2024.8.13On the morning of the second day, I was woken by some sound and activities. Glancing out the window, it was already light, and friends were rushing outside. Embarrassing. Days of overcast skies and rain must have made me lazy; I’d overslept.

The sun had already risen, casting red light across the cliff face opposite. No time to scramble to higher ground, so I grabbed a few shots right beside the hut. My friends had beaten me out by no more than five minutes. She said the entire mountainside had been glowing just moments before, including the ridge to the left. But the red was already fading, and within minutes the sun ducked back behind the clouds.

Once the alpenglow vanished, I climbed to the rise behind the hut, where some light still lingered. Patches of lichen stretched in broad strips down to my feet, like scabs slowly forming over scorched earth.

The pointed peak in the frame is likely Ýmir, the highest summit of the Tindfjallajökull glacier. Its elevation is only 1,462 meters. Our camp at Emstrur sits at roughly 465 meters, less than half the altitude of the first night’s hut at Hrafntinnusker (1,130 meters).

We set off around 7:45. Today’s distance was 15 kilometers. The opening stretch resembled yesterday’s, threading through rolling hills and gullies, black volcanic gravel crunching underfoot.

We forded several rivers along the way. The trail descends steadily through this section, and streams have carved into the valleys, twisting and doubling back between walls of dark volcanic rock. The channels are narrow, the current swift, but footbridges carry you across.

No more than a hundred or so hikers walk this route each day. People thin out quickly, most traveling in twos or threes. Often there is no one visible ahead or behind — just your own shadow. This is exactly what hikers seek: distance from the noise of the world, the walk itself as a form of meditation. You may marvel at the grandeur of mountains and rivers, or feel the smallness of being human, but each breath and each footfall will carry you toward the destination you set out to reach.

After about three hours, the crumpled, gully-scored terrain gradually gave way to a flat stretch. The trail followed the Markarfljót river, fed by tributary streams and freed from the confines of the mountains, the river had widened considerably.

Along the way we passed several broad, level clearings where the ground was covered in low plants forming some patterns, arranged in lines as tidy as parallel rulers — some curving gently, others running arrow-straight like plowed furrows. It was hard not to suspect human planting. Yet in a place this remote, with no settlement in sight and harsh weather year-round, deliberate cultivation seems implausible.

I looked into it after returning home and found conflicting explanations. One theory holds that wind and water flow alone create the pattern, with plants colonizing only the sheltered strips between. Another claims that people did seed them to stabilize the soil, enabling wild grass to take hold so local farmers could graze their sheep. Comparing photos I found online, naturally weathered vegetation patterns tend to be bigger and more irregular — nothing like these fine, single-plant rows. It does appear to be human work, which also suggests we were drawing closer to land that people manage and inhabit.

Nearly an hour later, the Ljósá river appeared like a dividing line: on one side, black volcanic rock with only lichen and scrub; on the other, meadows and low shrubs. The Ljósá here is no more than two or three meters wide with a brisk current, crossed by a narrow bridge. Not far downstream it joins the Markarfljót.

Another hour of walking, over a hill, and a broad river appeared ahead — the Þröngá. Multiple highland streams, their force spent, fan out and converge here before emptying into the Markarfljót. The Þröngá is wider and deeper than the earlier rivers, so picking the right crossing point matters. You can probe the depth with a trekking pole or toss a stone and gauge the splash. I took the easy route and followed a few hikers who were already wading across.

The elevation here is under 300 meters. Beyond the Þröngá, the landscape shifted from meadow and scrub to dense birch forest. By the 1920s, overgrazing and logging had stripped this woodland bare; dust storms were frequent, and every rainfall flushed sediment into swollen, flooding rivers. The area was fenced off to keep sheep out, and the birch gradually reclaimed the land. Trees are a rare sight elsewhere in Iceland, yet here stands a thriving forest. It is a testament both to nature’s resilience and to what happens when people step back and let it recover.

We weren’t heading to the Laugavegur endpoint today but stopping first at the Húsadalur campsite for the night. From the river crossing to the camp was another two or three kilometers, so one more hour of walking before we finally arrived. Today’s 15 kilometers took roughly six hours.

