From Akureyri, we set off that day with the support vehicle, onto which we had strapped our bicycles, into the highlands – or as we would later call it: a trip to the moon and back. After packing up and dropping Johanna and Mirja off at the bus, we packed up relatively late and rolled out of the city along the ring road until we reached the turnoff to the highlands. At first, the road led through wide, green countryside. Mountains rose up to our left and right, imposing yet inviting, and we encountered a few cyclists bravely tackling their own personal challenge.
Then we turn onto the gravel road F35: our gateway to the highlands. After just a few kilometers, it becomes clear that this route will be very challenging again. We have to drive more carefully; the gradient increases, and bit by bit the vegetation disappears until finally only moss, stones, gravel, and potholes remain, with only the occasional lonely signpost. The air is incredibly clear, yet everything in this place seems alien and harsh. Over many years, a delicate green carpet of moss has developed up here, but otherwise, we feel like we’re on another planet—up on the moon, in fact.
Up on the plateau, the weather catches up with us. Rain starts and mixes with such fierce gusts of wind that we’re completely soaked within minutes. And yet, there’s this highlight that immediately lifts our spirits: the view of a huge lake, lying like a mirror in the middle of the stony desert. Further along the gravel track, we encounter a group of intrepid cyclists who are continuing their challenge despite the pouring rain. Admirable, but also a little crazy, just like us.
Finally, we reach Hveravellir, a place nestled between the two large glaciers. An icy wind whips at us, so strong that we can’t pitch our tents, so we spontaneously decide to book a room in a remote cabin. We’re in luck: despite the French couple staying on the top floor, we have a sleeping area all to ourselves. What a relief to arrive in warmth and dryness after such a long day!
Happily, we slurp down our instant soup, crawl into bed, and listen to the rain and storm raging outside the window. Through the window, our gaze falls once more on the highlands, whose unique character serves as a metaphor: sometimes the journey is very difficult, just like illness, and accepting help feels like a sign of weakness. But you don’t have to do everything alone. And sometimes you’re lucky and find a helping hand somewhere in the middle of nowhere—or, in this case, a lonely cabin in Iceland. So we fall asleep contentedly, grateful for the roof, the blankets, and the realization that accepting support is sometimes an even greater strength than perseverance itself.