The Route

The idea of the Iceland Divide is to follow the mid-ocean ridge fault line that runs north to south through Iceland. There’s no ‘official’ route, and there are a few variations you could follow depending on how much adventure (difficulty) you’re looking for. My own preference was to follow the really remote track that skirts around west of the Askja volcano, then around the lava fields east of the Trolladyngja shield volcano, before heading south to the edge of the Vatnajokull ice cap, over the top of the old Urdarhals volcano and to Kistufell hut. This area is covered in lava from the massive 2014 Holuhraun eruption, and much of it is washed out by frequent flash floods from the ice cap. From there, the route heads to Nyidalur hut via some evil unbridged glacial rivers, then across the post-glacial wastes of Sprengisandur.

The name Spregisandur apparently derives from the old Icelandic verb to drive a horse to death, which is about right.

The southern part of the route crosses the Fjallabak mountains north-west of the vast Katla ice-capped volcano, before joining the ring road for the final stretch to Vik on the south coast.

The route is almost 100% rideable on the right bike. except for some very short steep sections, snow banks and river crossings. On the wrong bike, it’s far from rideable.

The Bike

The bike is based on the excellent Mason ISO, customised by Cykel House in Castleford. The stock ISO is a great bike, but Iceland presents particular challenges that I felt demanded some modifications.

Mason’s ISO has a beautifully made steel frame, which is handmade in Italy. Combined with the Mason-designed carbon forks, the ISO soaks up tough terrain and is just the most comfortable all-day, multi-day bike I have ridden. When I first bought it (and before I had even ridden it) I considered adding Lauf springs and even suspension. I’m glad I didn’t because the ISO just doesn’t need it. I’ve ridden this bike 24 hours non-stop and felt great at the end of it. A quality bike by Mason. InSearchOf Bikes | Shop | MΔSON | Make • Progress (masoncycles.cc)

The next few photos show it in the bikepacking rig I use mostly near home in northern England, but I changed a few key things before going to Iceland.

The first step was to change the drop bars for a set of Jones H-Bars. These allow a variety of hand positions and are very easy on the wrists, plus they let you ride a bit more upright – more MTB than road or gravel style. The bars have more room for GPS etc, though in the end I only used the Garmin Map 66i and didn’t bother with the Wahoo that’s shown in this picture. Fitting the bars required a change of brake and gear levers; I left this to the guys at Cykel House, who added Shimano Saint brakes. This turned out to be one of the best additions, as they performed perfectly and have great feel.

I also fitted a 28T chainring for climbing heavily loaded. Another wise choice.

The pedals are Hope MTB flats. I wore Salomon X Ultra 4 Mid hiking boots. My mate Steve used SPD pedals that caused him to fall of repeatedly in the sand. Along with his bike’s 2.2″ tyres, he ended up hike-a-biking for 50 km at one point. He’s now convinced SPDs were a bad choice.

The bags are a mixture of Miss Grape (my favorite) and Apidura (not bad). I’m gradually replacing it all with Miss Grape. Miss Grape | Bikepacking Bags | Made in Italy

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The other crucial modification was to drop the wheel size to 27.5″ to accommodate 3″ tyres. The ISO takes 2.4″ tyres at 29″, but this wasn’t going to be wide enough to handle the long stretches of volcanic sand in the first half of the route. The few blogs I could find written by people who had been in this area talked about the horrors of the sand on narrower tyres, so the fatter the better. Turns out this was a (very) wise choice. The photo here shows WTB 2.8″ tyres, but I did the trip with Schwalbe Nobby Nic 3″. No punctures and the tread pattern was great.

In this picture taken on the summit of the Urðarháls volcano on Day 3, you can see the main changes: bigger tyres, an Infinity seat, and a pannier rack by Blackburn.

The dynamo powered Sinewave light is a top bit of kit. With 24/7 sunshine I didn’t need illumination in Iceland, but the usb charging port was invaluable for recharging the GPS and iPhone. The bracket is by Busch and Muller.

