I live in a ridiculously nice place. Our son had friends over last night to watch Hamilton, and my husband and I didn’t want to eat pizza, which we ordered for them, so we got out of the house for dinner. We went to a little restaurant, Gillie’s, in downtown Blacksburg, and sat at a cafe table outside to dine. The temperature was pleasant, especially for a June evening — warm enough for sandals, short sleeves, and a knee-length skirt, and cool enough to sit outside — we were surrounded by green deciduous trees and bright flowers, town wasn’t crowded, it was easy to park, there were no sirens or loud noises or cars. There were no bugs.
As we ate, we talked about how often we look forward to the future: what we’ll do when we retire, where we’ll travel, where we’ll live. How we want to be close to a beach, but maybe we’d rather live in a city, or maybe we want to be on the Chesapeake, or maybe we want to be nomads. But the thing is, where we are right now is pretty phenomenal. We have four seasons, all of which are the perfect length. We have fresh air, green trees, sun and rain, wind and stillness, some snow in winter but not too much to be a burden. We have amazing hikes in every direction, many of which intersect or go along the Appalachian Trail. We’re constantly bumping up against the AT when we hike. Our little town has charm, and with my renewed interest in photography, it’d be fun to explore it more on foot.
This morning I sat outside with my coffee. I rarely do that; the table on the deck is usually covered in dew, and I have notebooks and pens and other morning accoutrement to carry along with my coffee cup and cereal bowl, which is a lot to transport outside while also trying to open and close the sliding screen door without the cats bolting. But the birds were chirping, the air was cool and fresh, the garden is always a magnet for me, and so I wiped the table and sat outside, filled with appreciation for where we live and the life we have.
Two good friends of mine blogged about blogging this week, and they inspired me to get off my butt and publish again. They made me miss my blog. This space has been my companion for ten years; I published my first post in June of 2012.
I haven’t always written on a regular cadence. In 2013 I published 159 posts; in 2019 only 38. At the beginning of the year, or a month, or a particularly motivated period, I’ll tell myself, “I’m going to blog every day!” or “I’m going to publish three times a week” or whatever my goal du jour is.
I rarely meet those goals. Or I meet them and then am like, thank God that’s done, and then I abandon my blog because it had become a chore and I need a break.
It’s funny, I consider myself to be a routine-oriented person. I rely on routine to give structure to my days. When I look at my actual behavior, though, it seems I’m constantly changing things. If someone were to ask about my daily routine, I’d tell them I write in the morning. But these past few weeks, I’ve hardly written at all; I’ve used mornings to work out (because I didn’t get an A on my health assessment), edit photos (because I’ve suddenly gotten super into photography again), and meditate (because I need to chill). So though I think of mornings as my writing time, really, mornings are just my me time.
My pre-chill self might have worried about this, that I’m not writing enough, that I’m not writing like I “should” be. But when I observe reality, what has ultimately happened over the years is that I write when I want to write; I blog when I feel a wild hair to blog. I don’t need to trade in my pens because my camera suddenly has my attention; I’ll always come back to words.
We split our Iceland visit so that we spent a few days in the city and a few more in the wide open spaces of the southern region of the country. For the second half of our trip, we rented an Airbnb 15 minutes outside the small town of Hvolsvöllur, about an hour east of Reykjavík. The house was at the top of a steep gravel climb, with unobstructed views of the nearby Eyjafjallajökull volcano.
Our AirbnbView from our bedroom windowEyjafjallajökull volcano from deck
In the distance on a clear day, we could see the tiny white vertical line of Seljalandsfoss waterfall dropping off the mountainside and the jagged rocks of Vestmannaeyjar — the Westman Islands — jutting out of the ocean.
10pm 11pm3:30amSunset and sunrise light on Eyjafjallajökull
One day while everyone else was still sleeping I walked around the area near our Airbnb. Our host told us we could walk to the top of the hill behind the house for some great views, so I walked up the gravel road where I found a small set of three steps over the sheep fence. Once over the fence, I looked out onto a vast expanse of hills with nothing on them: no structures, no roads, no foot paths, no trees, no animals. Just moss and lichen and hills and valleys as far as the eye can see. It felt strange to go up there — did anyone own this land? Was I trespassing? Would a large animal come barreling out of nowhere? But we checked with the host and she said it’s fine, trespassing is not really a thing around there, and that we were free to enjoy and explore. So we did. Mostly I just photographed little flowers.
From the hillside near our Airbnb
We attempted a hike one day that wasn’t too far a drive from the house. Where the gravel road intersected with one of the F-roads (roads that require 4WD), there was immediately an unbridged river to cross, along with two signs with big red Xs that said “Impassable.” We did not try to cross the river in our rental Suburu. We backed up and took our original gravel road back around to where we think the parking area was.
When we arrived where we thought the trail would be, there was a ripping stream to cross before we could even get to the trail. On the other side, we could not see the trail, despite an open view of where the trail should be. There were no other cars or people for miles, and we couldn’t find a crossing that we felt good about, especially not to get ourselves or our gear soaking wet before we even began the hike. So we just walked along the rushing water for a bit, our son crossed for fun to see if he could do it, and we enjoyed the wandering sheep.
