July 23, 2026

Our shuttle accelerated, lurched, and swayed through the absolute moonscape of the Icelandic highlands, raindrops zig-zagging across the windows before flinging themselves back into the air. Tierra and I were already bundled up in our seats, kept awake by coffee and nervous excitement. It’s one thing to plan a trip to Iceland on an outdoor patio in the sunshine, and another to actually be there, staring out at the vastness of black rock and stoic mountains washed by rain.

As the shuttle approached our destination at Landmannalaugar, the peaks became larger and more graceful, and the atmosphere became more hospitable. I started noticing trails winding off over yellow-green hills dotted with people and small groups of grazing sheep. Finally the shuttle splashed across a small creek and came to rest. We were at Landmannalaugar, a dusty cluster of buildings, busses, tents, and 4×4 vehicles located in a broad dry riverbed at the end of the road.

We stepped off the shuttle into a near-perfect summer day. The sun was shining through bright clouds and the air was cool and clear.

Landmannalaugar

Tierra and I were here to backpack the Laugavegur, a three or four-day backpacking trip starting in Landmannalaugar and ending 34 miles (54km) away in Thórsmörk (Thor’s Woods), closer to the coast. We’d decided to arrive a day early for our three-day trip so that we could explore the area and have time to enjoy Landmannalaugar’s famous hot springs.

After setting up our tent, looking at the big campground map, and eyeing the weather optimistically, we decided it was a day to go big. We passed over the shorter and more popular hikes in the immediate area, and instead set our sights on Grænihryggur (Green Ridge), a much-photographed but lesser-visited rock formation some seven trail miles (11.2km) to the south. From Grænihryggur, we’d then loop back to Landmannalaugar on a combination of trails and roads.

Map of our Grænihryggur (Green Ridge) Loop hike

Landmannalaugar to Grænihryggur

The trail toward Grænihryggur headed south out of the campground area, playing connect-the-dots with a series of wooden trail markers on the riverbed of the Jökulgilskvísl. It was immediately clear that this was no ordinary hiking destination. Even the brief views up the craggy orange-red side canyons were fairly spectacular.

It was also clear that the trail crews here expected hikers to put in some work, too. Within minutes we had to hop across (or step through) several shallow braids of clear, cold water — a small hint at things to come.

Looking up a side canyon

After about a mile (1.6km) on riverbeds, the trail climbed a hillside and then gradually (and sometimes not-so-gradually) ascended a rounded, scree-capped mountain called Skalli. Despite the sunshine, the wind nipped at our jackets and moussed up our hair. This was very exposed terrain, with almost no vegetation. I suspected that the difficulty of hikes in Iceland was often set by the weather.

Walking up and around Skalli

As the trail rounded the south side of Skalli, we came to a four-way intersection and followed an arrow marked “Hattver.” The trail angled downhill gently and then turned onto the crest of a striking ridge called Uppgönguhryggur (Ascending Ridge). The white, yellow, orange, and brown stripes crossing Uppgönguhryggur were colorful and distinct, and the ridge resembled a giant striped bistro napkin dropped onto the cobblestones of the valley floor. We jogged and skipped down the trail, fully enjoying every second. This was, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful and aesthetic sections of trail I’ve ever been on.

Uppgönguhryggur (Ascending Ridge)

At the base of Uppgönguhryggur the trail abruptly dropped us onto the riverbed. At this point, there were no trail markers and no sign of a trail beyond a few scattered bootprints. We ambled along the rocks while rubbernecking the surrounding scenery, waded barefoot in a shallow river channel, and hid from the wind behind the toe of a ridge for a snack.

From here, the maps directed us across the Jökulgilskvísl and up a small tributary on the other side of the river. Tierra hopped on my back for the first couple calf-deep crossings to keep her boots dry. We repeated this for the main channel, which turned out to be mid-thigh and fairly pushy. Luckily the footing was good and we made it across without issue, but in retrospect it probably would have been more prudent to use proper river crossing technique here. A drybag inside my backpack also would have been a good idea. We could have recovered from a swim on a warm, sunny day like today, but it still would have been a silly mistake.

We walked up the tributary briefly till we caught sight of a waterfall tucked into the orange hills farther upstream, and then veered up a steep scree-covered slope. The volcanic rock was loose and sharp, and I made a mental note that a tumble in this terrain wouldn’t be fun.

The top of the slope rounded out into a plateau, and we could see the Torfajökull icefield draped over the horizon to the south.

