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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Iceland can surprise even the most jaded traveler

Dan Webster

Above: October is maybe Iceland's rainiest month. So rainbows are common, Yet they seem to come out at the most unexpected moments. We saw this one after driving down an unpaved section of Iceland's Ring Road toward the eastern seashore.

If you're reasonably well-traveled — say, for example, you've visited nearly 40 countries in five continents — then it's reasonable to expect that only someplace special is going to impress you. We're now in our fifth day in Iceland, and so far we've liked what we've seen. The modern feel of the capital Reykjavik, the barren sweep of the volcanic plains as you drive north and east, snow-covered peaks that cut into the sky like foam-covered saw blades, dormant volcanoes that resemble massive cones made of black sand, the occasional peek of a rainbow as it surprises you around a bend, thundering waterfalls around virtually every corner, boiling mud springs and steam vents that resemble plumes of wood smoke, flocks of sheep that fleck the hillsides and (periodically and without warning) scuttle across the highway … and so on.

But to be honest, until now Iceland hasn't shown us anything that, say, we haven't seen in Sisters, Ore., or Milford Sound, New Zealand, or the Scottish Highlands or the Big Island of Hawaii or the Columbia Gorge or the national parks at Yellowstone and Glacier or the falls known as Iguazu that rush through the intersection of Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina. Thing is, Iceland has all those … and more.

It was that more that we got a taste of today, during our drive from the east Iceland town of Egilsstadir to the southeastern seaside village of Höfn. First we drove over a mountain pass, which though still part of the island's main Highway I — also known as the Ring Road — is unpaved for the better part of 40 kilometers.

Once past the peak, we saw our first sun of the day (and our second rainbow of the trip). Then we drove past our first black-sand beaches, the waves whipped by winds that almost blew us off our feet. Up the road, we passed stark mountainsides fronting the Atlantic and contrasting the gray ocean with tons of gray, black and green. And, finally, as we rounded a point and came within sight of Höfn — a collection of fragile box-like buildings set next to a small harbor — we could see in the distance not one, not two or even three but four different spurs of the massive glacier Vatnajökull that covers much of south-central Iceland.

Tomorrow we will try to drive even closer. For now, though, I'm just going to sit here and stare.

And feel, yes, impressed.