One dreary Friday in January, I spent money I didn’t have and bought a plane ticket to Iceland. Three months, weeks of skimping on groceries and many prayers my car held itself together later, I was in slight disbelief as I found myself flying in the direction of the Arctic Circle.
And with just a backpack and hiking boots, no less.
I should explain: I’ve always had this idea that I’m this outdoorsy, adventurous person, perhaps a product of growing up close to the White Mountains. I’ve imagined myself with the backpack and boots, living out of a bag and not being afraid to just pick up and go.
The reality? I go outside. Usually on runs. And I go places – visits to Vermont, Boston, all over the Concord area for work.
But more than that, when is there the time (or money)?
I came to the conclusion – in a very cliched, New Year’s resolution kind of way – that there never is unless you make it so. This year, dammit, I was gonna go somewhere.
So, back to Iceland.
I got there around 1 a.m. our time, 5 a.m. their time, on a Monday. Sleep? I went all the way there, I wasn’t going to let that get in the way of me beginning my adventures.
Nothing did get in the way from that first morning – when I watched a perfect sunrise over Keflavik’s alien, volcanic soil before a day full of exploring – through my last night, spent in a little fishing town on the northern coast. Not disgust at trying “fermented” – literally putrified, rotted – shark meat. Not terrifying little roads, twisting and curving through mountain passes with steep cliffs and no guardrails. Not traveling alone as a woman. Not even a massive protest two blocks from my hostel in Reykjavik, where Icelanders shouted and emphatically held up bananas and, the next day, got their prime minister to step down.
I should mention there was one morning when I, in my determination to “adventure,” decided to go find the Solheimasandur crash, the abandoned shell of an airplane on a black sand beach along the southern coast. Looking online, it appeared the road to it was closed, so I would have to walk the 2.5 miles or so in and out to see it.
No problem, right?
It was raining when I woke up, and after only hesitating, I got dressed. I drove the rental car to the obscure parking spot along the beach where my online source told me to go. I saw a fence and somewhat troubling sign there that told me the property was private and the crash was more than a mile west from where I was.
But I was emboldened by the fact that the rain had stopped – perfectly timed! – so I of course interpreted that sign to mean the property was closed to cars, and that I had to walk west. But when I lifted the fence’s rope closure, slipped through and began down a well-traveled road in the black sand – which my online source said I should stay on – it was heading distinctly east.
Forty-five minutes later, sweating and windblown, I wasn’t seeing anything else but black sand. I climbed a little rise and looked west – and there it was. The plane. It didn’t seem all that far away.
I began running toward it, and then stopped. It was not close. The flat, black sand distorted the distance, and what looked like several hundred feet was probably more like two miles.
Well played, black sand beach.
The short story is, I got about halfway there and then ran into a river. I thought about taking off my shoes, socks and pants to cross it, but then I looked at my watch. I needed to get back to my car if I were to keep the rest of the day on track.
Following an hour of fighting relentless wind and walking over endless black terrain, I finally reached my car, exhausted and humbled. I felt victorious in a different way, though.
This was cool outdoorsy adventure stuff, right?
When I returned to Keflavik International Airport at the end of my five days in Iceland, I joined several hundred other people waiting to fly back to Boston. We were on WOW Airlines – a new, very cheap airline, one that doesn’t quite have its scheduling down pat.
Going through delayed passport checks, getting to the temporarily closed boarding gate, boarding late and outside in the rain, and the flight itself – with about half an hour of sustained turbulence that made my plane seat partner have to whip out her vomit bag – somehow didn’t seem as terrible as it should have.
I suppose, as I told myself at the beginning of all this, nothing is unless you make it so.
(Elodie Reed can be reached at 369-3306, ereed@cmonitor.com or on Twitter @elodie_reed.)