Earlier today, a ranger at Landmannalaugar had instructed us to stay on marked trails to preserve the landscape. We were happy to do so, but the trail up here was faint at best, and often faded into open terrain. Before we’d set out, I’d wondered whether Landmannalauger’s trail network might have that “museum” feel, in which “hikers” shuffle along sidewalk-like paths to spectate at scenery that might as well be behind a velvet rope. And maybe some trails here were like that. But this trail (or route) was immersive, challenging, and more than wild enough to satisfy a couple of Alaska backcountry junkies. It was also surprisingly (and strangely) deserted, even though we were out on a beautiful midsummer day. In fact, we didn’t cross paths with a single other person from the moment we left Landmannalauger to the time we reconnected with the road system.

Walking the plateau. Photo of the author: Tierra Colberg

The route meandered over the flattened top of the ridge before leading us to a magnificent overlook of the Jökulgilskvísl river valley. Huge volcanic outcroppings sprang out of barren hills at unrealistic angles and towered over the braided river below. The view was so grand and theatric that I felt like we were looking at a painted backdrop for a 1950s sci-fi film.

Jökulgil valley, home to the Jökulgilskvísl river

From here the trail traced the top of a ridge high above the Jökulgilskvísl, at times retreating slightly off the crest to avoid exposure. The hills around us were streaked in reds, oranges, and whites. At one point, hundreds of gemstone-sized pieces of black obsidian tumbled out of a tan hillside as we scrambled up a steep ravine.

“I love how it’s already so beautiful and then you walk two hundred feet and it’s so different,” Tierra said.

Views from the ridge above the Jökulgilskvísl

Then, farther on the ridge, we caught sight of a new color: green.

Grænihryggur

Even in this extravagantly colorful landscape, Grænihryggur’s blue-green hue was startling. The formation was comprised of two small ridges connected at their head, with a third smaller ridge crest forming a sort of island lower on the slope. The rock itself was a uniform pale aqua color that looked somewhere between forest green and dark teal when wet. In my hand, it was so light it reminded me of foam insulation.

Tierra at Grænihryggur (Green Ridge)

Despite all of the wind, snow, and precipitation here, there was a well-defined boundary between the blue-green rock of Grænihryggur and the surrounding tan-yellow-black formations. It was as if some obsessive-compulsive giant had scoured the Icelandic highlands neatly stacked up all the pretty matching rocks in one place.

After a snack break, I waded us across a spirited little creek below Grænihryggur (the piggyback method was fine here) and we scrambled up the opposite bank. One of my digital maps had labeled Grænihryggur “Green Backbone,” a oblique mistranslation resulting from Icelandic using the same word for “backbone” and “ridge.” Tierra declared that the ridge looked more like legs than a backbone, and that from now on she’d be calling it “Green Legs.”

Grænihryggur (Green Ridge… or maybe Backbone… or maybe Legs?)

Grænihryggur to Landmannalaugar

The trail, once again distinct and well-marked, ascended a broad shoulder and then followed it north. At one point we spotted three backpackers on the ridge north of Grænihryggur, small specks of movement in an otherwise vast and still landscape.

We dropped back down to a flat riverbed, stepped over a shallow creek, and then switchbacked up again to a low pass. From this point out to the F208 road, the trail simply followed the base of a V-shaped valley called Halldórsgil Canyon. The mountains here were a bit less colorful than those we’d seen before, but the trail was pleasant and the evening light was warm and cinematic.

Halldórsgil Canyon

At last we reached the Grænihryggur trailhead on F208. Between the mileage and some lingering jet lag I was starting to bonk. We stopped for a snack, and after nestling into the tundra below the trailhead sign I probably could have fallen asleep. But we still had a handful of miles to go to complete our loop.

Usually, walking roads is a logistical chore. Not so much here. The soft dirt road made for good walking, and striking mountains kept sliding in and out of view. The lake Kýlingavatn glittered in the brassy light. The only significant traffic was a group who zipped by on motorcycles, little Italian flags on their bikes snapping in the wind.

Walking F208

We caught up to the Italians at the intersection of F208 and an old signed road leading west toward Landmannalaugar, where they greeted us warmly. Thinking that this old road would cut some distance, I turned us off of F208 and up into the hills. Unfortunately, after depositing us onto the Jökulgilskvísl riverbed and petering out in a mess of ruts it became clear that I’d misread the maps. It seemed that this had been the old road to Landmannalaugar, but it had fallen into disuse after F208 had become the primary route.

Wrong-turn Road (I don’t recall what the road sign actually called this old route, and I couldn’t find it on any maps)

Not wanting to take a chance fording the Jökulgilskvísl in an untraveled location, we spotted an old trail marker next to a sheep trail and decided to follow it north back to F208. Neither the old road nor the sheep trail appeared on the official Landmannalaugar hiking map, but this seemed like the least bad option to get back on the established routes. We carefully (sheepishly?) followed the trail along the east bank of the Jökulgilskvísl, taking care to step in the hoofprint-dimpled rut to minimize impact. Before long, we were at the F208 bridge over the Jökulgilskvísl.

