Searching for the Northern Lights
I know expectations are risky. I had only one . . . that couldn’t hurt?
So I bought a tripod, downloaded apps, and stalked the most spectacular northern lights’ photos online. I imagined us (me and my two life-long besties) standing there alone; just three little specks on the ice, necks all bent uncomfortably backwards, smiles frozen in place. Swirls and sprinkles of magical fairy dust would dance above us. It would be like van Gogh’s Starry Night painted electric green, violet and blue. And my Instagram posts — can you imagine?
We started our trip in Reykjavik, possibly the most charming capital city I’ve ever seen. Home to two-thirds of Iceland’s population, which is only around 330,000, the city is alive with positive vibes. The old town sits peacefully on a hill and the sweet little corrugated metal homes, side by side, make colorful rows of red, blue and yellow. Candlelit cafes, coffee shops, and pubs provide a warm respite in a city that sits just 168 miles (270 km) from the Arctic Circle.
By noon on our first day, as the sun slowly gained strength, we pushed ourselves out into the cold. We hit up the National Museum of Iceland (a worthwhile visit, and very warm, too), meandered through the old town’s cobblestone streets, and stumbled upon ice-skaters and kids sliding across a frozen lake glistening like a million diamonds under the sun. We slid our way across the lake too, taking friends forever photos and marveling at the imperfect beauty of the ice beneath our feet.
The light began to fall, casting long shadows and turning the whole scene into a creamy-colored, winter wonderland. Then, before we could finish our steaming chai lattes and hot chocolate, the sun dropped. Reykjavik grew quiet.
The next morning, we prepared our rental car for a road trip. I looked up at the sky — gray, heavy clouds weighed down so close; I wanted to poke them and let the snow come pouring out.
The driving was treacherous; we counted to ten in different languages to distract ourselves from the violent wind gusts that threatened to blow us right off the map. Intermittent snow showers erased the landscape and sometimes the road all together. The ocean’s frosty waves crested and broke to our right while the snow-capped mountains rose sharply to our left. We rambled down the road, slowly: panic . . . elation . . . panic . . . elation.
Winter in Iceland is the definition of wild: untamed, raw, capricious. I was hooked. I wanted to see more, but especially that magical fairy-dusted sky.
Finally, tucked away safely inside our hostel in the little seaside town of Vic, we prepared our dinner and chatted with the other guests. The energy was high — people checking their apps, gearing up and heading out in search of some sign of the northern lights. We struggled to decide. The apps were only giving the night a four out of ten. The relentless wind howled, blew violently, rattling the windows. The town was bathed in the moonlight of what they were calling a super moon.
Because it seemed very unlikely, the warmth of our bed won. But I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed like a child waiting for Santa and his reindeer, wide-eyed, excitement stirring in my belly. Every thirty minutes, I pealed back the warm covers, tiptoed to the window, and gazed up at the sky. It was black, barely twinkling, its moon a beacon in the dark.
In the morning, we awoke to a town peacefully dusted in snow and blanketed with those same low clouds, plump with precipitation ready to drop. We drove on that day, disappointed by the inclement weather smothering our hopes of seeing the northern lights.
Over the last half of the week we were lucky to see some impressive night skies filled with stars to infinity and back. But unfortunately we never saw even the slightest sprinkling of a van Gogh Starry Night kind of sky.
But it was really okay because when you are with your two best friends exploring a wild-erness as unique and beautiful as Iceland, you do not need anything more. We still made memories to talk about the rest of our lives: hiking across one of the world’s largest glaciers lit by what seemed like a perpetual sunset, banana jumping on Diamond Beach and watching the glacial ice roll out to sea, and dancing the chill off in our little cabin with bottles of duty-free Spanish wine. We walked across beaches with black volcanic sand so beaten and weathered that it felt like walking on cotton balls. We dropped to our knees, wrapped our arms around each other, and laughed at the absurdity of being swept away by the wind. We photographed the rising sun change shadowed, snowy mountains into pastels of yellow and orange and pink. We saw the wind rip across open fields and swirl snow into tiny fleeting tornadoes. And those waterfalls, every-single-one, soooo frozen — an ice climber’s dream.
Expectations are risky. They are wishing for something that does not yet exist. Every day is different. Every day there is change. And every day is a gift.
