At 6:15pm, during the long twilight, we turned off the small road onto an even smaller road and arrived at Heydalur, our home base for the next four nights.

The room was clean, comfy, and astonishingly similar to my guesthouse in Reykjavik, up to and including the hot pot + mug, duvet set, shower fixture, and a lack of tissues.

But the water here, although sourced by a hot spring, does not smell like sulfur.

There was (slow, but existent) wifi. But I'm glad I brought my plug converter and an extension cord to plug all my various devices in. Traveling is all about the electronics lately.

This being a farm, we were welcomed by these guys, a small sampling of the various animals here.

The animal you don't recognize is called an Arctic Fox. The quasi-tame but still wild fox is a resident of Heydalur farm, having grown up there. Normally, they are skittish, but this one likes to play with the (friendly, lovable) dogs.

The parrot, named Koppi, is talkative and said "Hello" to me when I stopped by to visit.

The minimal winter staff at Heydalur was cross-cultural and included, amazingly, a young French chef! A Czech and a visiting American rounded out the small group. They sat and ate with us every dinner. Needless to say, English was the common language and the food was freakin' fantastic.

It being February 2017, the other American and I had only one conversation of smalltalk before it degenerated into a political rant. A satisfying one, at least.

Our party were the main guests (though I did see the occasional other couple) so the dining room, a converted barn, tended to be empty except for the staff and the seven of us.

The American, who sat across from me for all our dinners, reached over and moved my paper napkin. "It was getting close to the candle," she said. (See above arrow.)

Yet, I was determined.

Following a delicious meal of salad, rice, and a fish casserole, I chatted on ignorantly as my paper napkin caught fire. And since I panicked, I made it worse by shaking another napkin at it. Luckily, the friendly German in our party remained calm and, as the flames rose up in the center of the table, he smothered it easily, like he was cleaning a spill.

The Heydalur folks forgave the charred tablecloth.

That evening, I kept an eye out my window for potential northern lights, but it was snowing, then cloudy. Then I went to bed. No lights tonight.

• Hike a glacier!
• Go to Isafjordur, the largest town on the peninsula (pop. 2600)
• Check out the local sites: a sheep farm, salt mine, cute church, and waffles served in a historic house!
• Go ice fishing (cancelled due to lack of ice to fish through!)
• Eat fish, delicious fish
• See some northern lights (maybe?)

Our 9am breakfast (still technically pre-dawn) included a buffet of delicious options. Homemade rolls and jam, eggs, lots of fancy cheese, lunch meats, bacon, tomatoes, cucumbers, local trout (!), more bread, more toppings, cereal and milk, and... Nutella.

We packed our own sandwiches from the spread for our hike. I made one regular sandwich. And one Nutella sandwich. Shut up. The seven of us piled in the van with a new driver (the Czech) and the matriarch of Heydalur, Stella.

Most of the hike was atop the moraine to reach the glacier's edge.

Apparently, this is one of the few glaciers in the world that is growing, not shrinking.

Our minivan jostled along for one hour and fifteen minutes as we made our way from Heydalur to Drangajökull. During our drive, Stella (with her in-car microphone) entertained us with a neighborhood tour. Neighborhood meaning the half dozen houses we saw on our drive along the fjords. "This is where the doctor used to live." "There used to be a family here, but now it's just a 92-year old man, but he's important since he takes care of our roads." "Some Europeans bought this place to fix it up, but we haven't seen them for a while." "He collects old cars, but not old enough to be in a museum."

Stella's English was quite good. I corrected her on occasion (when she called it "country-cross skiing" for example) but I couldn't bring myself to correct her when she said "imaginate" because it was so darn cute.

A passing sign showed -4 degrees which converts to a toasty 25 degrees Fahrenheit. Way warmer than usual, according to every local we met, but Wiki says 30 is the average for a February day in this area, so not sure what to believe.

Also, really, not toasty. Windchill and humidity: brrr.

We climbed out of the van and bundled up. I wore: thermal underwear, yoga pants over that, and hiking pants over that. Over the high-tech thermal shirt I pulled on a T-shirt and the warmest sweater I owned, all covered by my ski jacket. Two pairs of socks under hiking boots. Two pairs gloves. Two hats. I still shivered as we prepared.

I grabbed a single walking stick (leaving one hand free for my camera) which turned out to be a good choice. I also carried a water bottle on a carabiner. Our guide said we could fill up in streams along the way and that we shouldn't waste water weight on a full bottle. I ignored him, which also turned out to be a good choice (as he never actually STOPPED.)

It was about 11:15am. I saw thermoses in the van (assuming hot tea for lunch perhaps?) as our guide packed up. Then he walked out onto the moraine. He took the lead with Stella. He had to be 15 years younger than me and I was about 15 years younger than the other guests (and they were about 15 years younger than Stella!)

He hiked briskly, not looking back. I said, "What if someone falls back here? You won't know." Then Stella took up the rear with me and I learned I'm the least in shape of any of these nutty Europeans. But walking did warm me up, my cold fingertips thawing even as flecks of icy snow slapped my face.