Húsadalur is served by highland buses, and its facilities are far better than the mountain huts. I wasted no time sitting down to a buffet meal. The lamb soup was rich and savory, delicious!

2024.8.12Day three of the Iceland highland trek. The forecast called for afternoon rain, so we decided to set off at six in the morning. Crossing a stream and looking back at the Álftavatn camp, a cluster of tents was visible on the left. Mountain huts along the Laugavegur Trail can be booked through the official website. There are only a handful of huts with limited beds, and they typically sell out by early in the year. But joining the waitlist and checking in from time to time usually turns up cancellations. I didn’t start reaching out until March and still managed to secure beds at every hut. Bringing your own tent, of course, removes that constraint entirely.

The trail began with a gentle incline. There are four rivers along this route that must be forded on foot. After half an hour of walking, we reached the first. The water was about a foot deep, below the knee. It’s an easy barefoot crossing.

Past the river and over a low rise, we reached the Hvanngil hut – the one I had spotted from the hilltop the day before. I launched the drone here. A tender green valley sat ringed by dark, volcanic mountains, their jagged peaks evoking Middle-earth from Lord of the Rings. The sky hung overcast, yet shafts of light kept breaking through the clouds to illuminate the slopes, otherworldly and cinematic.

Another half hour brought us to the second river. The current ran faster, but the water was shallow.

Day three covers the longest distance, 16 kilometers, yet is the easiest. From the Hvanngil hut onward, the route crosses a valley floor: over 10 kilometers of flat, open terrain. We were lucky with the weather. Under a blazing sun, or in rain and snow, this exposed stretch with no shelter and nowhere to stop would be a serious challenge.

From the drone, the landscape below was a vast black desert. Two hikers, one in red and one in yellow, moved slowly across it, a scene with an almost epic quality.

The next river had a strong current and heavy flow, spanned by a footbridge. This is roughly the halfway point. Many hikers stop here to rest.

About three kilometers from the Emstrur hut, the trail entered low hills again. The ground was still black sand and gravel. There was no green lichen, just scattered tufts of dry grass.

The Emstrur hut is tucked into a hollow, invisible until you’re nearly on top of it. I arrived around noon – six hours for 16 kilometers.

The hut has three sleeping rooms and a separate shower block. Each room fits 20 people on two tiers of platform bunks, five per tier, each slot less than two feet wide. It is the most cramped of all the huts on the trail, though this is fairly standard for traditional European mountain refuges.

A short side trail near the hut leads to the Markarfljót river canyon. At its deepest, the gorge plunges 200 meters, sheer cliffs on both sides, which makes you awed by the river’s carving force. The Markarfljót is a major river in southern Iceland. In the highlands, hemmed in by mountains, it runs narrow. Beyond the trail’s endpoint at Þórsmörk, it fans out wide, which is precisely why private vehicles can barely reach Þórsmörk – crossing this river is too dangerous.

After exploring for a while, the rain arrived as promised. We dashed back to the hut. A few bunkmates had brought board games. We joined in, shouting, scheming, sabotaging each other, a noisy, delightful way to spend the rest of the day.

2024.8.11After a good night’s sleep at the mountain hut, I woke up before six the next morning — probably still jet lag. I stepped out to take a few photos, though the scene looked much the same as the night before.

I launched the drone and flew it around to the back side of the ridge. In contrast to the vast, desolate landscape in front of me, a river wound through the valley below, and patches of vivid green could be seen everywhere.

Near the Hrafntinnusker hut, there’s an ice cave. My friends checked it out and told me that it was quite small, so I gave it a pass. The sun had risen by then, and the dark volcanic hillsides, which had looked nearly black in the dim light, now revealed shades of tawny brown.

We set off from the hut at 8 a.m., descending steadily. Looking back after a short distance, the hut was still swallowed in mist.

Scattered across the highland terrain are piles of rock like these. Each piece has a layered structure; the fractures form shell-like curves, the surfaces are smooth, and the broken edges are very sharp. These are the products of rapidly cooled volcanic lava — obsidian.

There are no particularly towering peaks along this stretch, but from the second day onward the trail never stops rolling up and over one gully after another. Each one is only ten or twenty meters deep, yet they go on without end. The elevation here is already considerably lower than Hrafntinnusker, and with streams flowing through, more and more green began to appear underfoot.