Walking a sheep trail to the F208 road bridge

We stomped out the last road miles to Landmannalaugar just in time. The sun was settling behind the mountains, sending their long shadows across the valley floor, up the colorful rhyolite peaks backdropping the campground, and then off into space. Giant Icelandic 4x4s with balloon-like tires slowed down politely as they passed us, before rumbling off and sending big rooster tails of volcanic dust into the air.

We crossed a small pedestrian bridge and then walked the boardwalk into Landmannalaugar, where we once again saw the Italian bikers. Judging by their reactions, by virtue of crossing paths twice we had now become friends.

“You walk fast!” one called out to us with a big smile.

Boardwalk at Landmannalaugar

Tierra and I had planned to have dinner and then visit the hot springs as soon as we got back, but the moment I lay down in our tent my body made other plans. As it turns out, I fall asleep fast too. Within seconds I was out.

The Loop vs. the Laugavegur

The next morning we ambled over to the white kitchen tent to make breakfast (or, maybe, very belated dinner). Landmannalaugar is a relatively small site with an outsized international reputation, and the tent felt like a backcountry model United Nations. German, French, American and British English, and various Scandinavian languages that I couldn’t distinguish wafted through the air alongside the smell of bacon and oatmeal.

The Europeans all had different approaches to camp cooking, I noticed, but seemed united by a passion for high-end backcountry coffee. One group had even balanced a miniature Moka espresso maker on top of a roaring isobutane stove. Tierra and I may have been a bit outclassed with our noodles and instant coffee pouches, but, as they say, hunger is the best spice.

After eating, we changed into swimwear in our tent and headed down the boardwalk to Landmannalaugar’s namesake hot springs. The springs, which were fed by steaming water pouring out of the lava field behind the site, were well-sized and had a social atmosphere. The word “Landmannalauger” translates to “The People’s Pools” — a fitting name. We chatted with an American father who was about to set out on the Laugavegur with his young daughter while the rest of his family drove around the island. He had planned their itinerary with ChatGPT, he told us. Another American, a science teacher, started up a friendly but slightly anxious conversation about the state of conservation back home.

We spent far more time in the springs than we’d intended, and didn’t actually set out on the Laugavegur till some time around three in the afternoon.

After our big Grænihryggur day yesterday, the Laugavegur felt like a well-traveled highway. We made good time, despite gloomy weather and rain as we crossed the snowfields below the Hrafntinnusker hut, and reached Álftavatn in a little under six hours.

The next morning we climbed a modest volcanic peak called Brattháls, waded far out into the shallow northeast end of Álftavatn (Swan Lake), and then packed up and traversed the expansive black lava desert to Emstrur. At Emstrur we set up our tent in a lush ravine and walked the airy Markarfljótsgljúfur Canyon loop. On our last morning, we tromped out the final miles of the Laugavegur as it followed the Markarfljót river and then arced down into a surprisingly beautiful wildflower-laced forest at Thórsmörk. The weather was nothing short of spectacular for our final two days, and I finished our trip with wild wind-sculpted hair and a light sunburn.

Over four days, Tierra and I had hiked and backpacked about 61.2 miles (98.5 km). As we recapped our trip, we inevitably asked the question: which had been better, our Grænihryggur loop or the Laugavegur itself?

I was torn. On one hand, it would be hard to imagine a more iconic survey of Icelandic landscapes than the Laugavegur. We’d walked between hissing rainbow-colored steam vents, over snowfields, through stark green-and-black hills, and across barren volcanic deserts, all backdropped by colorful crags and icefields so sweeping that they merged with the sky. The trail had been sociable, scenic, and fun.

The Grænihryggur loop hadn’t had the same diversity of ecosystems or geology, but it had taken one ecstatic high note and played it at maximum volume. The descent down Uppgönguhryggur, the otherworldly view down the Jökulgilskvísl, and Grænihryggur itself were — are — still ringing in my ears.

Also, the loop had come with a cheering section of supportive Italians. And how can you top that, really?

PS. For those curious about the photography in this trip report, I shot it with a disposable camera lens affixed to my Nikon D750. The specific product I used was the Pocket Dispo Classic, but there are plenty of similar setups out there. Then I graded the photos with the Kodak UltraMax 800 preset in VSCO’s long-discontinued Film 05 preset bundle (VSCO’s presets, which were designed to help digital cameras emulate iconic film stocks, have ironically become sort of iconic themselves). Shooting with this setup was more fun than I’d expected, and I really enjoyed all the optical distortion and color craziness caused by the cheap little lens. Highly recommended for those who want to breathe some “old new life” into their SLR kit.