As far as possible I like to use local businesses for my kit and other support. Otherwise I’m happy to use other small independent ventures further afield. Sustainable communities are more important than convenience. Nearly all of my clothing and other kit was from Needle Sports in Keswick, Cumbria. Great independent shop, no nonsense kit and flawless service. Home Page – Needle Sports Ltd

Accelerate in Sheffield have been great too, for the same reasons. As a sergeant-major at Sandhurst said, “don’t run Sir, it panics the troops”. But running can be ok sometimes: Accelerate UK Online Store – the UK’s Ultimate Running Store – Accelerate UK Ltd

My tent is a Hilleberg Soulo. Absolute quality, and bombproof in severe weather. I considered risking a lighter option, like a hooped bivvy, but I’m glad I had the Soulo and the extra weight wasn’t an issue. You get what you pay for. Soulo • 1 person tent • Hilleberg

Day 1: Akureyri to Svartarvatn via Godafoss

We hired a Renault Trafic from Keflavik to Akureyri and left our bike bags with a car hire firm at Keflavik. This avoids faff and the risk of the Straeto bus company refusing to take our bikes (which happened to us on the return leg from Vik to Reykjavik). So the outbound trip was all smooth and easy. Expensive though.

We stayed at the Akureyri Backpackers hostel, which has a good restaurant and bar downstairs. A good choice: www.akureyribackpackers.com

The ride from Akureyri to Goðafoss waterfall is a bit of a preamble to the more interesting sections of the route. The scenery is pleasant enough but the Ring Road is busy and has nothing to recommend itself from a cyclist’s perspective.

We had a bit of a late start due to shopping for day food (there are plenty of places in Akureyri to do this), sorting out an issue with my tubeless tyres (again, there’s a good bike shop in Akureyri), and posting Steve’s excess kit back to Wales (he hadn’t done a trial run of his fully-loaded bike). The late start meant that our plan to get as far as Botni hut wasn’t looking good.

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We continued about 10 km past Goðafoss, south through the Bárðardalur valley and camped on the banks of the river Skjálfandafljót. Quite a pleasant spot; plenty of flies but they don’t bite, thankfully.

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Lessons learnt:

• If you’re riding tubeless tyres, bring sealant and a track pump in your bike bag. One of my tyres lost fluid during the flight and sorting this out was a pain. It also cause a few problems later in the ride (Days 7&8).
• Bring a midge head net. The Scottish know about these things: Midge Head Net for head protection from midge, mosquito, fly, etc. (midgie.net)
• Have your kit pre-packed and good to go. Avoid pre-departure stress.

Day 2: Svartarvatn to Dyngjufell

This when the proper riding started and I felt we were really getting stuck into it. We had camped in a sort of intermediate position, so my original plan to stop overnight at Botni hut had to change. Dyngjufell hut was now a better option, so that became the target for the day.

Track conditions for the first section to Svart­ár­vatn lake and the farm at Svartárkot are easy; a few climbs but nothing to worry about. There are clean streams along the way, so there’s no need to carry a lot of water this far.

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Once past Svartárkot and right at the southern edge of Svart­ár­vatn , you hit the edge of the Utbruni lava field. This is the northern edge of the vast Ódáðahraun volcanic desert, and things change here big time. If you enjoy the next section to Botni and don’t have to dab or walk, then you’ll probably enjoy the next few days to Nýidalur. If you find this bit hard, then expect to suffer and do a lot of pushing to Nýidalur. The ‘track’ goes through and over the lava and sand, so this where your tyre choice starts to count.

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From Botni hut you have a choice of the more direct walkers’ path or the jeep track. I took the jeep track; it doesn’t add much extra distance and is way easier than the walkers’ path (though it’s not ‘easy’). Note: this jeep track is the short loop that rejoins the southbound track towards Dyngjufell, not the long diversion.

From here the differences in bike and tyre choice started to tell and Steve started to fall back; this was the start of his walking trip across Iceland. The track is now sand interspersed with lava. Good luck riding this on a gravel bike with thin tyres.

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As you travel south, it’s all about the sand. I rode 100% of this and the gps is showing an average speed of 12.2 kmh – this includes stops to let Steve catch up a bit. If you’re pushing, average speed will be about 3 kmh at best.

