Knowing we had another day with a great deal of ground to cover ahead of us, we were among the first people to come to breakfast. There, we were greeted with homemade currant buns and house-smoked lamb from the farm on the premises. After filling ourselves with granola, surmjolk and coffee, we packed up the car and took a short walk around the property to find the little stand of trees I could just barely see out the window of our room. As trees are such a rare pleasure to behold in Iceland — and are especially unusual in the south, which is dominated by flat lava fields that stretch out to the sea — I knew they would make for an interesting image.

Coming over a grassy hill towards them, I gasped, realizing that the group of trees were dead, white, leafless birches, standing several feet deep in a glacial river, in front of a naked, jet-black lava field. It was so strange and so beautiful, and I felt as though I had been granted a most unexpected gift. I joked to Sandra that we could just turn back around and go home, as I’d now seen the best thing ever. But carry on we did, and neither of us were disappointed.

Skaftafell National Park was to be the first stop of the day, where we’d visit the truly bizarre waterfall Svartifoss, which looks like a giant black-stone pipe organ. The first time we visited Iceland, two years ago, we had decided to make a heroic (or daft) attempt at seeing the entire south coast of Iceland, going from Reykjavík to Jökulsárlón and back to Reykjavík in a single day.

Upon arriving at Skaftafell and expecting a short hike to Svartifoss, we were dismayed to learn it was a steep hike straight up that took about an hour. We could see little over the short Icelandic treetops except the surprising number of older tourists—some with canes, and clearly in their 70’s and beyond—making the climb down with ease as we huffed and sweated our way slowly uphill.

Quite abruptly, we found ourselves at a clearing where we could see the forest beyond and there in the midst of all the green was the seemingly tiny and entirely out-of-place waterfall. It was not much further nor much easier to make our way down to the base of the falls, but it was quite impressive to be in the presence of such an astonishing natural creation. It was easy to see why it had inspired so many architects, including the man who designed Hallgrímskirkja in Reykjavík, Guðjón Samúelsson.

After spending some time peacefully observing its magnificence—and less peacefully when a handful of children and their mother decided to pass by the “do not cross” barrier and scramble right up to the falls— we quickly made our way back down the mountainside. In the bustling visitor’s center, we sat down in the café and enjoyed some hearty traditional Icelandic meat soup before we hit the road once more.

Not much further down the Ring Road we made a stop at the less-frequented Fjallsárlón, the kid sister of the more famous glacial lagoon, Jökulsárlón. Walking over the hills specked with tiny flowers, we made our way close to the water so we could catch a glimpse of the aquamarine behemoths at the foot of Öræjajökull. Exhausted from our hike, we were easily tempted by the lush, pillowy mosses beneath our feet and we laid down. It was only moments before we both realized that our travel-stressed innards were thunderously rumbling with the need to, well, you know. As this was not a major tourist spot, there were no toilets. Thinking quickly, Sandra bolted back to the car and came rushing back over the hills with a roll of toilet paper and reported that we were alone, but probably not for long. We split the paper supply up and darted in separate directions. There, in the shadow of a volcano, at the edge of a glacier, we bared our bums and did our thing. Upon regrouping, Sandra said that now that we had crossed 26 rivers and pooped on a glacier, it was only a matter of time before we started growing beards as well. Seeing that we were no longer parked alone at the edge of the road, we scurried back to the car and sped off toward Jökulsárlón.

Though I had been there before, being surrounded by a fresh crop of huge turquoise giants reflected in the lagoon’s mirror-like still waters is not an experience I can ever imagine tiring of. Even when it is mobbed with tourists, as it was that morning, you are always guaranteed an unobstructed front-row seat to admire the icebergs on their slow migration out to sea. Instead of taking a cruise in the lagoon, we wandered over to the far side of the bridge, to the black sand beach Breiðamerkursandur, where the icebergs eventually pass before making it to open water. Chunks of ice, many resembling waves frozen in motion, are strewn along the black shores. Watching these smaller icebergs being rocked by the tides is among the most mesmerizing things I’ve ever seen, and it is easy to lose track of time. We had at least five hours of driving ahead of us before we’d reach our accommodations in the East Fjörds.

As soon as we had put Jökulsárlón in our rearview mirror, the weather took a turn for the mistier. Just before the south coast began to bend into the east, we stopped in Höfn to fuel up. The East Fjörds are notoriously devoid of human presence, as well as any sort of conveniences until you reach the area around Egilsstadir.

The further eastward we pressed, the closer the cloud cover came to our heads, and the rain became more constant. What seemed like the gateway to the east was marked by a series of long-abandoned, haunting concrete farmhouse ruins, lacking windows, roofs and floors.

Though the road signs warned of reindeer, we only encountered swarms of whooper swans disappearing out to sea as we dipped in and out of the long fjörds. It became less and less frequent that we spotted other drivers on the road. The cliff faces were striated with layers of volcanic rock, laid down so regularly in ancient eruptions that they looked as though they had been carved to resemble the facades of elaborate Buddhist temples. Many of the mountains came to sharp peaks, cloaked in thick clouds, with strips of vibrant green mosses and purple minerals below.

As we made our way around the second or third of these enormous fjörds, we came to a road that headed inland, over the mountaintops, away from the fjörds’ perimeters. Since it was growing late, and on the map it appeared that the inland road was indeed something of a shortcut, we veered away from the water’s edge and sharply upward. Before we crested the mountain, we came upon a brilliant turquoise waterfall, Folaldafoss, surrounded with beautiful lichen-dappled rocks.

To shake myself awake for the remainder of the night’s drive, we took a brisk hike to the base of the falls, tip-toeing amongst the low-growing birch trees and rocks. When we got back to the car and started back on the road, I became acutely aware that my throat was suddenly quite sore. I soon forgot about this because when we crested the mountain, we plunged into a thick fog where we could see nothing but a blinding whiteness and a couple of feet of rugged, rocky road ahead of the car.

The landscape on either side of the road was erased entirely. I was forced to slow down to a crawl, and I kept telling myself that the road would continue on before us, that we were not going to drive off the edge of existence, even though it appeared we already had.

It was a grueling hour before the fog began to clear in spots, allowing us to see that we were surrounded by mostly snowy ground and some frozen bodies of water. Then, with little warning, the clouds dropped away, and we entered Egilsstaðir, the largest city in the East Fjörds.

With no time to pause, we pressed onward and soon found ourselves re-entering another patch of fog, nearly as thick than the last, obscuring most of the terrain we were traversing, slowly, on our way to Seyðisfjörður. A hint of green! A patch of snow! A sheep! A pylon!

The descent into Seyðisfjörður was a welcome one. We stopped in the Hotel Aldan to ask for what turned out to be slightly convoluted directions to our hostel that took us past a great many odd things. During our brief tour, it became apparent that Seyðisfjörður residents are very keen on decorating their houses with curious, kitschy and amazing murals.

The fog could not hide how colorful and quirky a place this was. The hostel was located in a very old former hospital building, next door to the current hospital. An older woman with lovely white and purple hair greeted us and recommended we return to Hotel Aldan for breakfast in the morning.

As we unpacked quietly amid the jolly thunder of other hostel guests in the kitchens and lounges, I willed my sore throat to disappear with a night’s sleep, before I slipped into my sleeping bag and shut my eyes for the night.