I had no idea how our guide picked out a path. The uneven terrain was dotted with streams, lakes, and hills of rock, surrounded by two steep mountain slopes shaping the moraine valley. Piles of rock (cairns) hinted as to a path, but I rarely spotted them.

I was impressed by Stella. Pushing 80 and hiking this thing? Wow. A couple times, I turned back and she'd vanished. I was ready to turn around and look for her, but she always reappeared behind a hill.

Our guide never stopped to rest, not even once, though all the ladies took a squat-behind-the-rocks-and-pee break, catching up afterward. The only time he paused to wait for the group was at stream crossings to make sure we made it safely over the flowing water. (The streams were the most useful places to have a walking stick.)

About halfway to the glacier, we spotted a rainbow. Beautiful!

Then we reach a Wall of White. Drangajokull Glacier.

We paused to don pull-over crampons then started up the snowy slope.

We'd only hiked up maybe 10 minutes when we stopped for lunch. I dug my pre-packed sandwiches out of my backpack and boy, did they taste good. Especially the one with a certain hazelnut spread.

Our guide took out a pile of paper cups and dug into his backpack. I assumed it was tea-time. Yay! Hot tea sounded so good.

Only... it wasn't hot tea.

It wasn't even hot.

He said, "I brought something stronger," and poured out of a re-purposed soda bottle, only filling the cups about a quarter way. Surely he didn't mean...

He did. Whiskey.

So, yep, in the middle of nowhere on a glacier, I toasted with my hiking mates.

I only could take a few sips before handing it back. Too strong!

He then handed out some Mars bars for some return-hike energy and we turned back the way we came.

The way back felt easier. Maybe we were warmed up. Maybe we were fueled up. Maybe it was just downhill.

Conversation abounded. I learned that one of the German couples had also done the Trans-Siberian railway and that Stella had been to New York and was born in Greenland, which means that a total of one person at Heydalur was actually born in Iceland.

The weather had cleared substantially. I thought I would take fewer photos going back (since it was a similar view) but I took more!

Also, for posterity, I filled up my near-empty water bottle with pure glacier runoff! It tasted mineraly, but good. (Icelandic water is generally delicious.)

When we arrived back at the van, guess what we did? Drink hot tea!

By the time we were on the road, it was pushing 5pm. We passed two cars on the hour plus drive back.

"Must be rush hour," the driver said.

Our appetizer that night was similar to last night, except instead of lamb, it was puffin! Dark meat, tender, a bit like duck.

But way more guilt.

Dinner was salad, steamed carrots, rice, and ... cod! More guilt since the cod population situation in the north Atlantic is precarious. For dessert, we got to choose off the menu. I picked blueberry crumble. Standard dessert guilt. Clean plates all around, just emotional baggage. At least I didn't set any fires this time.

So, we piled back in the van afterward. About 10 at night. The van rumbled out to the fjord then on the lonely road along the coast. I was only slightly nervous that we'd topple into the freezing water. Then we pulled off the road, stepped out, and walked down the hillside.

It's hard to describe what we were looking at.

A pool, yes. A large bathtub, perhaps? A rectangular box about twenty feet long and ten wide made of concrete. The water replenished itself nonstop from a natural hot spring coming out of the ground from the hill above. Then drained out to the fjord. Somehow, it felt like a waste of water. Which is ridiculous since it's coming out of the ground. But the private pool sits, capturing the flow in perpetuity, for anyone driving by (even if you'd only be on this road if you are staying at Heydalur.)

We took turns in the flashlight-lit shack where you could undress down to your bathing suit and hang your clothes on hooks.

But it was cold.

Even being out of the wind, it was still 20-something degrees out. Luckily, two steps later, you could sink into the hot, hot water which reverses your shivers in in a burst of fingertip-tingling wonder.

And it was hot.

The floor of the tub felt soft on my bare feet, as if I were walking on algae through the waist-high water. I was glad it was dark and I couldn't see the bottom. I settled onto a wooden bench with the others. The benefit of this location is a wonderful view of the northern sky. A perfect spot to watch the lights. That is, if the clouds ever let up.

The clouds remained.

Starting to get overheated, we sat on the wall of the tub. Then decided to call it a night. I was last out of the water, drying off and dressing in the shack, not cold in the slightest. But I was bummed. Although seeing the lights is never a guarantee, I was sad to not catch a glimpse. I walked back up the short trail to the van when I saw something I hadn't seen since I'd arrived.

Orion! Stars! I climbed back in the van and told everyone the sky was clearing. Hope. Halfway back, about ten minutes down the road, our driver stopped and we got out of the vehicle.

Cameras and tripods were set up. The driver pointed to what looked like a long, thin white cloud in the sky, bright as if lit by moonlight even though there was none. "That's one. That's a Northern Light," he said in his near-fluent English. I only believed him when the German showed me his first extended-shutter photo. The so-called cloud glowed green.

The sky continued to clear, but the 'cloud' had faded. We drove back, returned to our rooms to bundle up, then walked away from the lit buildings and watched the sky. As you might imagine, watching for Northern Lights is a cold business: standing still on the snow in the wind in the middle of the night in Iceland.