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Like all the Icelandic huts, the FFA-run hut at Dyngjufell is excellent. Unlike British bothies, they’re clean and the huts’ users respect them and look after them. If there’s no warden leave the fee in the box on the wall inside. Don’t be a chimp and pay up.

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Lessons learnt:

• Load up on water at Botni. This is a desert. 4L is a good shout. I carried a 3L bladder in my backpack, a 1L bottle under the downtube, and I had an extra 1.5L bladder in my frame bag (but didn’t use it the whole trip). I don’t drink a lot on the trail and 4.5L was fine for me.
• Have realistic expectations about average speed versus effort on this terrain. I got this right, but only through prior trial and error. Mostly error.
• Drop tyre pressure as soon as you hit the sand. 10-15 psi works for 3″ tyres. But only if they’re tubeless, otherwise the lava will shred them at these low pressures.

Day 3: Holuhraun to Kistufell

54 km looks easy on the map, but a kilometre in Iceland is different to anywhere else. This is a tough day. Fun if your bike choices have been good, hellish if you’ve got it wrong.

The first section climbs steadily through the Dyngjufellar valley, with the cliffs of the massive and recently active Askja volcano on your left. Here you start to grasp the scale of natural forces in Iceland.

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It’s a long climb but mostly easy enough on a decent (sandy) track. If there’s still a bit of snow around there’s a short detour to push around at the stream crossing. Nothing big though.

After cresting the top of Dyngjufallardalur valley, the vista opens up across the lavas expanse of Holuhraun and northern edge of the Dyngjujökull shield volcano glacier, which is itself a northern section of the truly enormous Vatnajökull ice cap. South-west is Trölladyngja, Iceland’s biggest shield volcano. The whole area is covered by extensive lava beds and the only way around them is by snaking along the deep sand beds that skirt the lavas. Soon after this our track crosses the junction with the ‘main’ F910.

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By now, Steve had dropped far behind and I stopped to brew up. So far, we’d only covered about 15 km from Dyngjufell, but I was already about 2 hours ahead. This was a bit worrying in view of what was ahead of us, but the weather was good and some things just demand flexibility and patience. The break gave me some time to soak up the experience of isolation and the sheer scale of the environment.

Once Steve joined me and we’d had a quick chat, I cracked on towards the south along the unnumbered track towards Kistufell hut. I didn’t want to hang around now, because I had to keep the momentum going: with a bit of dead reckoning I estimated we’d need at least 12 hours to cover what I’d also estimated to be the 45 km for the day (it was actually 54 km). Steve was ok, but just could ride the sand on his 2.2″ tyres. Even downhill he his front tyre was washing out, forcing him to get off and push. His spd pedals were also causing him to fall off a lot at slow speed. Plus he couldn’t risk deflating his tyres (with inner tubes) due to the risk of puncturing on the sharp lava. His waking nightmare had begun.

Although the map shows a track, it’s what I might call aspirational and there is nothing on the ground except widely spaced wooden marker poles. The route squeezes along the border between the Trölladyngja lava fields on the western side, and the apocalypse of Holuhraun to the east. Conditions got much harder from this point on. The only difference now is that the sand is deeper and often wet – more like quicksand.

Holuhraun last erupted in August 2014, with a fissure eruption that produced a new lava field 85 km² in extent. I tried to push that thought to the back of my mind.

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Off to the east I could see huge clouds of dust blowing up. At first I thought this was being kicked up by vehicles along the F910 south of Askja, but later I realised it was a sandstorm kicking off in Holuhraun, right on the edge of the icecap.

When I was planning the trip I was excited at the prospect of getting close up to the Dyngjujökull glacier and had imaged it white and majesterial. Wrong. This is Niflheim, the Norse realm of dank mist, where the unworthy dead are cast to suffer eternal misery.

Ever seen black ice mountains?