This drone shot captures the deeply gully-carved character of the Icelandic highlands. We hiked in early August, and there was still some snow on the ground; a month earlier, the gullies would have held far more. White, yellow, and green in irregular, layered patches. It’s a landscape uniquely Iceland.

After nearly three hours of this, we climbed a ridge and the view suddenly opened up. A large lake appeared in the distance — Álftavatn. Every hiker knows the feeling: when you’ve been grinding uphill, gasping for breath, and then a breathtaking vista appears without warning. The saddle above Grey Glacier in Chile’s Torres del Paine. The clifftop at Lagazuoi in the Dolomites. In this moment, I felt it again.

There’s a saying: Iceland is green and Greenland is icy — but you can’t truly appreciate it until you’ve stood in the Icelandic highlands. A land of volcanoes, green? And yet, spread before us across the entire valley was green — a bright, tender green.

Most people see something low and lush hugging the ground and assume it’s moss. But what blankets the Icelandic highlands is actually lichen growing on volcanic rock. Lichen is more primitive than moss — a symbiosis of algae and fungi. They are the pioneers of Iceland’s harsh highland environment: when rainfall is plentiful and temperatures are higher, they appear green; in winter they stop growing and turn grey-brown or black. Because of their fungal relationship, lichens are edible, and locals have used them as herb medicine for hundreds of years.

We crossed a small stream lined with cottongrass and drew ever closer to Álftavatn. Cottongrass is a common arctic plant — we’d seen a great deal of it in Greenland as well.

We arrived at the Álftavatn hut at about 1:30 pm in the afternoon. Just as we pulled in, a group of runners came through. It turned out that day was Iceland’s highland ultramarathon, routed along the very same Laugavegur Trail we were walking — but in the opposite direction. What a brutal yet rewarding challenge.

The Álftavatn hut sits close to the lake. Because it’s accessible by vehicle, it’s better appointed than the other huts on the route. The main sleeping cabin is quite roomy. To the right is a restaurant serving lunch and dinner — I ordered a sandwich there to take along for the next day’s hike. There were charging outlets inside too, which let me top up the drone’s batteries.

2024.8.10Around 11am, we took a group photo at the Landmannalaugar trailhead, marking the start of our 4-day, 55-kilometer trek.

After crossing a small stream, we quickly entered a volcanic lava field. As far as the eye could see, the flats and hills were covered in jagged black rocks. Lichen and moss clung to the lower rocks, their vibrant yellow-green hues contrasting sharply against the dark volcanic rock, while geothermal steam rose from the crevices.

This section of the route is gentle, with the path winding through rolling hills. Signs are posted among the rocks prohibiting drone flight. Once past the lava field, the trail begins a gradual ascent. Due to frequent stops for photography, it took me nearly two hours to cover the first 2.5 kilometers.

Looking back from the mountain ridge, Landmannalaugar remains visible. The area surrounding Landmannalaugar offers numerous trails ranging from hour-long walks to full-day hikes. To the north lie even more highland attractions, certainly worth a return visit.

Continuing forward, the trail enters a steeper climbing section. The slopes here lack lava coverage, exposing the striped formations of the mountains. The rocks near Landmannalaugar are rhyolite. It is a volcanic rock whose name reflects its curved and banded appearance.

Halfway up the climb, my friends catching up asked if I had taken a detour. I recalled seeing a sign earlier but had bypassed it. Hesitating for a moment, I decided I didn’t want to miss out and turned back down the hill.

Standing on the detrou sign, you can see the switchbacks on the opposite mountain, though I didn’t want to go there but walked toward the right. Following the ridge to its end reveals a valley of striking colors. It is a place you shouldn’t miss for anyone on this trail.

I launched my drone; under the wide-angle distortion, the valley below resembled a mask, with two lakes serving as eyes. We had traversed the lava field on the right and now had to climb toward the summit.

Crossing this mountain leads to a landscape of deeply eroded hills. The trail becomes a series of constant ascents and descents, making for a physically demanding stretch. Under an overcast sky with clouds nearly touching our heads, steam rose from streams in the valley, filling the ravines with mist. Gloomy and ethereal, this was the defining impression of the first day in the Icelandic Highlands.

