Global walk: Iceland

Morning by a waterfall, midday on an ice cap, evening in a secluded valley – you can pack a staggering amount into one day’s hiking through south Iceland’s glaciers, finds Dominic Bates. Especially when the sun never sets…

As a morning wake up, it’s hard to top. Thundering 60 metres down into the rocks at my feet, Skógarfoss waterfall envelops me in an ice-cool spray from head to toe and I emerge from the cloud of mist as dewy and invigorated as a freshly sprinkled summer’s lawn. It’s typical of Iceland: a country whose famed geysers, thermal pools and pristine glacial streams seem almost purpose-built to cater for a hiker’s aches and pains – like some great natural outdoor spa. It’s strange, then, that the island’s vast and largely empty volcanic landscape is known more for its appearances in luxury car commercials than its tremendous walking opportunities. The 11-hour trek I’m about to embark on in the far south of the country is one of Iceland’s most spectacular and popular walking tracks. It follows the river Skógá up through Fimmvorduhals mountain pass between two huge glaciers, then down into the hidden valley of Thórsmörk.

Waterfalls and canyons
My local guide Arnar leads me up the steep steps beside Skógarfoss waterfall. From the top I can see that the sheer cliff-face extends for miles in each direction. Until recently this was all dramatic coastline. But in 1918, the eruption of volcano Katla to the north caused a glacier run so large that it spread rock and debris three miles out to sea, creating the verdant coastal plain that’s there today. Arnar shrugs and tells me Katla is still considered one of the country’s most dangerous volcanoes – not surprising since it’s more than a decade overdue to erupt again. Nearby communities are drilled to evacuate within hours of an eruption warning, but any hapless walker treading on the volcano’s flanks would have no chance of escape.

Ah well, if Arnar’s not worried then neither am I… For the next few hours we steadily ascend the riverside track over terrain that’s sparse and rocky. Only the green of simple, mossy grass and the ochre, weathered soil provide any colour. Every now and then we pass strange, altar-like earth formations, where powerful Atlantic winds have carved away at a hillock to leave a perfectly flat-topped feature. But most eye-catching of all are the waterfalls. Lots of them – over thirty in all – each worthy of a moment’s pause to marvel at the intricate patterns cut into the bedrock and stare into the great swirls of whitewater tumbling down from the snow-capped peaks in the distance. The higher up the valley we get, the more dramatic the canyons become, and eventually we arrive at one spectacular steep-sided example that plays host to hundreds of noisy cliff-roosting kittiwakes. From an exposed promontory, I can look down over 30 metres at the brilliant white-and-grey seabirds gliding through the rainbow spray, which billows up from the rapids beneath.

Arnar gently reminds me I need to stop rubbernecking and focus on walking if we’re to make it to our hut in Thórsmörk by evening. (It’s only later I realise that the 24-hour summer sunlight makes that urgency seem pretty irrelevant and he was obviously just getting bored.) As I start to spot the first patches of snow on the valley sides, we reach a crossing point over the Skógá. We refill our waterbottles in the river’s crystalline glacial waters and I become the very model of the pleasure/pain principle: gulping down the most refreshing drink of my life, while battling the twin pains of acute brain freeze and a marrow-chilled right hand. From here, a 4×4 track takes us over more level, rock-strewn ground. Out of the shelter of the river valley for the first time, the air temperature noticeably drops and the landscape drains gradually of colour into an alpine monochrome of grey scree and snow.