This section crosses a flat wash out plain with a pebbly crust of friable sand. As I made slow progress across this plain it was unpleasant to think about the jökulhlaups that keep this area devoid any sort of feature. A jökulhlaup is a glacial outburst flood that results from a build up under the glacier of water heated by geothermal activity or volcanic eruption. Maybe watch a video of the most recent Katla jökulhlaup to understand why it was bothering me. The thought of black water and ice blocks bursting out of the ice cap was unsettling.

I was still averaging just under 11 kmh to this point and was enjoying the isolation, so all was well. On the other hand, I knew this was getting harder for Steve and I had to start scenario planning for later in the day. The longer you’re out, the more tired you get and the more scope there is for serious problems.

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The outwash plain ends at the slopes of the extinct (?) Urðarháls volcano. According to Urdarhals Hill. – NAT “This hill is the remainder of a glacier scraped dolomite shield volcano, covered with boulders, which make the 7-8 km long drive across it rather slow and bumpy.” No shit. Ever tried riding a bike up the side of a volcano? Hard enough if there’s a road, but there isn’t one. Think your local Strava segment is tough? I’m impressed.

I had to do a bit of pushing, but otherwise it was just a matter of grinding away in low gear and waiting for it to end. But volcanoes are big even when the tops have been removed by glaciers, so the end took a while. I got a good clean litre of water from a snow bank half way up. I hadn’t run out of water, but it was a useful top up.

The glaciers left behind a boulder field, which I guess is just ground down mountain. Not too hard to ride across on 3″ rubber, but it’d be fun to watch someone try it on a gravel bike.

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The crater on Urðarháls is still impressive enough and sort of intimidating when you’re alone up there. It’s about 1 km across and maybe 100 metres deep. I didn’t go right to the edge because I was scared of the cliff collapsing and taking me with it.

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It was getting late and I was aware how hard Steve must be finding this. After a bit of replanning I decided to crack on to the hut at Kistufell, get some food, strip weight off the bike, then ride back to collect him wherever he was. There’s no use in two people in a group of two being tired.

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I covered the 5.3 km from Urðarháls to Kistufell in 32 minutes. Deep black volcanic sand and sharp hills. Then after sorting myself out in the hut, the same again in reverse, back to find Steve. I took 3L of fresh water because I figured he’d be out and dehydrated.

I met him at the summit of Urðarháls just as he was finishing the ascent. He had suffered profoundly through the day and was in utter shit state. First thing he asked was if I had any water. Of course I said no, but this seemed to crush him, and when I produced the 3L bladder he cheered up a bit. Until he tried to drink, and spent the next ten minutes vomiting and retching. I tried to tell him about the imposing crater just yards away and the lovely double rainbow but he wasn’t interested. Next question: “how far to the hut?”. I lied and said 15 km. He didn’t laugh.

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I was a bit worried about early signs of changing weather (high cirrostratus and rainbows) and it was about 11 pm by now. The 5 or so km back to the hut took about 1.5 hours this time, giving us a 00:30 hours finish for 15.5 hours on the trail.

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Kistufell hut is maintained by the Icelandic SAR organisation. If you’re reading this – thank you!

This was a long day. 54 km from Dyngjufell to Kistufell, plus another 11 km to meet Steve. The 54 km took me 9 hours 27 minutes, including stops to wait. It took Steve 15.5 hours. Pushing a fully loaded bike through lava, sand and up volcanoes would hurt anyone. Big effort.

On the other hand, that sort of effort isn’t sustainable and Day 4 wasn’t going to be any easier.

Lessons learnt

• One of the interesting things about Day 3 was how the psychological impact of isolation and ‘big nature’ differs between people. I’m very happy in a desert and feel energised by the isolation. On the other hand, Steve found this aspect of it hard and it got under his skin a bit. State of mind translates into physical aspects of performance and you need to keep a close eye on your buddy (and yourself) to appraise things honestly. You can’t hide things like this inside, so speak up and deal with it head on.
• You can drink snow melt water and you don’t need to filter it. It isn’t the same as glacial melt water. In any case, running out of water is not allowed. plan ahead and carry more if you need to.
• Don’t bring food you can’t eat. I do well on Haribo and Babybel, with the occasional Mars bar. Old skool, but it works. I don’t use ‘sports nutrition’. Steve discovered he can’t stomach chocolate after a few hours. You need to learn these things in training when the stakes are lower and you have a bail out option.