Occasionally, we spotted scattered mountain goats. They are skittish creatures, turning and fleeing the moment they sense humans; capturing a clear forward-facing photo was difficult.

On a flat stretch of the trail stands a small memorial made of volcanic stones. On June 25, 2004, 25-year-old Ido Keinan set out alone into the highlands. Caught in a multi-day storm with poor visibility and insufficient gear, he lost his way just a short distance from the next hut and ultimately died of hypothermia. This stackof stones serves as a somber reminder to all who explore the Highlands: the greatest risks often hide within the most beautiful landscapes. Nature demands constant respect.

This is the highest section of the trek. A barren landscape defined only by shades of grey, black, and the stark white of lingering snow.

The site of Ido Keinan’s passing is less than a kilometer from Hrafntinnusker. After another half hour of hiking, a few small huts appeared behind a mountain notch.

We arrived at the hut at 5:30pm. While it was freezing outside, the interior was warm. The hut has two levels, housing roughly 30 to 40 people. Our group of eight took up most of the floor space on one side of the second level, which felt relatively spacious.

The Laugavegur trail spans 55 kilometers. If completed in four days, the daily distances are roughly 12, 12, 16, and 15 kilometers. Many choose to finish in three days by skipping the overnight stay at Hrafntinnusker and pushing through to Álftavatn. However, I believe these two 12-kilometer stretches contain the most stunning scenery in the highlands and deserve the extra time.

The sky remained overcast, making it impossible to tell if the sun had set. Judging only by the dropping temperature and the fading light, it was time to head inside and sleep.

2024.8.9~10Writing travelogues rarely keeps pace with the speed of travel itself, so there is no need to obsess over chronological order. Since I am writing about Iceland, I will continue with the journal of my trek through the Icelandic Highlands.

Returning to Iceland after more than five years, Keflavík Airport seems largely unchanged, though it lacks the sense of freshness it once had, likely due to the wear and tear of heavy tourism.

I took the airport shuttle into the city and met up with my friends at Bus Hostel Reykjavik. This hostel offers budget-friendly dormitory-style rooms for six to eight people and is conveniently located near the domestic airport and bus terminal. The lobby is bright and clean, with luggage lockers available, though their limited number means they book up quickly. There are no restaurants around; the vending machines in the lobby offer only basic snacks.

After settling in and preparing my pack for the next day, I walked into town for dinner. Over the last five years, Reykjavík hasn’t changed much, though the quality of Asian restaurants seems to have improved significantly. I stopped by a few landmarks on the way.

Due to jet lag, I woke up early the next morning. I grabbed a coffee and sat in the lobby. As the sun rose, a brilliant dawn filled the windows. The lobby was quiet, and I had this peaceful morning all to myself.

Our group left the hostel around six in the morning and walked to the bus station. The Highland bus departs at 7:00 AM, taking about four hours to reach the trailhead at Landmannalaugar. Compared to the mountain huts on the Highlands, bus tickets are usually plentiful; there is no rush to buy them until your hut reservations are confirmed.

Heading east out of the city along the Ring Road, we reached Hella in about two hours for a quick break. The bakery near the parking lot offered an impressive selection; I bought two sandwiches. It’s my food for the next two days.

The bus turned around at Hella and soon drove onto Route 26, truly beginning our venture into the Highlands. Route 26 is paved, but half an hour later, we transitioned onto F225, which turned into a dirt and gravel road. These “F-Roads” are the primary pathway in the Highland, mostly unpaved, open only during the summer months, and requiring a 4×4 vehicle for safe passage.

We crossed several streams along the way. Crossing rivers is the main obstacle to driving in the Highlands; it requires not only high ground clearance and elevated exhaust intakes but also experienced eyes for the right crossing point. The streams on F225 are manageable for larger SUVs, with the only tricky part being a river near the end of the route. Many travelers choose not to cross it, instead parking their vehicles and walking to the camp site.

After two hours of jolting along, the Highland bus arrived at Landmannalaugar at 11:00 AM. From here, we begin our four-day, 55-kilometer journey across the Icelandic Highlands.