. The floors were stone, the furnishings simple, and everything carried the damp smell of the sea.

Standing there, I couldn't help thinking of my own home. Heat in the winter. Air conditioning in the summer. Comfortable chairs, dry floors, clean counters, and running water at the turn of a faucet. I felt almost embarrassingly spoiled.

Yet I was grateful to be standing there in the rain, listening to an old Icelandic fisherman talk about a way of life that has nearly disappeared. For a little while, history no longer felt like something I had read about.

It felt real.