All aloneWe followed a sheep path along the stream for a bitSheep along the roadsideLook at all those little waterfalls on the hillsideCrossing the stream for funWe didn’t find our hiking trail but the scenery wasn’t bad
It turns out that the F-roads hadn’t opened yet; we were still early enough in the season that they were too treacherous to attempt. On another day, we had wanted to try another hike, to a mountain colored by minerals that would have required travel on F-roads to get to it. After our first encounter with an impassable F-road, we learned more about the route and saw that even if the roads were open, we would have had to cross about 20 unbridged rivers and streams to get to our hike. So we went back to watch puffins again instead, and took a little side trip to a glacier.
Puffins!Love these little birdsEdge of a glacierChunk of glacier in the meltpoolGlacierOur final day of exploring in Iceland
We had an amazing trip, and I’d love to go back and spend more time. We squeezed a lot into our few days there, and if we were to go again, I’d want to take things slower and savor each place more. Maybe go a little later in the season as well, like July or August. I have a sabbatical coming up in a couple of years, maybe that will be a good time…
Our trip to Iceland was a graduation gift to our son, so while we were there, we wanted to make sure he got to see and do all the things he was hoping for when he selected Iceland as our destination. When he realized we’d have the opportunity to see puffins, that’s the thing he wanted most to do.
We saw puffins on our side trip to the black sand beach, and after some research, my husband discovered that the jagged rocks we could see way off in the distance from our Airbnb are home to one of the largest Atlantic puffin colonies in the world: Vestmannaeyjar – Westman Islands. And! There was a ferry to the islands only a half hour away from our house.
We booked tickets for the four of us for the next day. The main island, Heimaey, is only about 5 square miles, and I was tempted to just explore on foot. Luckily, after looking at the weather forecast, my husband booked a ticket to take our car on the ferry too. I would come to thank him over and over for that decision during the 5 hours we were on the island.
Up until our island day, we had spectacular weather: sunny and warm enough to sometimes not wear a fleece or hat or windbreaker. On this day, though, the forecast was more dreary. Rain and drizzle, wind, and cooler temperatures. On deck on the ferry, the wind cut right through you, the sky was steel, and the ocean was a frigid-looking dark glacial blue. As we approached, the islands were spectacular to behold, especially cloaked in fog and mist. The fog and mist made them difficult to photograph; my pictures don’t do their majesty justice.
Approach to Vestmannaeyjar from the ferryCliffs of Vestmannaeyjar from the waterMore cliffs of VestmannaeyjarBoat tucked out of the weather in the opening of a cave
We were already cold when we landed, so we headed directly to a café for coffee and croissants (and pretzels and fried dough). Then we drove across the island to see the bajillions of puffins we were promised.
When we arrived at the puffin nesting, the wind and rain were blowing sideways. Also, we were in a cloud. And it was cold. And wet. We started off on an upward trail that headed deeper into the mist and harder into the wind, and proceeded to get drenched. We had every bit of our gear on — sweaters, fleeces, wool socks, wool hats, raincoats — and still we were cold and wet. “Uhh, I think there’s snow mixed in with the rain, Mom.” Maybe? I couldn’t see through my droplet-covered glasses, but it sure felt cold enough.
We saw no puffins; it’s hard to see down onto a cliff face when you’re on the land directly above it. The wind was strong enough and the footing dicey enough that getting too close to the edge of a 600 foot drop onto wave-splashed rocks wasn’t something any of us felt good about. We turned around, dripping wet, and walked a short path to a small building that looked like bathrooms was perched on the cliff’s edge. We went inside, where the cold wind blew through the cracks, and saw that it was a puffin-viewing room. From there, we did see puffins on a facing cliff below us, but they were far away and the windows were milky and hard to see through. That was as close as we were going to get to puffins.
Five minutes into our five hours on the islands and we were cold, wet, and had done the thing we came to do. But! We saw sheep on the trails. Sheep who did hang out at the cliffs’ edges — right up on the edge — and who bleated at us when we walked by.
I guess the best grass is where you can let your butt hang off the edgeLambs 😍Windy sheep
With the weather as it was, none of us with rain pants, all of us soaked and shivering, we got back in the car, cranked up the heat, and drove around the island and hoped for the rain to stop. About a half hour later, we parked down at the black sand beach below the cliffs to see if we could see anything from there.
Black sand formation – so coolHillside where I saw puffins from the beachAs close to the edge as I was willing to get
We walked out onto the windy beach, where I saw puffins up on the grassy hill nearby. The kids opted to go back to the shelter of the car; I hiked up the hill for a closer look. I did get to see a few puffins flying around and landing on the grass. I didn’t get photographs on this trip. The puffins were still a bit far away — they were more savvy about flying away when people got close than the ones we saw on the main island of Iceland the day before — but it was fun to watch them fly. They’re comical; they look like tiny penguins and don’t look like they should be able to lift off into the air.