Day 4: Glacial rivers and katabatic winds

From the map recce I’d estimated this section from Kistufell to Nýidalur hut to be 68 km with five river crossings after joining the F910 route. The few detailed accounts from cyclists and walkers mentioned some difficulties with the crossings due to stream depth and the strength of the current.

The first stretch after leaving Kistufell towards the west skirts the Trölladyngja lava field (on the right / north) and the northern extension of the Bárðarbunga sub-glacial volcano. Bárðarbunga is ‘large’, with a caldera about 10 km across and maybe 500 metres deep. The Holuhraun eruption in 2014 was actually a northern lava vent of Bárðarbunga.

Initially, the scenery is quite pleasant, with views across the lava to Trölladyngja, which is now directly to the north. the ice cap here isn’t that present in terms of the view. The going is the same as the day before, with lava interspersed with sand.

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After a few km this changes to snow and water, and the whole feel of the thing starts to darken a bit. This is a transition zone between the dry desert to the north, which is in the rain shadow of the Vatnajökull ice cap and the area further south as you enter Sprengisandur, which definitely isn’t in a rain shadow.

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We’re back in Niflheim now and the whole landscape has a malevolent feel about it. The black ice mountains are back and closer this time. Invisible fingers of cold air seep down from the ice. This is the realm of Naglfar, the boat made from the fingernails and toenails of the dead, ferrying the deadweight of ghastly monsters to fight the gods on the final battlefield of Vígríðr. The Norse religion doesn’t make it clear if Ragnarök has happened yet or if it is yet to come. In this place, these things don’t feel like myths.

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A short climb up to some small volcanic cones crests at the highest point on the entire route, at about 1,150 metres above sea level. The lava here is sharp and unweathered, and I’m guessing is quite recent. I paused here to take in the view to the west and south-west, over Sprengisandur.

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I was quite pleased at this point because a) I thought it was all downhill from here, and b) I thought Sprengisandur would be easier than the last few days. Plus, the weather was still okay despite the cold air seeping down from the glacier, so I had three great reasons to be optimistic. Foolish boy.

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Just as I set off on the sharp descent towards Gæsavatn hut I met two guys from the Icelandic search and rescue organisation is a massive 4×4, climbing up the slope in the opposite direction to me. They were the first people I’d seen apart from Steve in three days and, I learnt later, they were surprised to see me because the route ‘wasn’t open for the summer yet’. No one told me.

There was nobody at the hut, so I stopped for a few hours to brew up on the patio while I waited for Steve. It was noticeably colder here and I had to choose a spot to shelter from the wind. No problem; I still had plenty of my favorite coffee from Recent Beans in Castleford, and I had something green to look at for the first time in a while.

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As soon as Steve arrived I was off again. We’d only covered about 15 km, and there was another 9 km to the junction with the ‘main’ F910 route, and then another 29 km to Nýidalur. My dead reckoning was getting me a bit concerned that our pace would get us to Nýidalur that evening, with a knock-on effect for the following day, which was a 110 km stretch across Sprengisandur.

The first river right at the junction with the F910 is bridged. This is good, because it is a horrible prospect.

The first of five fordings is about 3 km after this. I changed into my river crossing shoes and just got straight in there without waiting for Steve to catch up. Fucking freezing.

The problem with glacial water is that it’s milky and you can’t see the bottom, so you have to guess how deep it is. It flows quite fast, and the katabatic winds funnel down the channel and raise a spray that extends about 15 feet above the surface. Water this cold is beyond cold – it burns. All together, this makes it quite challenging to drag a fully loaded bike across. My technique is to hold the bike downstream (note carefully, not upstream!) of me, one hand on the bars, one hand on the saddle rail. Then I kind of sidestep across, letting the bike rotate till it’s diagonally into the flow. It works really well and I only nearly fell over a few times. It does take a lot of strength to brace yourself, though. Also, don’t follow the vehicle tracks because they dig deep ruts in the stream bed. Look carefully for a better line, which is probably going to be just downstream of the vehicle line (the displaced pebbles settle there and it might be a bit shallower).