Among the glaciers
It’s not long before we reach the start of the mountain pass at over a kilometre up and draw level with the vast expanses of two glacier ice caps – Eyjafjallajökull and My´rdalsjökull – somewhere in the distances each side of me. I say somewhere, because with the midday sun blasting brilliantly off the snowy landscape, my perception of depth is completely distorted and my only marker is a small, A-framed mountain hut on the horizon. Once beyond it, we strike off the track and head steeply down into a great snow-filled hollow with a frozen lake at its centre. The only tracks to follow are from a trio of Nordic Walkers some way off in the distance, but my guide takes aim instead at a luminous yellow pole standing proud among a cairn of basalt rock on the other side of the basin. The crisp crunch of thick snow underfoot instantly stirs my inner child and I lob a snowball at Arnar, prompting the tiniest of bored smirks. He doesn’t rise to it, so instead I take a good speedy run up and drop sharply to the ground on my arse, sledging down the slope until the ice in my fleece outweighs my forward momentum and I grind to a bum-numbing halt. Arnar bounds past me in bemused silence. I reckon he understands: some things just need to be done.

The patchwork of snowfields around us multiplies and then merges into a single, blinding quilt as we climb progressively higher. The surrounding vistas become more dazzling, too, with peak after peak sweeping north- and eastwards, and I catch my first classic view of a glacial snout on the western face of My´rdalsjökull. Then the apex of the pass was finally in sight; on the other side – like the first glimpse of a new continent – is the head of the breathtaking Thórsmörk valley. A great, snowless plateau lies several hundred metres below, with My´rdalsjökull bookending it to the east and sheer cliff faces dropping out of view to the west – this was going to be a thrilling final stretch home.

Into the hidden valley
A steep ridgeline descent brings us level with the plateau. But to get to it there’s a few hundred metres of exciting via ferrata to negotiate and then a scramble along an arête. It’s difficult to tell which is the more heartstopping while I do it: the perilous drops on either side of me or the stunning views they offer up and down the valley. The stroll over the plateau’s level ground afterwards is a welcome respite and feeds false hopes of a gentle descent to sea-level. Wrong! At the plateau’s edge our dirt track tumbles precipitously into several miles of knee-jarring glacier-forged canyons. Beyond it, though, glistening in the low sun is a silvery fan of rivers and streams spread across the faraway valley floor, drawing us on.

After just a few hundred metres, we tire of the punishing dirt path and bound off onto the more forgiving, springy green mosses that carpet the upper canyons and give toupées to the outcrops of rock towering above us, perfectly suiting their craggy old-man complexions. Bouncing down the moss like men on the moon (is that the faintest of grins on Arnar’s face?), we meet with another via ferrata down a tricky escarpment. After that, both the valley and ridgeline path narrow, with fixed ropes every half-a-mile taking us down into more temperate, sheltered climes. Immediately there’s an abundance of alpine plants: just hardy grasses and shrubs at first, then later whole flowerbeds of pink, purple and yellow flowers. Our oncoming view becomes restricted to each chink and turn in the hillside, so when we emerge from its final flanks, the sudden breadth of the valley floor is awesome. Appropriately named after the Viking god of thunder, Thórsmörk’s scale is reminiscent of a great Alaskan salmon run, with scores of ice-melt rapids crisscrossing the riverbed’s volcanic rubble. Protected from the world by glaciers on three sides, some of Iceland’s last remaining ancient woodland survives here and the only route in or out for vehicles is via the treacherous river. Simply put: it’s magical. And whether it’s knowing we’ve got all night to nurse a beer outside our hut and watch the sun not quite set on this beautiful scene, or pure pride at having shown me one of his country’s best-kept secrets, Arnar is definitely smiling now.

Time/Distance: It takes between 8 and 12 hours to walk the 23km/14 miles from Skógar to Thórsmörk. The weather varies from –5°C on the summit to over 20°C on the lower slopes. Expect rain or snow at any time of year.

Accommodation: Skógar – Hotel Skogar (www.hotelskogar.is). Thórsmörk – Basar Mountain Hut (www.utivisit.is/english).

Travel to: Icelandair (www.icelandair.co.uk) flies from London Heathrow, Manchester and Glasgow to Reykjavik.

Travel around: Skógar can be reached by bus from Reykjavik in approximately 3¼ hours; a return bus can be booked from Thórsmörk.

Further info: www.visiticeland.com