I was sure that the blip was all I'd see. Better than nothing, I supposed.

But I stood, admired the gorgeous starry sky, and waited.

And then another long strip of light white gradually stretched from one horizon to another. It moved, but not fast enough to see with the naked eye. The curvy strips were so translucent, you could see the stars behind it.

Watching the wisps of cloudlike lights come and go was enjoyable. But more fun was watching what the camera picked up - neon green against a starry sky. Even better was when the pony-sized horses wandering freely on the property walked up and nuzzled us as we watched.

Then... it changed. Earlier our hosts told us there were two kinds of northern lights. The slow kind that stretched horizon to horizon and lasted a long time. Another kind existed only briefly. Fast-moving. Shimmering. Difficult to capture on camera.

And then they happened.

Between midnight and 1am for no more than ten minutes, the lights danced and I could see with my bare eye the vertical lines of color in the sky, pale red and purple, shimmering like a curtain, moving and disappearing too fast to catch with a 30-second shutter.

I had a tear in my eye. It was stunning.

Then it was gone. And the clouds rolled back in.

This is the day of scenery, sad stories, and "scholle" (a German word that describes our lunch).

After breakfast, we got into the van. (We have all been habitually sitting in the same seats. I keep offering my stellar front-seat view to anyone else interested, but they politely decline.)

Our Czech driver, who I think probably logged 20 hours of carting us around during our four days here, turned left at the sign, planning to drive north until we reached the big metropolis of Isafjordur. Almost 3,000 people there! Way bigger than Holmavik.

Along the way, we stopped to photograph the local wildlife and, in the van, Stella continued the audio tour of the area. When we reached Sudavik, we learned about the tragic avalanche in 1995 that killed 14 people (and how one 9-year-old survivor became Stella's student.) The town took drastic measures to prevent future disasters including *moving the village to a safer location*. You can still see where the houses used to be and the newly-built replacements further up the road.

On a lighter note, Sudavik is also home to the Arctic Fox Centre, where we took a tour with a friendly fox expert. They also had two foxes out back but since Heydalur has its own semi-adopted fox, we only took the indoor tour.

Our driver was kind enough to stop on the few existing pullouts to let us tourists do our thing.

We arrived at Isafjordur. We climbed up the road, through a tunnel (built for avalanche protection following the Sudavik tragedy), and up to a ski resort. Looked like they were too low on snow for skiing, but the views were incredible.

Then we drive down into the city, our little van holding up nicely despite the slippery roads.

Lunch was at a hotel. After tea, we had salad, rice, and a main course of some kind of flat fish. I asked what it was called, and they told me "scholle." Then the British couple provided the English equivalent: "plaic" where the "c" sounds like an "s". Yummy! Then I went to the ladies room and when I came back, everyone was gone, including the purse on the back of my chair. They all ditched me! Well, in reality, they were all in the next building. And the waitress had put my purse by the coat rack.

After a walk around the library, we had 30 minutes to walk around town by ourselves.

I thought, "Thirty minutes? That's barely anything."

But, well, with all due respect to Isafjordur, it was enough. Enjoying some solo time, I hit the bookstore, wandered around the neighborhood, went to the town square, and had a dessert at the bakery. That was about everything to do.

Before continuing the drive, we pulled into the port. The museum and historical houses were closed, but I got a view of the funky church and a cool reflection shot.

We continued north a short ways, going through a 3.3-mile tunnel (!) to Bolungarvik, the end of the road, the farthest north you can go in the Westfjords and (almost) in Iceland.

Apparently, if you are standing on a high mountain during a clear day, you can see Greenland, which is where the northwest horizon leads.

Our "authentic historical Icelandic fisherman" never arrived to guide us around the huts, but we enjoyed the scenery.

This is as far north as we went. We turned around and headed back through the tunnel to Heydalur. As twilight settled, we made one additional stop. We clambered out and climbed up the stairs to an historic two-story wooden house where a couple warmly greeted us. This place has several oddities. 1. It's not heated by hot springs, but by peat. 2. It has low ceilings and minimal space, but apparently used to house two large families. 3. They serve waffles! 4. The owner of the house does not speak any English.

A table long enough for all nine of us was squeezed into the quaint dining room. Fresh waffles kept appearing on plates (despite how close we were to dinnertime.) I liberally applied the provided whipped cream and jam. Stella translated for the owner, who looked like he walked out of Iceland 100 years ago. In fact, he had taken a boat to school in his youth and did not enjoy electricity until the mid-1980s.

I tried an Icelandic phrase on him when he was asking where we were from. "Yeh er Pantarishk." ("I'm from the U.S.") But I have no idea if he heard or understood since Stella said it right after I did.

(Footnote: later, on the flight home, I was watching more Icelandic videos and saw that this house, this couple, and the waffles, were featured on the Westfjords short! Surreal.)

Icelandic Delicacies

Splendour!

Final Day

Hot and Cold

Rams

Let's Just Climb Up There!

Better than Guacamole?

Storm Warning

Hurry up and Wait in Akranes

Back to Sunna Guest House

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