By Vladislav Trnka
Camperstory submission September 2024
The road seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of us, vanishing into the dark, misty horizon. With each passing mile, we were leaving behind the sparse lights of Reykjavik and diving deeper into the wilderness of Iceland, a land that seemed to exist at the edge of the world. The camper rattled over the gravel road, and I could hear the hum of the engine beneath my feet. It was the only sound, apart from the occasional gust of wind that lashed against the windows, reminding us of the raw, untamed beauty we had stepped into.
It was early September, and the nights were getting longer, and the air crisper. A perfect time to chase the Northern Lights, or so we had been told. But more than the aurora, I had come seeking something else—a break from the noise, the constant chatter of modern life. I didn’t know exactly what I was hoping to find out here, in the wilds of Iceland, but I knew I needed the silence. Something about the barren, volcanic landscapes and the vast, open skies felt like a balm to the frayed edges of my soul.
We had rented a small camper, nothing too fancy, just enough to shelter us from the elements as we made our way around the Ring Road. The plan was simple: drive, explore, stop wherever we felt like, and take in as much of Iceland as possible before the week was up. I was traveling with Sarah, my partner of five years. We’d been through a lot together, and this trip felt like both a celebration and a test. We had always wanted to visit Iceland, to see the waterfalls, the glaciers, and the black sand beaches, but more than anything, to witness the Northern Lights.
The first few days were filled with the kind of wonder that only Iceland can inspire. We hiked through Þingvellir National Park, feeling the ancient tectonic plates shift beneath our feet. We stood in awe at the base of Gullfoss, watching the waterfall roar into the canyon below. And we walked along the black sand beaches of Reynisfjara, where the waves crashed against the shore with such force that it felt like the Earth itself was breathing.
But the nights, those were something else entirely.
The first time we saw the Northern Lights, we were camped near the fjords of the East, parked by a lonely stretch of road where the mountains met the sea. The wind had picked up, and the sky was a deep indigo, the stars beginning to emerge one by one. We had heard about the aurora forecasts, but neither of us had expected to see them that night. I was sitting by the window, sipping on a cup of coffee, when I noticed the first faint streak of green ripple across the sky.
“Carol, come here,” I called out, my voice barely above a whisper.
She hurried over, pressing her face against the cold glass. We both watched, mesmerized, as the lights began to dance. At first, it was a soft glow, like someone had spilled green ink across the night. But soon, the colors grew brighter, more vibrant, twisting and swirling as if the sky itself had come alive. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. The Northern Lights moved with a kind of grace and power that left me speechless. For a moment, I forgot everything—where we were, how cold it was, even the aching in my legs from the day’s hike. All that mattered was the dance of light above us, a fleeting, magical display that seemed both otherworldly and deeply primal.
We stood outside the camper for hours that night, wrapped in blankets, our breath visible in the freezing air. The aurora didn’t stop. It kept moving, shifting, and changing colors—from green to purple to pink—until the entire sky was a living canvas. It was as if the universe was putting on a show just for us, in this remote corner of Iceland where no one else could see.
The next day, we drove through a landscape that felt like another planet. The land here was covered in moss, soft and spongy beneath our feet. The ground was broken up by jagged rocks and ancient lava fields, remnants of the volcanic eruptions that had shaped this land over centuries. We stopped at a small café along the way, nestled between two mountains. The owner, an old Icelandic man with a thick white beard, welcomed us in with a smile and served us bowls of traditional lamb stew, the warmth of the broth spreading through my body like a welcome fire.
After lunch, we made our way to Jökulsárlón, the glacier lagoon. I had seen pictures of it before, but nothing could have prepared me for the real thing. The lagoon stretched out before us, a sea of icebergs floating silently in the pale blue water. The glaciers loomed in the distance, massive and unyielding, their jagged edges sparkling in the sunlight. We walked along the shore, the sound of the ice cracking and shifting filling the air. Some of the icebergs were small, and delicate, but others were towering, their sheer size dwarfing everything around them.
We found a quiet spot by the water and sat down, the cold seeping into our bones but neither of us cared. There was something almost spiritual about the place, a stillness that made you feel like time had stopped. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of the lagoon—the distant rush of the glacier, the creaking of the ice, the soft lap of water against the shore. It was as if the world had shrunk to just this moment, just this place.
That night, we camped in the shadow of a mountain, far from any town or city. The wind howled outside, but the camper was warm and cozy. Sarah had fallen asleep, her breathing soft and steady beside me, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the lights, the glaciers, the endless stretches of road ahead of us. I had come here to escape, to find something in the silence, and slowly, I was starting to understand what it was.
stepped outside, the cold air biting at my skin. The sky was clear again, and there, in the distance, the Northern Lights began their dance once more. I watched them, alone this time, feeling both incredibly small and yet deeply connected to the world around me. There was something humbling about Iceland, something that reminded you of how fleeting life is, how vast the universe can be. And in that vastness, I found peace.
As we drove back towards Reykjavik a few days later, I knew this trip had changed me. The noise of everyday life would return soon enough, but I would carry a piece of this place with me—the quiet moments by the lagoon, the awe of the Northern Lights, and the cold, wild beauty of Iceland.
And that was enough.
#VANcation #camperstories