After the beach, I was cold and wet enough that I also took shelter in the car. The mist and rain made it hard to see anything even if we could have seen out through the fog on the windows. Despite the fact that we saw more puffins up close on our pleasant, dry day at black sand beach where we weren’t trapped on an island in sopping wet clothes for multiple hours, the trip wasn’t a complete bust. Seeing those rocky, green-topped islands reach up out of the ocean was pretty awe inspiring, and we all loved seeing (and hearing) the sheep up close, hanging out on grassy clifftops against a backdrop of the northern Atlantic far below us. I’d love to go back on a dry day.
We tried several excursions in Iceland that didn’t quite work out: a hike we couldn’t get across a river for, puffin watching that was obscured by fog, wind, and rain, another hike that was only accessible by a road that turned from paved, to gravel, to rutted gravel, to grass, to grass and mud, to rutted grass and mud on a steep grade in the middle of nowhere. We decided to back out of before we got stuck on a mountainside in Iceland with nobody around for miles.
After that last attempt, the one where we almost got our rental Suburu stuck in mud high up on a mountainside, we decided to take a safe, well-travelled, known hiking trail at Skógafoss, one of the nearby waterfalls we hadn’t been to yet.
Skógafoss going over the dropSkógafossSkógafoss spray from upper viewing platform
The hike starts with a tremendous staircase next to the first fall of the trail, Skógafoss. The metal stairway climbs a vertical height of about 200 feet in a little more than 500 steps. At the top is a grated platform with nothing but air beneath your feet and a view of the fall from above. I battled vertigo to take a look and watch birds fly below us.
Most visitors climb to the top to see Skógafoss from above, then turn around and go back down, but there’s also a trail – Skógá trail or Waterfall Way — that follows the river for 15 miles, between volcanos, to the river’s glacial origin. Along the trail are so many waterfalls I lost count. We saw six or seven dramatic ones, plus some smaller ones, and we only hiked two miles of the trail. I’ve seen estimates that there are more than 20 falls along the entire path.
We had a cloudy day after a rain, so the grasses and mosses were bright green, almost neon at times, especially against the grey sky.
Fall 2 (after Skógafoss): HestavaðsfossFall 3Fall 3Fall 4: SteinbogafossThe third and fourth waterfalls we saw on the Skóga trailI love all the mosses and little pink flowersMore pink flowersFall 5Mosses, flowers, waterfallsOh yeah, in addition to the waterfalls, this hike is full of mountains, rock falls, and rock formationsMy son and I liked the tiny waterfall on the left; I guess these are falls 6 and 7Moss campion, my favorite little flowerWaterfall #8 in fewer than two milesAnd back down at #7 again — I think this one is called High Peaks
Every step along this trail was breathtaking. The trail is well marked and is obviously well trafficked, but it was not crowded; we often had periods where we were the only people in sight, and we sat and watched the waterfalls in solitude. It was kind of overwhelming how wondrous it was.
Two things our kids really wanted to see on the trip to Iceland were the black sand beach and puffins. Opportunities to see both were about an hour drive from our Airbnb, so after visiting the Seljalandsfoss waterfall on our first day in the southern part of Iceland, we continued on to Reynisfjara Black Sand Beach near the fishing village of Vik.
The contrast of black sand against blue sky and crashing arctic waves was a jarring sight to see. It’s unlike what we’re used to when we go to a sandy shoreline where land meets the ocean.
Reynisfjara sea stacks and black sand beach
As if the black sand and smooth stones that sparkle in sunlight weren’t enough to marvel at, there’s a giant mass of green mountain that reaches out and touches the edge of the beach, along with the Reynisfjara sea stacks jutting out of the water near the beach, neither of which are anything like we’d see at home. The beach plants were different from what we find in dunes on the east coast of the US, too; I love these little succulents in the foreground.
Green mountain meets the sea at a black sand beach
Where the land mass meets the sea is a mass of basalt columns that blow my mind in their rectangular geometry, almost like crystals but on a much larger scale. The blackness of the sand also made it hard to get the exposure right on my camera :D.
Basalt columns at black sand beachBlack sand and shooting towards the sun: failI love the snow-capped mountain peeking through in the background
A few minutes up the road from the black sand beach is the Dyrhólaey promontory where you can often see puffins, along with getting great views of the beach we were just on. We drove over, and to get away from the crowds who gathered at the easy to access spot from the parking lot, we attempted a hike to the top of one set of cliffs. Instead, we ended up in a cold windy cloud that soaked us and provided no visibility.
Foggy hike
We headed back down to the easy to access spot and saw puffins immediately 😍. I don’t have a telephoto lens; I had to rely on zooming in on the raw image file from my 35mm lens, so these photos aren’t as high resolution as I wish they were, but they’ll do for memories.
Puffins!Hello puffinThey’re funny little birdsPuffins on a sunny day
The puffin cliff had some beautiful views as well. We really lucked out getting a sunny day for all of this.
View of sea stacks from puffin cliffVolcano, I don’t know which oneBlack sand beach from above
Butterfly Mind 