This would be the story of how we naively planned a "vacation" to the most remote corner, of the most remote nature preserve, on the sparsely populated island of Iceland, on the last possible week that ferries were running.
It should be the story of how if an Icelandic map tells you a trail is "well established", you should expect to spend at least 50% of your time with no idea where it is. It should be the story of how we were trapped by the tide at a patch of grass on the edge of the sea and backtracked at midnight to an emergency shelter. How our epic trek to "make it to the lighthouse before the storm" involved sliding on beach stones and seaweed, dashing around points between waves, almost getting blown off the top of a mountain, being lost too many times to list, getting soaked to the skin and precariously pitching our tent in "bear peninsula" for two days while it sleeted. It should tell how James kept it together and navigated us over an unmarked pass through shifting fog while I focused my attention on putting one numb foot in front of the other and not sobbing as cold rain soaked into my bones. It could even be the story of how we made it to the lighthouse two days late and long after the inhabitants had left for the season (like everyone else on the island). Or of how the sun finally rose and we met a cadre of Icelanders, a french girl and a couple from Seattle at the campsite in Hornavik, presided over by the only ranger in the park. And how we hiked over a mountain pass on the last day in the sun and felt profoundly lucky to have experienced this wild place, and even more so, to have survived it.
But most of our friends thought that story was too long, so this will have to do.
(until the next Iceland adventure)