07-14-2026 A Day Trip from Akureyri, Iceland Part 1 Lake Mývatn

Early morning approach to Akureyri, Iceland

Our longest excursion of the cruise began early. By 7:00 a.m. we were off Neptune and looking for Bus Number 2, one of dozens lined up along the dock waiting to carry passengers across northern Iceland. Three other cruise ships were in port that morning, and the big tour buses were already lined up and rumbling.

Almost there!  A big day ahead for us

One of the things I appreciated throughout the voyage was how carefully Viking looked after me. Before I had time to worry about my walker, a crew member had already whisked it away, and it was always waiting for me at the bottom of the gangway.

Once again I was ushered to the front seat of the bus

We rode about forty-five minutes through a technicolor landscape while our guide introduced us to the world around us. 

such a green and lovely landscape

By the time we arrived at Lake Mývatn, I was already in love with the colors and this familiar-yet-unknown volcanic landscape. It was like looking at Upper Klamath Lake, Mono Lake, and some wonderfully green Irish countryside all rolled into one.

Viking Neptune and a Regent ship both in port at Akureyri

This first stop was spectacular. The rain stopped just long enough to leave behind a magical sky filled with shifting shadows and light. 

A shallow lake with cones and fumaroles scattered about

The lake stretched before us with gorgeous views in every direction. Even though the path was rough gravel, I decided to take the walker. I made it to the first high viewpoint, and then our guide, in her wonderful Icelandic accent, announced,

"Now these are the only stairs I will require you to take. The rest is fairly level."

The stairs were long and rather steep

As I looked down the long flight of stairs, I asked Mo if we could somehow carry the walker. Just as she was saying, "No way," an older gentleman lost his footing on the lower steps. Unable to regain his balance, he finally sat down and carefully slid the rest of the way to the bottom.

As I stood looking out over that magical landscape, I tried hard to hide the stinging tears welling up in the back of my eyes.

Halfway around the world, I thought, and I'm going to miss this.

Then Mo quietly looked around and said, "What if we go back down and access the trail from the lower end?" It worked.

Together we walked to the lakeshore with the walker, and suddenly the disappointment melted away. The entire landscape felt wonderfully familiar. The volcanic story reminded me so much of the Klamath Basin, algae blooming in phosphorus-rich waters, clouds of midges thriving because of that same phosphorus, and a healthy trout population completing the ecosystem. Half a world apart, yet somehow it felt like coming home.

Our first sight of Icelandic horses

At the beginning of our walk around the lake trail, our guide explained how Lake Mývatn had formed about 2,300 years ago after a large basaltic lava eruption. As the lava spread across the region, it reached wetlands and shallow water. The intense heat caused powerful steam explosions, creating the remarkable pseudocraters surrounding the lake. Unlike true volcanic craters, these weren't formed by erupting magma but by steam blasting through the lava. The same lava flow also blocked the region's natural drainage, trapping the water that eventually became Lake Mývatn.

wild purple thyme and white yarrpw growing on the lava

Today it is one of Iceland's largest lakes, covering about fourteen square miles, yet its average depth is only about eight feet similar to our very own Klamath Lake. That shallow, nutrient-rich water supports an astonishing abundance of aquatic life and birdlife.

the hotel where we were served a lovely lunch

With our extended trail walk, Mo and I were just a bit late to the included lunch at the hotel across the street from the trail.  The meal was simple and delicious: smooth tomato soup, perfectly prepared trout without a single bone, boiled potatoes, cabbage slaw, beer for me, and wine for Mo.

delicious lunch served family style

I have to admit I remained a little irritated. The lower trail had been an easy and enjoyable way to experience the lake, and I couldn't understand why our guide hadn't mentioned it from the beginning. It would have allowed anyone with limited mobility to enjoy the same beautiful shoreline without feeling they were missing the best part of the stop.

the wind was strong but the rain gave us a bit of a break as we walke the paths

As we continued toward our next stop, our guide kept pointing out features of the volcanic landscape rolling past our windows. This seems like the perfect opportunity to share something I was beginning to understand about Iceland.

One reader commented that she was surprised by the horizontal basalt layers in the cliffs around Ísafjörður. She had imagined Iceland as one dramatic volcanic landscape filled with fresh lava and erupting volcanoes.

I smiled because I had expected much the same thing. Instead, I discovered that Iceland tells its geologic story in chapters.

As a retired soil scientist, I naturally notice geology because it forms the parent material of soils. But what fascinated me even more was the geomorphology, the shape of the land itself. Geology tells us what the rocks are made of. Geomorphology explains how the landscape we see today came to be.

As we traveled around Iceland, I realized each stop revealed a completely different chapter in the island's history. For those who enjoy geology as much as I do, here's a simplified way to think about Iceland's landscapes.

• 
  The Westfjords (Ísafjörður) showed us Iceland's oldest landscapes, millions of years of stacked basalt lava flows later carved into spectacular fjords by glaciers.

• 

  Gentle landscape around Lake Myvatn

  North Iceland (Akureyri and Mývatn) felt completely different. Here we would see a landscape still being built by volcanic eruptions, rifting, lava flows, geothermal activity, and boiling earth.

