Fire and Ice

Iceland in March is a study in contradictions. The sun barely crawls above the horizon before tumbling back into the sea, and yet there's more light than I've ever seen—bouncing off snow, reflecting from ice, glowing through clouds in colors that shouldn't exist.

I drove the Ring Road in a tiny rental car that shook in the wind like a leaf. At times the gusts were so strong I had to pull over and wait. Other times the air was perfectly still, and I could hear the glaciers groaning and cracking in the distance.

The Golden Circle is what most tourists see, but the real Iceland is in the stretches between attractions—the vast lava fields covered in bright green moss, the farms clinging to the edges of fjords, the hot springs that appear without warning by the side of the road.

At Jökulsárlón, I watched icebergs calving from Vatnajökull. Some were white, some blue, some streaked with volcanic ash. They drifted slowly toward the sea, past seals lounging on ice floes, under a sky that couldn't decide if it wanted to storm or clear.

That night, the aurora came out. Green ribbons dancing across the sky, reflecting in the still water of the lagoon. I stayed until 3 AM, lying on the frozen ground, forgetting to feel cold.