Travel writer Julia Hammond hops on Iceland’s Highland Bus for a rugged adventure deep in the country’s wild interior
At Reykjavik’s BSI terminal, coaches line up to transport visitors to its scenic hinterland: the Golden Circle, South Coast and Snæfellsnes peninsula. The one I’m booked on, however, is taller than the rest: a pimped-up ride with huge wheels and jacked-up suspension. Inside, I spot some heavy-duty towing straps.
There’s a reason for these modifications. The Highland Bus delivers tourists to a handful of remote yet extraordinary places in the country’s rugged interior, picking its way along Iceland’s seasonal F-roads to reach beauty spots like Landmannalaugar and Þórsmork.
It all seems a bit unnecessary as we leave the city streets of Reykjavik behind and eat up the smooth tarmac of the ring road. After Hvolsvöllur, however, things change. Turning inland, we find ourselves on a bumpy gravel road that looks like it has seen better days. The driver skilfully weaves around the potholes as I stare out of the window. Colour drains out of the landscape as we leave the verdant coastal plain behind and climb steadily through a centuries-old lava field.
The road by this point is hardly wide enough for the coach, as a filthy 4x4 approaches at speed. At the last minute, it pulls into what’s barely recognisable as a layby. The drivers exchange a cheery wave as we motor past. Icelanders are known for their can-do attitude, but the driver cautions: “I cannot promise that we’ll reach Landmannalaugar today, because yesterday there was mud and water in the way.” It’s a sunny mid-September Sunday, and I’ve gambled that we will, as it’s the last chance to catch this affordable, scheduled service before the roads close until June.
Traffic’s thin on the ground up here, and we hardly see a soul. In the distance, a handful of riders on horseback herd sheep down to the lowlands; they’re participating in the seasonal réttir, which is a communal affair with all hands on deck. It’s not long before the bus slows and we stop completely in front of a broad river.
The weather’s kind today and, though water levels aren’t too high, the current still seems quite fast to my untrained eye. The driver waits; this is a dynamic environment, and the channel has a tendency to shift around. He advises us that, no matter how many times the crossing has been made in the past, it’s important to size up the water’s depth and velocity every time.
Determining we can go ahead, he drives in diagonally, which he assures us is the safest way to ford a river like this. I push my nose to the glass as water splashes up. The wheels bounce wildly over the loose bed before finding solid ground. What’s thrilling to us is just part of a day’s work to our driver, who chuckles as we ooh and aah.
Very occasionally, things don’t go as smoothly; SUVs and even tour buses can become stuck. But as Icelanders are prone to say: “Þetta reddast” – everything will work out in the end. Luckily, our journey is uneventful. As we successfully make it across the final river, Landmannalaugar comes into view (kind of – by now the bus windows are spattered with mud).
And oh, what a view. Colourful rhyolite mountains rise behind a charcoal grey lava field; beyond a small cluster of buildings, steam rises from a lush green meadow. This is what draws people up here: a striking oasis amid an often barren wilderness. No wonder it’s a place where travellers have stopped to rest for centuries. I spend a wonderful few hours hiking its easiest trail, stopping not for breath but to try and absorb it all.
Gorgeous though the views are, the People’s Pools are calling. These geothermal hot springs don’t boast the facilities of Iceland’s upscale lagoons; simply a bench to sit on and a wooden screen to hang coats and towels. By now, the wind is biting – up here, conditions change often – and I steel myself to shed the thick jacket I’ve thrown on over my swimsuit. But as I feel the warm water against my body, I forget the weather – all my attention is fixed on this paradisiacal spot.
It’s even harder to summon up the will to get out. Fat raindrops have begun to fall. I run along a wooden boardwalk with untied laces and hastily gathered clothes, clutching a wet towel for modesty. By the time I’ve dried off and warmed up, the shower has passed. Patches of blue nose their way through stubborn clouds.
It’s time to head back to Reykjavik, as the driver is already hovering beside the coach steps. The radio crackles and I hear that someone’s missed the final bus of the season from Þórsmörk. The driver remarks dryly that they’ll have to hitch back to Reykjavik instead.
That’s enough to get me on board, but after such an epic day trip, I promise myself I’ll come back; next time I’ll do the place justice and stay for longer.
Details
The Highland Bus is weather-dependent and operates seasonally, typically from late May or early June through to the middle of September.
The service departs and returns to Reykjavik’s BSI bus terminal; it can be booked as a day return or as two separate legs. If you plan to stay a few days, reserve camping ($47/night) or cabin ($235/night) accommodation at Landmannalaugar well in advance as demand often outstrips supply.