07-14-2026 The End of our Long Day

 

Our guide kept us entertained on the trip back to the ship

As our long day drew to a close, our guide talked less about volcanoes and waterfalls and more about what it is like to actually live in Iceland. She spoke of inexpensive geothermal heat and electricity, but also high prices, expensive housing and the challenges of making a life in this beautiful but isolated country. She was proud of Iceland's strong social safety net, its commitment to gender equality, and the way people come together when volcanoes, storms or other disasters threaten their communities.

Watching the Regent ship sail from Akureyri

Of everything she told us, one simple sentence stayed with me. She said that people should be able to live and thrive where they were born. Melody loved that line when I told her about it later, and so did I. After a day spent marveling at Iceland's waterfalls, lava fields, geothermal pools and extraordinary geology, it was a reminder that this spectacular landscape isn't simply somewhere we came to visit. It is home.

A late sunset from our balcony

Back aboard the Neptune that evening, the excitement of our eight-hour journey finally began to settle. Outside, the long Icelandic evening stretched across the sky as the sun slipped toward the horizon. It had been one of those rare travel days when reality exceeded everything I had imagined beforehand. I had stood beside Goðafoss. I had walked among pseudocraters, crossed an active volcanic landscape, watched the earth steam beneath my feet, and looked across the waters of Lake Mývatn. Now there was nothing more to do but watch the light fade over Iceland and be grateful that, for this one spectacular day, I had been there.

07-14-2026 A Day Trip from Akureyri, Iceland Part 3 Goðafoss Falls

 

When Mo first mentioned a cruise to Iceland, I started researching what it might be like to step onto a landscape as mythical as any I could imagine. Yes, the land of fire and ice, but also home to some of the most magnificent waterfalls in the world.

We were still several miles away from the Goðafoss waterfall when I took this photo

The images that captivated me most were those of Goðafoss. The falls looked every bit as grand and iconic as Niagara, perhaps even Victoria Falls in Africa. I have never been to Africa, but Mo and I stood together in awe of Niagara during our cross-country motorhome trip in 2010. I wondered if Goðafoss might stir that same sense of wonder.

This one would be different. It wasn't part of Viking's included excursions, and while Viking does an excellent job with those, none of them visited the waterfall I most wanted to see. My research uncovered an eight-hour bus trip from Akureyri that included four remarkable stops, among them Goðafoss. There was never any question. I booked it.

Looking downstream from the falls

After days of rain and wind, we left the ship prepared with every piece of rain gear we owned. I had spent hours reading about the history of the falls and the geology of the great volcanic rift through which the Skjálfandafljót River flows. But no amount of research could explain what it would feel like to actually stand there.

Looks like something I recognize from Oregon volcanic landscapes

I started up the paved path with my walker, thrilled to discover I could take it all the way to the edge of the falls. The roar grew louder with every step as the river plunged over the broad basalt cliff. My heart pounded with anticipation. 

Sea thrift tucked among the little herbs and forbs along the pathway

Every step became a meditation. Every turn in the path felt like therapy. There was a quiet joy in realizing that my body, for this one precious morning, had given me back a dream I had not been certain I could still manage.

facing away from the river you can see how thin the soils are on the volcanic landscape 

And then I reached the edge of the falls

Somehow, describing what it is like to stand beside Goðafoss takes away from the experience itself. Words cannot carry the deep rumble that rises through the basalt beneath your feet, nor the spray that hangs in the air, nor the immense power of the river as it hurls itself into the gorge below.

Take a look at the photos. Watch the videos. Listen to the roar.

What you hear is not only the voice of the waterfall. It is also the sound of my heart.

 

I made it!

I made it!

07-14-2026 A Day Trip from Akureyri, Iceland Part 2 the Hverir geothermal field

The trail I never managed at Dimmuborgir

Our second stop was the Dimmuborgir Lava Field near Lake Mývatn, a strange maze of lava pillars, arches and caves created when molten lava flowed across wet ground more than 2,000 years ago. Icelandic folklore has filled the formations with trolls, including a pair known as the Kissing Trolls.

The rain which held off for the first part of our day started in earnest as we traveled to our next stop

It was raining, but I thought I could manage with just my walking sticks. Instead, I had one of those humbling moments. My left hip cramped, my left leg simply refused to cooperate, and I couldn't take another step. I didn't fall, but I knew it was time to give in and head back to the bus.

A familiar volcanic landscape at Lava Beds in Oregon

We missed the walk among the remarkable volcanic formations that local legend calls trolls turned to stone. Looking at them from a distance, they reminded me so much of the lava landscapes around Lava Beds National Monument back home in Oregon. Some of the youngest flows at Lava Beds are only about 1,000 years old, a reminder that the volcanic landscapes I know from home are part of a much more recent story than these formations in Iceland.

Bjarnarflag Lake

Back on the highway, we continued toward our next stop for the day. On the way, however, beside the road, an astonishing pool of milky turquoise appeared against the dark volcanic earth. Instantly I was carried back to the milky blue-green waters of Boya Lake in the Yukon so many years ago.

This was Bjarnarflag, colored an almost impossible blue by silica-rich geothermal water. Beautiful as it was, it also served notice that the quiet landscape around the lake was about to change.

The landscape changes as we approach the rift zone

Ahead of us, the land rose and opened into the active rift zone where the North American and Eurasian plates are slowly pulling apart. Our guide pointed out the place where we crossed from the North American Plate onto the Eurasian Plate. I managed a quick photo through the bus window by pressing my phone against the glass to eliminate the reflections. I later learned that not far off the road from where we traveled, there is a trail that crosses the actual rift.  I would have liked to stand on the edge of two continents.  

The American plater on the left of the notch and the Eurasion plate on the right

We were not simply crossing another Icelandic mountain pass. We were traveling through a place where the Earth's crust is being stretched, fractured, heated and continually remade.

Then we came over the divide, and the Hverir geothermal field appeared below us.

First view of the geothermal field

Nothing in the soft beauty of Lake Mývatn had prepared me for that first view, a wild landscape of orange, red, black and white, barren and steaming. 

Suddenly we were looking at something that reminded me of Yellowstone or the bubbling mud pots near Mount Lassen, just minutes after leaving a world of gentle blues and greens. The landscapes of Iceland change so abruptly that they continually take my breath away.

Of course, my soil scientist's brain never really takes a vacation. I kept trying to imagine doing soil survey here. The thought was equal parts fascinating and completely insane.

The number of tour buses lined up in the parking lot was overwhelming. People looked like tiny stick figures crawling across the distant hills, snaking along the marked pathways. And then there it was...that unmistakable smell of sulfur that Mo despises and I have always loved at hot springs.

Our guide called out, "Twenty-five minutes. Don't walk on the mud or it will ruin your shoes."

I desperately wanted to follow the trail toward the steaming fumaroles, but Mo, with her usual good judgment, slowed me down.

"No. Don't do it."

She was right. We watched plenty of people return with that sticky gray clay plastered over their shoes.

Towering above it all was the massive flat-topped Námafjall, known to Icelanders as "Broad Shoulders." Its broad summit is another reminder of the tremendous volcanic forces that have shaped this restless landscape.

The wind kept the midges away

For once, my body wasn't arguing with me. I walked comfortably, took my photographs, breathed deeply of the sulfur-laden air, and realized I was ready for what I knew would be the highlight of the day.

Goðafoss awaited.

After one last slow wander among the steam vents and bubbling earth, we made our way back to the bus.

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.