This one was thigh-deep and I had to brace hard a few time to stop myself getting knocked over, so I decided to wait for Steve to keep an eye on him while he crossed. The temperature had dropped to about 5 degree Celsius and with the strong katabatic wind it felt a lot colder. I huddle in the ‘shelter’ of a boulder on the far bank and waited. By the time Steve arrived I was quite chilled, so once he was across and had asked the usual questions ‘what time is it?’ and ‘how far is it?’, I got moving again. The next three river crossings were just knee-high so I went across without waiting.

The fourth crossing was horribly intimidating and I didn’t fancy it on my own, because I reckoned there was a good chance of taking a swim.

Old Norse religion told of twelve rivers surging from Hvergelmir, the roaring cauldron in Niflheim that is the boiling fount of all waters. Collectively known as the Elivagar, only eleven are named: Svoel the cool, Gunnthra the defiant, hurrying Fjorn and bubbling Fimbulthul, fearsome Slid and storming Hrid, Sylg the devouring, Ylgr the she-wolf, broad Vid and Leipt that flows like lightning, freezing Gjoll and the unnamed river that flows near to the gate of Hel.

I had plenty of time to ponder such things while I waited for Steve. By now the wind was smashing its way down the channel at a steady 60 or 70 miles per hour. The great eagle, Hraesvelg the Corpse Eater, sits at the top of the world and flaps his wings. This causes the winds to rush over the face of the earth.

By the time Steve arrived it was late in the day and after a quick chat it seemed neither of us was enthusiastic about getting into the river. I’d noticed since our first camp in Bárðardalur and at Dyngjufell that melt streams were lowest at about 7 a.m., so it made sense to camp and hit the beaches early next morning. Good plan, except…

…except that there’s no soil in Sprengisandur and the wind made pitching a tent an unmitigated nightmare. We got mine up eventually, but it took about an hour. Steve moved a bit to find the only bit of shelter in amongst some lava just upstream. It seems this is a ‘popular’ place to bivvy for people similarly held up by the river. Steve’s spot wasn’t exactly ‘sheltered’, but it was better than where I had chosen.

My Hilleberg Soulo tent is bombproof, so the wind wasn’t a problem. But I’d pitched on the pebbles next to the river whereas Steve was higher up. So I spent the whole night fretting about jökulhlaups and a miserable death wrapped in my tent as the dark freezing water crashed over my campsite. Unquiet thoughts intrude at times like this.

At about 6 a.m. I was disappointed to look out of the tent and see that the water level was the same and the current just as strong. However, the wind had settled to maybe 40 or so mph, so it was time to hit the beaches.

Once in the water it wasn’t too bad, actually a bit easier than the first stream, so we got across easily enough. I was full of energy after a breakfast of a Mars bar, and I was buoyed up with the successful crossing, so I rode straight on south-west towards Nýidalur hut. The next crossing was in about 5 km; by now my fording drills were slick, so I was across in no time. One more easy crossing right before Nýidalur and I was done with an easy 20 or so km for the morning. I didn’t wait for Steve because the crossings had been easy and I knew he’d be fine.

Steve arrived a while later. In a 4×4, whose driver had found him semi-naked on the river bank. On enquiring why, Steve explained to the driver that he had ‘been for a swim’. This confused the driver, who it turns out was French, and who initially couldn’t grasp why a Welsh man was swimming in an Icelandic glacial river. A reasonable misunderstanding. Once Steve explained that he had fallen in whilst attempting to ford the river, the driver’s attitude changed from incomprehension to more-than-mild concern.

Steve had followed a different line into the river and dropped into one of the vehicle ruts. In water above his waist, the fast current got hold of the bike and knocked Steve off his feet. He managed to keep hold of the bike, but got dragged downstream for about 30 metres. He described being in a sort of Superman position, but with tucked-in knees bumping along the rocks on the stream bed. He tried to scream, but with a mouth full of freezing water, just made a bubbling noise instead. He summarised the ride downstream as ‘frightening’.