• 

  Godafoss downcutting recent basaltic lava

  Goðafoss reminded us that water can be just as powerful as lava, carving beautiful waterfalls through ancient volcanic rock.

• 

  Recent volcanic landscape of Heimaey

  Heimaey showed us perhaps the most dramatic chapter of all, a town that watched a volcanic eruption reshape its island within living memory.

By the end of our journey I realized Iceland wasn't one landscape at all. It was an entire geologic story spread across an island, one remarkable chapter after another.

But this tour from Akureyri still had wonders to show us.  Next, Part 2  The Geothermal Zone

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.

07-12-2026 Another Sea Day and ABBA

July 12 was the day the North Atlantic reminded everyone who was in charge.

I loved the ship locater map on our stateroom tv

We woke to the roughest seas of our journey, with sixteen-foot swells sending even seasoned cruisers weaving down the hallways. It was also our last full sea day before six straight days in Iceland, and neither of us realized just how quickly the rhythm of the voyage was about to change.

We spent the morning in the Explorer's Lounge watching northern fulmars gliding effortlessly over the tops of the swells. They hardly seemed to flap their wings at all, simply banking into the wind as though the rough seas existed for their enjoyment.

I had no clue these were 16 foot seas till the captain announced it

As Mo and I watched from our comfortable chairs, I suddenly caught sight of three quick blows. A moment later a small whale surfaced before disappearing beneath another swell. The naturalist identified it as a minke whale from the pattern of its blows and the shape of its back. Minke whales are the smallest of the great baleen whales, usually twenty-five to thirty-five feet long. They are curious, surprisingly fast, and common in the cold, productive waters of the North Atlantic, where they feed on schools of fish and krill.

By lunchtime, watching perfectly normal adults sway their way across the dining room had become unexpectedly entertaining. Then it was my turn.

The ship lurched just as I was trying to guide my walker through the buffet line. Instead of rolling forward, it insisted on heading sideways, and for one memorable moment I nearly lost my footing. Before I could recover, one of my now familiar Viking waitstaff appeared, steadied both me and the walker, and quietly took charge of helping me with my lunch.

That seemed like a good time for a meclizine. On an ocean like this, I wasn't interested in testing my luck. A healthy respect for the sea had replaced my curiosity about whatever might be swimming beneath it. The North Atlantic won a small battle that afternoon, but not the day.

A yummy Asian seafood salad

By dinner I had learned another lesson about cruising: there is no prize for doing everything yourself. Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is accept the kindness that's being offered. We made our way to the World Café, where I simply handed the waiter my list and let the crew bring everything to the table. No more trying to wrestle a walker, a plate of food, and a rolling ship all at the same time.

My Szechuan beef definitely needed a hit of sweet Thai chili sauce but it was good

Dinner was Asian-themed, with the usual assortment of seafood, sushi, and one of my favorites, Szechuan beef. Viking's idea of spicy and mine are apparently not the same thing, and although the waitress warned me it might be "hot," I found it rather tame. Seeing my disappointment, she disappeared for a few minutes and triumphantly returned with my favorite sweet Thai chili sauce. Crisis averted. Dinner was relaxed and surprisingly unstressful despite the rolling seas.

A large crowd waiting for the evening entertainment in the Star Theater

That evening we settled into the theater for a high-energy ABBA tribute, and before long I found myself smiling over one of my favorite travel memories with Mo.

Many years earlier, probably around 2004 or 2005, I was in Minneapolis on a work project. It was one of those unforgettable Minnesota afternoons when the temperature hovered around thirty-seven below zero. Bundled in heavy coats over sweatshirts after stopping at a local brewery, we wandered through downtown trying to stay warm.

The marquee that gave us hope in Minneapolis

Across the street stood one of the grand old theaters, with Mamma Mia! beginning in about an hour.

Mo looked at the marquee. "Why don't we go buy tickets?" I laughed. "We can't just walk up and get tickets for a show like that." "Let's try," she said. That's Mo.

Our view after dinner at the Radison in St Paul.  It was 37 F below zero actual temperature.

To our amazement, the box office had two wonderful seats in the second row of the front balcony. We hurried inside wearing our sweatshirts beneath our winter coats while everyone around us looked as though they had planned this elegant evening for months.

The show was pure joy. We laughed, sang along, and walked back into the freezing Minnesota night wondering how one completely spontaneous decision had become one of our favorite travel memories. Hearing ABBA again aboard Viking Neptune brought every bit of that evening rushing back.

As all the shows had been this one was excellent and energetic on Viking Neptune

One surprise during the performance was learning that ABBA had reunited decades after retiring to record Voyage, released in 2021. Even more remarkable, they created a London concert using motion-capture technology and astonishingly lifelike digital "ABBA-tars" based on their younger selves. It was a fascinating reminder that even legendary careers can begin entirely new chapters.

