The Icelandic Highlands Do Not Care About Your Itinerary

The Icelandic Highlands are not forgiving.

They are wide, exposed, wind-scoured and utterly uninterested in the neat little plan you made at your kitchen table. The landscape does not care how many days you booked off work, how much your tent cost, or how much you wanted a particular photograph at a particular viewpoint.

It gives you what it gives you.

Sometimes that is blue sky spilling over black volcanic ridges. Sometimes it is steam curling from the earth like breath in cold air. Sometimes it is rain driven so hard into your face that it feels as though the weather has hands.

I had given myself seven days to cross the Highlands. My pack held everything I needed: tent, food, stove, warm layers, waterproofs, sleeping kit, first aid and navigation. I was prepared to move slowly, camp where I could and let the journey take the time it took.

Most people allow around a week for the route.

I crossed it in four days because the sky began to tighten its grip, and I felt the quiet urgency to keep moving before it closed in.

That sounds dramatic when written down. At the time, it was practical. It was a series of small decisions shaped by what I could see, what I had been told, and what the conditions were asking of me.

Still, I had not gone to Iceland only for a route line on a map.

I had gone for the emotional adventure of it too. I wanted the uncertainty, the solitude and the chance to find out who I was when there was nobody beside me to make decisions with. I did not want to spend years wondering what might have happened if I had been brave enough to try.

Wanting something deeply, however, is not the same as allowing that want to make the decisions.

The weather, the terrain and the limits of my body had to come first. The emotional reason for being there could carry me forward, but it could not overrule the evidence in front of me.

The mountains had given me information long before the storm arrived.

Listening Before Walking

Before I started, I listened.

I had read the forecasts, tracked wind speeds and researched the terrain. I knew where the land would open itself to the wind and where there might be a little shelter if conditions turned sharp. Preparation became its own kind of compass. It did not point north, but it helped me recognise when a plan needed to bend.

At the huts, Hrafntinnusker came up often.

Wardens advised against camping there because high winds and storms were moving in. Hrafntinnusker is high, exposed and beautiful in a way that makes you understand why people fall in love with Iceland. Obsidian catches the light. Steam rises from the earth. Snow can linger in summer. It feels as though the planet is still cooling beneath your boots.

It is also not somewhere to casually decide to spend a stormy night.

My research had already told me that high winds could be serious there. Tents had been damaged. Trails had closed. People had been delayed or forced to change their plans. These were not stories shared to frighten anyone. They were facts from people who knew the terrain.

Wind at lower ground is one thing. Wind on an exposed plateau, with little natural shelter and a lightweight tent between you and the elements, is another.

A forecast is not a command. It cannot tell you exactly what will happen or when. It gives you a picture of possibility and helps you ask better questions.

Where will the wind be strongest?

Will there be shelter where I planned to stop?

What happens if I am delayed?

Can I stay warm, dry and steady if conditions worsen?

Those questions mattered more than sticking to a seven-day itinerary.

Taking the Longer Day

The weather suggested that lingering high up was not wise. I decided to walk a double day, drop lower and reach the relative protection of Álftavatn.

It was long. The kind of day where your pack seems to grow heavier after every river crossing and every rise in the trail. The kind of day where you stop looking too far ahead because the next hill is enough.

One foot. Another foot. A breath. A sip of water. Keep moving.

The Highlands are vast in a way that changes your sense of scale. You can walk for hours with the horizon barely shifting. Black sand stretches out beneath you like a dried-up sea. Mountains sit in the distance, bruised purple and green under a heavy sky. Rivers braid through the land, pale with glacial meltwater.

By the time I reached Álftavatn, I was properly tired. I had been alone in that vast landscape for hours, carrying the physical weight of my pack and the quieter emotional weight of moving through such an exposed place by myself.

My shoulders ached. My feet wanted out of their boots. Getting the tent up and food on felt like a task worthy of a medal.

Still, I was lower. I had more shelter. I had given myself options.

That mattered.

The worst of the weather came through without catching me high and exposed at Hrafntinnusker. It was not luck alone. It was preparation meeting flexibility.

Scotland Taught Me to Respect a Forecast

Bad weather found me later at Emstrur.