I learnt of all this when Steve arrived at the hut, exhausted, hypothermic and visibly unnerved. He’d expended very considerable effort to get through the last few days, and it was clear that pitching straight into the 110 km crossing of Sprengisandur wasn’t on.

Nýidalur is a good hut, the wardens are great, and they looked after us well. I wanted to get moving though and considerations of time were pressing on my mind.

‘Thought for the Day’: “I was enjoying myself until I fell in the river” (by Steve).

Day 5: Sprengisandur

Sprengisandur is a post-glacial wilderness covered in more stones than there are atoms in the universe. This is Mordor.

I set off on my own south-west across Sprengisandur in steady rain, low temperatures, and a solid head wind. On the map this looks like an easy section; it isn’t. The glaciers left behind nothing but unrelenting hardness and I have only respect for the early Icelanders who crossed Sprengisandur on foot. They avoided it for a reason. This is what it looks like…

Because of the weather the 110 km took me 12.5 hours non-stop. I haven’t had to dig that deep for about 25 years.

When I eventually arrived at the hotel in Hrauneyar I had THE FEAR that there were no vacancies and the restaurant had stopped serving. The thought of pitching a tent in the rain and eating another dehydrated meal was unappealing. But Óðinn had approved of my exertions and granted me shelter and food.

I was finding it a bit hard to speak properly because a bit of mild hypothermia had kicked in, so I was pleased to see Steve, who walked into the lobby to say hello. He explained that he’d seen me arrive and had already ordered me some lamb soup. Good man.

While we waited for the soup, and the large burger and fries, plus chocolate milk, plus apple pie with cream, he told me about his day. He’d hitched a ride across Sprengisandur on a bus with a group of retired French geologists (driven by the guy who found him after his ‘swim’ the day before). Even die hard geologists had concluded that Sprengisandur was ‘shit’ and had chanted ‘please make it stop’ during the drive. They also had some familiarity with Holuhraun, and asked Steve why I had made him go there. And were we still friends? I have no idea how he answered this.

After dinner I went to my room, turned the heating up full, put both duvets on my bed, and slept.

Day 6: Fjallabak

Breakfast was a royal affair of several courses. Every course was identical, but there’s no chance of getting fat cycling this route, and so I ate and drank coffee with a clear conscience.

Steve had arranged a ride to a small town on the ring road called Hella. As I was getting my kit together, I asked what time he wanted to start riding. It took a second, but then he got the point and I could see he believed he could ride again. Steve’s a tough, strong man and it was great to see him regain some self-belief after the Trolls had fucked with him so badly for the last few days. I’ve been in similarly deep holes and I know what it feels like, and I wanted Steve to feel like he’d ridden this route. Exhaustion, dehydration, cold water exposure and the psychological impact are a fair reason for missing out a section. Besides, it’s not a race, so who cares?

Before we got moving I had an annoying problem to solve. Through Sprengisandur my rear tyre had been losing air. It wasn’t punctured, so I guessed it had lost sealant. Correct.

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My only two mistakes in planning and execution of this trip had caused this. Firstly, back in Akureyri I had only reapplied sealant to the front tyre, which was the one that detached from the rim during the flight to Keflavik. I should have slowed down and been thorough but I was in a self-induced hurry to start the route. Secondly, I had two spare inner tubes. But they were too narrow for 3″ tyres. I’d transferred them from my other bike without thinking. A sloppy oversight. It’s always interesting to ponder the things that trip you up, and they’re usually basic. Chaos theory in action: small causes, big consequences.

It turns out that if you pump the tubeless tyres to the max and then smear the rims with glue, they hold air pretty well. So this is what I did and it worked.

We took the F208 through Fjallabak. I’d planned to take either this or the F225-F210 option, depending on how things were going. Sorting the tyre had delayed our departure, the weather forecast was terrible, and I didn’t want to send Steve back to Hel, so I opted for what looked like the easier F205.