Proof we sailed above the Arctic Circle

Somewhere out there, in the gray North Atlantic, Viking Neptune quietly slipped across the Arctic Circle. There was no fanfare for us. We skipped the Blue Nose ceremony, choosing instead a leisurely dinner and an evening of music. When we returned to our stateroom, two Arctic Circle certificates were waiting on the bed.  It was a milestone for us since on our long motorhome trip to Alaska we turned around on the Dalton Highway before reaching the Arctic Circle.  The road was rough and we only had one spare tire.

Crossing the imaginary horizontal line on the Earth this time was much simpler. Somewhere between dinner and an ABBA tribute, we had quietly become Arctic Circle crossers.

07-11-2026 Cruising Through Prince Christian Sound

Sailing the Wild Coast of Greenland as we leave Nanortalik

There are moments when a landscape is so ancient that it seems to erase the modern world.

As Viking Neptune slipped into Prince Christian Sound, I found myself stepping back into the Pleistocene. Around us rose impossibly immense mountains, every surface polished and rounded by glaciers that had carved their way through this valley for countless millennia. Water was everywhere. Hundreds of waterfalls spilled down dark rock faces, glaciers clung to high cirques, and icebergs drifted silently past the ship.

Icebergs along the coast of Greenland

Yet none of this was expected.

Sitting quietly back at home now at my desk, the house cool and comfortable against Oregon's triple-digit summer heat, I find myself remembering. Outside, the sky is an impossible blue, unmarked by smoke for the moment. It is beautiful... but not quite as beautiful as the astonishing blue that glowed deep within the base of a floating iceberg off the wild coast of Greenland.

One of the greatest gifts of travel is still being surprised.

This was a journey I had researched thoroughly. I had studied maps, traced our route, and read everything I could find about the places we would visit. Yet nowhere…not once…had I come across a place called Prince Christian Sound.

So it was a thrill when I began hearing the words almost whispered around the ship.

"It doesn't happen often..."

"We never know until the last minute..."

"We won't know until we get there..."

See the little birds lined up on the iceberg?  Erin thought they might be kittewakes

As we sailed away from Nanortalik, Mo and I settled into our favorite seats in the Explorer Lounge toward the center of the room with full view of the huge windows. If we were fortunate enough to enter the Sound, this was where we wanted to be.

There was little announcement at first, but it hardly mattered. We were already captivated by the magical shapes of the icebergs drifting beside us. Greenland's rugged southern coastline slipped slowly past while the room itself grew unusually quiet. Conversations softened into whispers, broken only by an occasional gasp as another breathtaking iceberg came into view. I noticed one crowned with a line of tiny black-and-white birds. My photograph proved too grainy to identify them later, but for a moment they seemed like tiny sentinels perched atop floating mountains of ice.

That is th true color of that submerged portion of the iceberg

The icebergs became larger. Bluer. The cliffs rose steeper on either side until they seemed almost close enough to touch as the captain guided the ship through graceful turns that felt almost impossible for a vessel of this size.

Then came the announcement.

We were there.

Close to the entrance of Prince Christian Sound

The captain explained that passage through Prince Christian Sound is never taken for granted. Before entering, permission is granted only after satellite monitoring confirms that drifting icebergs leave a safe route. Even then, specially trained Greenland ice pilots come aboard to guide ships through these narrow waters.

Our captain navigates the narrow turns into the Sound

Yet even those reminders of modern technology quickly faded before the overwhelming age of the landscape.

As we glided silently among the glaciers and icebergs, I felt as though we had slipped backward a hundred thousand years. It was easy to imagine a woolly mammoth appearing on a distant slope or a cave bear emerging from the shadows of the cliffs. The modern world simply disappeared.

For me, the experience carried an even deeper layer of wonder.

During my years as a soil scientist, I spent decades studying landscapes shaped by the great Ice Ages. Across the western United States I had walked through U-shaped valleys, recognized glacial polish on granite, traced moraines, and understood how immense rivers of ice had sculpted mountains long before humans arrived. Those ancient glaciers had vanished thousands of years ago, leaving only their fingerprints behind.

Here, I was seeing the sculptor itself.

Glacial ice surrounded us. Towering valley walls, cirques still holding glaciers, waterfalls plunging from hanging valleys, and blue icebergs freshly released from the ice sheet suddenly transformed everything I had spent a lifetime studying. The landscapes I knew so well at home became vividly alive.

Then, delightfully, civilization intruded.

Somehow, in the middle of this Pleistocene world, tea time arrived with the quiet grace of Viking's remarkable crew. I decided such a moment deserved an espresso martini. Tiny tea sandwiches, delicate pastries, and elegant service against a backdrop of glaciers, waterfalls, thousand-foot cliffs, and floating icebergs felt wonderfully surreal. The contrast made me smile.

I loved every single minute.

I learned to press my camera lens against the window to eliminate the raindrops on the glass. I hurried from one side of the ship to the other just in time to watch a glacier calve into the sea. Everywhere I looked was another scene that hardly seemed real.

Sliding silently through Prince Christian Sound became one of the unforgettable moments of our entire voyage. It was unexpected. Magnificent. Unlike anything I have experienced in Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, or the Sierra Nevada.

Greenland. From the comfort of a ship. In the middle of an Ice Age.

With an espresso martini and tiny tea sandwiches.

Simply breathtaking.