Rain came in with that familiar Scottish stubbornness, working its way into every fold of fabric and settling into the air itself. Wet wind rattled the tent walls with a sharp flap, flap, flap until dawn split through the black, charred tundra.

It was not comfortable. It was manageable.

Scotland has taught me a great deal about rain, wind and accepting that there is no prize for pretending you are unaffected by either. It has taught me to protect my dry layers, to eat and drink before I feel depleted, and to notice how quickly hands lose warmth when I stop moving.

Most importantly, it has taught me that weather is not something to conquer.

You work with it. You read it. You respect it.

The Weight of the Day Before

The day from Emstrur had been long.

Rain and wind moved through in squalls, coming and going with the restless mood of the Highlands. One moment the air felt manageable. The next, rain swept across the trail and the wind leaned into me, tugging at my waterproofs.

The day ended with a ferocious river crossing.

Glacial water moved fast and hard, loud enough to drown out thought. Crossing it alone demanded calm, even when my body was tired and my mind was beginning to fray around the edges. I slowed down, assessed the line, stayed balanced and committed to each step.

Later, I heard that other people had nearly been swept away in that same river around the time I crossed it.

That stayed with me.

The mountains do not always announce danger with a dramatic warning. Sometimes it is simply there in the colour of the water, the speed of the current, the vibration beneath your boots and the feeling in your body that tells you to take this seriously.

By the time I reached Básar, I was exhausted physically and emotionally.

Being alone can weigh heavily after a difficult day. The backpack becomes heavier, but so does every decision. There is nobody to turn to and ask, “What do you think?” Nobody to share the stress of a river crossing with. Nobody to laugh with afterwards and shake off the fear.

That does not mean solo travel is not worth doing.

It means we should speak honestly about what it asks of us.

Básar: Warmth, Doubt and a View of What Was Next

At Básar, everything softened.

After the long day from Emstrur, the campsite felt almost unreal. The air was warm and still. The wind had dropped. The rain had passed. I pitched my tent beneath an incredible view of Mýrdalsjökull glacier, knowing that the following day I would be walking towards it.

For the first time in days, it did not feel like expedition camping. It felt like a holiday.

Básar had a gentle, welcoming feeling that made it easy to understand why families camp there during their holidays. Tents sat across the grass. People moved around slowly, cooking, talking and settling in for the evening. The sun never really set. Light hung in the sky for hours, soft and silver against the glacier.

The phone signal was good too.

That might sound small when you are surrounded by glaciers, volcanic valleys and mountains, but it was not small to me. I video-called home.

Before I left for this solo trip, I had worried about the physical side of it. The weather. The terrain. The river crossings. The weight of a full pack.

Those were real concerns and they needed respect.

Still, they were not my biggest fear.

My biggest fear was loneliness.

I worried that missing the people I loved would become heavier than my backpack. I worried that the quiet would chip away at my morale until I convinced myself I could not continue.

Solo trips are often described through the language of strength, independence and adventure, as though the greatest challenge is whether your legs can carry you far enough. That is only part of it.

A long solo journey asks something emotional of you too. It asks you to sit with uncertainty, make decisions without someone beside you, and keep moving when you are tired, uncomfortable or missing home.

Seeing home through a phone screen helped.

Hearing familiar voices reminded me that I was not disconnected from the people I loved simply because I was alone in a tent in Iceland. I was still held by them, even from a distance.

Walking Towards Skógar Before the Weather Closed In

When I fell asleep at Básar, I had second thoughts about the Fimmvörðuháls trail.

The route to Skógar was next: the biggest ascent and longest day of the journey. My original plan had been to split it into two days, camp high and take my time.

After Emstrur, that plan felt less certain.

I was tired. The forecast was changing. A micro-storm was building, and I knew that high ground, exposed terrain and limited shelter could become serious quickly if wind and visibility deteriorated.

Still, I woke to the view of Mýrdalsjökull.

A good night of sleep had settled something in me. The warmth of Básar had helped. Hearing home had helped. The doubt had not disappeared, but it no longer felt in charge.

I made the decision to go.

Not recklessly. Not because I wanted to prove something.

This trip had always been an emotional adventure as much as a physical one.

I wanted to go because I did not want fear, uncertainty or the imagined possibility of failure to keep me standing at the edge of things. I wanted to know what it felt like to carry my own decisions through a landscape that asked something real of me. I wanted to meet the part of myself that wondered, quietly and persistently, what might happen if I tried.