The area around Landmannalaugar is billed as being epic. But it felt a bit lesser than the anti-places we’d been through. It’s stunning in its own way, but it doesn’t have the primal sense of cosmic force that is the essence of Ódáðahraun. It’s busier and more accessible. Tourists ticking off their ‘wilderness experience’ drive through it shielded from it and separated from it in boxes of glass and metal. I just don’t really like tourists or cars, so maybe I’m being unfair. It’s probably better for hiking, away from the vehicle tracks.

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Anyway, it was good to see Steve back on the bike and riding strongly, and it was nice to have some company.

The F208 south of Landmannalaugar has less traffic and the drivers are mostly more courteous. The flatter bits look like this…

There are something like eleven stream crossings along the F208 but they’re easy compared to Sprengisandur. By now my river crossing drills were mega efficient, so I started to get ahead of Steve. Because none of the streams were deeper than knee-high and the currents were weak, I wasn’t worried about trouble.

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We’d enjoyed a morning of fairly good weather but the afternoon was awful again. Back into full mountaineering-standard Gore-Tex, hood up, head down, and grind away at the hills. Interspersed with stream crossings. In the end I was so wet anyway I just road straight through the fucking things. I then I started shouting at the hills and laughing at the Trolls. I wanted them to come out of hiding so I could fight them face-to-face. I hated them controlling things like this, but I reckoned if I looked too strong they would pick on Steve instead. In the photo below he’s the small red dot, enjoying the nth ford of the day, while I climbed another volcano and left him for the Trolls to ride hard.

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By early afternoon the weather was horrible again. There were hints of sunlight for a few tantalising minutes, but they’re called rainbows for a reason.

The views in Fjallabak may be delightful, but I have no idea.

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After 73 km in 7 hours 38 minutes, 1,291 metres climbed and 11 streams crossed I got to the excellent hut at Hólaskjól. I thought it was just a camp site so I was pleased to find another well run and maintained hut and a friendly warden. Pleased that I didn’t have to sleep on the semi-liquid earth, I bought some Coke and a pair of hand-knitted socks for £1,000,000. Or something.

Everything in Iceland is expensive but I didn’t care. I put my smart new socks on and chatted to the hut’s only other occupant, a mad Polish woman called Adriana, while I waited for Steve. He was dressed like this…

Day 7: Valhalla Awaits Me

On the seventh day God created paratroopers and Satan stood to attention.

An easy descent to sea level, then turn right at the ring road for the run into Vík í Mýrdal, the southermost village on mainland Iceland. Too easy.

Except for the strongest headwind of the trip so far, and more miserable weather for the first couple of hours. the other thing is that in Iceland, going down too sea level involves going up hills like this…

I’m not a fan of road riding but I was pleased to get to this point…

If you look carefully at this photo you’ll notice the bike is leant over to the right and the grass is pretty far over to the left. This is because of the wind. After this I turned right, into the wind, and ground away at the pedals for 48 km on the busy ring road to Vik. Job done.

Steve’s afternoon turned out a bit differently. A few km into the ring road he stopped for a sit down by the side of the road to have a little think about the headwind and the general situation. There was time pressure because we had to catch a bus to Reykjavik (another story, but the driver refused to let us board. Thanks Straeto).

While he was sat there, an ambulance pulled over to see if he was ok. Turns out it was a converted ambulance that a crew of Icelandic stoners used as a camper waggon. By mutual agreement, it seemed more reasonable to put Steve and his bike in the waggon and drive him to Vik. A fair shout.

Steve had fallen out with his bike way back in Holuhraun and they had barely talked since then. Back in Holyhead he’d left it outside in the hope that Travellers would steal it, but they have higher standards than that. Eventually, he managed to give it away to the Polish cleaner in our hotel. This left him with the problem of carrying his kit, which was solved when he found an abandoned shopping trolley in Reykjavik. This, along with his Crocs and his need to sleep in public, raised serious concerns about his welfare and several Icelandic people offered him money for a coffee.

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The Trolls had their fun and they’re looking forward to our next visit, but the bastards respect a fighter.