We’re All in This Together: Camaraderie on Iceland’s Ring Road
Stories swirl around the globe: tales of Icelandic magic. The Nordic island celebrates Elvin religion, fantastic waterscapes, and subterranean mystery. Though inhabited since 870 ce, the land feels untouched and unspoiled; its vast vacancy begs to be re-discovered. The ground is alive with volcanic activity which sends rumbles through the bones of the land, exploding every 5 years, displaying its everlasting growth. Iceland feels fresh; it overflows with open space and possibility. Thus, no place was more suited to explore the recently ignited friendship between myself and Claire, a fellow 28-year-old Californian with whom a magical connection had sparked on a trip a few months before while on a shared flight to Thailand. We’d explore our new friendship and Iceland in tandem with the inclination that both seemed to be quite enchanted. Our road trip around the circular 1,332 kilometer highway that traces the Icelandic coast would be the first of a lifetime of adventures we hoped to share.
We plotted a route which would begin with the Golden Circle, the 300 kilometer circuit which features Iceland’s three most visited sights: Thingvellir National Park, the Geysir geothermal area and Gullfoss waterfall. Adding to those, we planned to hike into Raufarhólshellir lava tunnel, stare down the Kerid Crater, and marvel at the behemoth Seljalandsfoss Waterfall. Then, we’d continue down the coast near Vík to climb Mýrdalsjökull glacier. A Zodiac boat tour on Jökulsárlón glacier lagoon would round out the southern coast before swinging up the largely untraveled northern road which leads back to Reykjavík. We’d sleep at campgrounds that scatter the route keeping costs low and basking in otherworldly scenery.
We set off from Reykjavík early in the morning when the air was crisp and the light was new. Our first stop was Öxarárfoss waterfall, a highlight within Thingvellir. It can be vaguely recognized from the 1999 cover of Nine Inch Nails’ album “Fragile” which is widely regarded as an ultimate soundtrack for soul-searching by music critics globally . Though I had a pretty good grasp on my own soul, it was a poetic jumping off point for a budding and vulnerable kinship.
Claire was behind the wheel on our first leg as we excitedly cruised down the open highway, singing along to the soundtrack of our teenage years. The view from the passenger window felt like a dream. Coarse, black Scoria stone covered in delicate, green moss stretches as far as the eye can see. Volcanoes and vertical slate formations jut out of the earth where water gushes over the edges proving the land is still being formed.
As we approached our first destination, Claire turned down the music and said, “Hey pal, not to alarm you but I can’t see anything.” Her hands clutched the steering wheel. Confused, I responded, “What do you mean?”
She positioned her hand in front of her face, creating a horizon line. “I can’t see anything from here, down.” We began to drift to the side of the road. I politely suggested that we should perhaps not be barrelling down a remote highway on account of her not being able to see the road. She shifted into neutral and we rolled into stillness. I pulled the brake and she climbed over the center console, forfeiting her captain’s position. I tried to stay calm.
Palms sweaty and quietly questioning our fate, I replaced her in the driver’s seat. I’d just learned how to drive stick and it wasn’t exactly a seamless learning curve. Her vision rapidly decreased like the signal on our phones had miles behind us. I questioned whether we should turn back towards some kind of medical professional. Being the ambitious and stubborn champion that she is, Claire responded with, “Let’s just get to the campsite. I think I need to sleep.” I did not understand how sleep could possibly be the thing to do in a time like this but, trusting her judgment, I jerked us into first gear and managed to bunny hop five kilometers us to the campground. Once parked, I got out and dramatically started to cry, regretting the fact that I had exactly zero medical training and therefore no ability to help Claire.
After a few moments of childlike fear, I wiped my face dry and resolved to do my best for her. I sprung into action beginning with a swig of our newly-acquired cheap Icelandic vodka and then promptly got to work setting up our roof tent. It was a clumsy process to say the least.
Once the tent somewhat resembled a dwelling, I peeked in at my friend sleeping in the passenger seat. She looked positively dead. What else could I do? I wondered whether I should leave her to find a signal and call for help. Should I keep her awake? No, it wasn’t a concussion. Was it? Was she having a stroke? An aneurysm? Why were we the only people there? I took another gulp of vodka and rolled out our sleeping bags before shakily descending the ladder to retrieve her might-be corpse. I tapped her shoulder. No response. “CLAIRE!” I shook her somewhat violently. She jolted to life and relief washed over me. I ushered her into what could potentially become her soft shell coffin, zipped up the flap, and proceeded to get drunk alone. I stared out over the nearly neon green landscape that sprawled around me, numbing my worry. After a few hours and several “breath checks” on my compact mirror, I curled up with her and waited for morning.
The next day, the sun rose and so did Claire, like a zombie from the dirt. “Boy, that was a hell of a migraine,” She chirped, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. We packed up and went to see the waterfall. It wasn’t the skim on death’s rim the way I’d imagined while she slept, but this was the first moment we really had to lean on each other. I looked after her like I knew she’d look after me one day.
Nearly a week later, we came across an abandoned rental car on the side of a quiet road. Our surroundings were vacant, showing no signs of human presence. The contents of the vehicle had been spilled, painting a chaotic scene. Phones were plugged into the console and hiking gear littered the interior of the locked vehicle. Alarmed by this detail, we raced up the highway to find someone who could look into it.
Claire and I approached a farmhouse and a woman emerged. As we described what we’d seen, her face grew tense and concerned. “Right, then. I’ll take a drive.” We apologized for the inconvenience of putting it on her plate. “Don’t be sorry, girls. We’re all in this together, right?”
Thinking back, my mind always dwells on that woman. I remember watching in the rearview as her truck disappeared down the road, towards the abandoned car. She’d dropped everything to check on a person she’d never met. I think about my arms wrapped around my comatose friend so she knew she wasn’t alone. The Icelandic spirit of solidarity rings in my soul. Lest we forget: we’re all in this together.