That emotional pull was real. So were the doubts.

Still, it could not make the judgement call for me.

I could feel inspired by the view of Mýrdalsjökull. I could want the pass. I could be afraid of regret, lonely after a difficult day, or relieved by the comfort of hearing home through my phone. None of those feelings changed the forecast, the terrain, the limited shelter ahead or the fact that a micro-storm was building.

The facts had to come first.

That does not mean pretending emotions are absent. It means recognising them clearly enough that they do not quietly take over the decision.

I think that matters especially for women in the mountains. We are still too often treated as though emotion makes us irrational, as though fear, tenderness, ambition or excitement make us less capable of sound judgement.

They do not.

Being honest about what I felt made me more aware of what could influence me. It helped me notice when tiredness was becoming doubt, when loneliness was affecting morale, and when the desire to continue might tempt me to ignore information I would otherwise take seriously.

The skill is not denying those feelings.

The skill is compartmentalising them when a judgement call needs to be made.

I wanted to go on, but I also knew I could turn back.

I had checked the forecast. I understood the terrain. I had spoken to people who knew the route. I had an escape option.

That was not a contradiction.

That was competent judgement.

The trail climbed away from the green warmth of Básar into a harsher landscape. The valley fell behind me. The air changed as I gained height. Soft grass gave way to darker rock, exposed ground and a route that felt increasingly remote with every step.

The day to Skógar took twelve hours.

Visibility came and went. At times, the landscape opened around me. At others, the world narrowed to the next few metres of trail. Glacier edges appeared and disappeared through the cloud like pale ghosts. Lava fields rolled beneath my boots in black, frozen waves.

The wind was always there.

Sometimes it pressed against me. Sometimes it whispered around my hood. Sometimes it rose suddenly, filling my ears and reminding me that this was not a place to become careless.

I kept checking in with myself.

Was I warm enough?

Had I eaten enough?

Was I drinking regularly?

Could I still navigate confidently?

Did I still have enough energy to make sound decisions?

Those questions are the quiet work of looking after yourself before a small problem becomes a bigger one.

Add a layer before you are cold.

Eat before you are empty.

Slow down before you are exhausted.

Turn around before you are trapped.

By the time I reached Skógar, my legs were heavy and my mind had that tired, woolly feeling that comes after a day of sustained focus.

Still, I arrived warm, safe and intact.

That was the point.

Not sticking to the first version of my itinerary.

Not proving I could camp in a storm.

Not making the journey harder than it needed to be.

The point was to come through the mountains with enough awareness to know when to continue, when to adapt and when to leave myself a way out.

Two Days Later, the Trail Closed

Two days after I finished, a micro-storm shut the trail completely.

Families were turned back. People held on to one another to stay upright. Catabatic winds tore down the slopes, violent and fast, changing the entire feel of the landscape.

Had I stayed high, waited for better weather or stubbornly clung to my original itinerary, I could have been trapped in that system.

There is no medal for refusing to adapt.

A route plan is not a contract. It is a starting point.

Good mountain judgement is often much less glamorous than people expect. It looks like checking forecasts more than once, asking local people what they are seeing, knowing your own limits and the limits of your equipment, carrying enough food for a delay, and turning around before the mountain has to teach you a harsher lesson.

Weather research did not make the decision for me. It informed it.

Listening made the decision possible.

Asking made the decision stronger.

Adjusting made the decision safer.

What Weather Awareness Really Gives You

Every mountaineer wants the same ending.

You want to come home.

You want to tell the story with both hands wrapped around a hot mug, boots drying by the door, and the knowledge that you respected the place you moved through.

Weather awareness gives you more than a forecast app and a list of wind speeds.

It gives you options.

It gives you confidence to change your plans without shame.

It reminds you that there is nothing weak about stopping early, moving faster, taking a rest day, dropping to lower ground or turning back entirely.

The mountains are not a test of whether you are tough enough to ignore what is in front of you.

They are a place to pay attention.

The Icelandic Highlands taught me that the best decisions are rarely the loudest ones. Sometimes they are made with tired legs, a heavy pack and the willingness to let go of the version of the trip you imagined.

That is what weather awareness really gives you.

Not control.

Respect.