Chasing Shadows in Iceland’s Midnight Sun
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The wind roared like a forgotten god as I stood on the edge of an Icelandic cliff, my breath frosting in the Arctic air. My red jacket—a thrift store find from Berlin—flapped wildly, as if trying to escape the raw power of this place. I’d come to Iceland for adventure travel, lured by tales of a land where summer sun never sets, where glaciers whisper secrets and volcanoes sleep restlessly. It was 2 a.m., and the sky burned with a surreal golden light, the sun hovering just above the horizon like a stubborn ember. Can you outrun your own shadow in a place this bright? I mused, kicking a stone into the fjord below. It vanished into the froth, and I laughed at my own theatrics.
I’d landed in Reykjavik three days prior, my backpack stuffed with thermal layers, a dog-eared copy of Njal’s Saga, and a rental car key. The hatchback—a dented silver thing with a suspicious rattle—became my sanctuary as I hit the Ring Road, chasing the midnight sun. The plan was simple: drive until exhaustion, sleep in roadside pull-offs, and let Iceland’s untamed beauty rewrite my restless heart.
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The first stop was Seljalandsfoss, a waterfall that tumbles from a moss-crowned cliff. I parked haphazardly, scrambling over slick rocks to stand behind the curtain of water. The roar drowned out everything—the doubts, the emails piling up back home, the gnawing loneliness of solo travel. Mist soaked my jacket, and I grinned, feeling the cold seep into my bones. This, I thought, is what it means to be alive.
But Iceland doesn’t let you linger in comfort. By afternoon, rain lashed the windshield as I sped east, the landscape shifting from emerald valleys to desolate lava fields. At a gas station near Vík, I bought a lukewarm pylsa (Icelandic hot dog) and chatted with a German cyclist named Klaus. “You’re alone?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Brave.” I shrugged. Brave or foolish—the line blurred here, where the earth steamed and the roads stretched empty.
Then came the storm.
Halfway to Höfn, the rain turned biblical. My wipers fought a losing battle, and gravel sprayed the undercarriage as the car fishtailed. I white-knuckled the wheel, cursing my budget travel choice to skip the 4x4 upgrade. A sign for “Gljúfrabúi” flashed by—a hidden waterfall, according to my guidebook. On impulse, I veered off, parking in a mud-choked lot.
The trail was a river. I stumbled toward the falls, hood pulled tight, when a figure emerged from the rain—a man in a yellow slicker, waving furiously. “Komdu!” he barked, beckoning me toward a farmhouse I hadn’t noticed. Inside, the air smelled of rye bread and wet sheep. His name was Bjorn, a fourth-generation farmer with a Viking beard and a laugh that shook the rafters. His wife, Sigga, pressed a mug of coffee into my hands, and Bjorn launched into tales of huldufólk—Iceland’s hidden elves. “They move the rocks at night,” he winked. “Respect them, or your tires will pay.”
By dawn, the storm had passed. Sigga packed me smoked lamb sandwiches, and Bjorn gifted me a chunk of obsidian. “For luck,” he said. As I drove away, the rearview mirror framed their silhouettes—guardians of this wild land.
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The days blurred. I hiked Svínafellsjökull, crampons biting into ice that glowed blue as a mermaid’s heart. A crevasse yawned beside me, and I paused, struck by the glacier’s ancient breath. What stories could it tell? That night, I camped near Jökulsárlón, the glacial lagoon. At midnight, I sat on a driftwood log, sketching icebergs that drifted like spectral ships. The sun dipped but never sank, painting the ice in hues of rose and gold.
Solo travel teaches you to embrace silence. But in Iceland, silence is a living thing—a companion that hums in the wind and crackles in the northern lights (though I was too early for those). At a remote hot spring near Myvatn, I soaked with a group of Argentinian backpackers, our languages colliding as we passed a flask of Brennivín. “Why alone?” one asked. I thought of Bjorn’s elves, the way shadows stretched forever here. “To remember how to listen,” I said.
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On my final day, I returned to Reykjavik. The city felt surreal after the wilderness—colorful houses, hipster cafes, and a statue of Leif Erikson staring sternly toward Greenland. In a bookstore, I flipped through a photo album of Icelandic folklore. A page fell open to an illustration of the midnight sun, captioned: “In endless light, we find our shadows—and learn to dance with them.”
I smiled. Iceland hadn’t given me answers, but it had stripped me bare, replacing my restless urgency with a quiet, unshakable awe.
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