Into The Wind - An Icelandic Odyssey

At Shackleton, we believe adventure should be lived and after four years with the business, every member of the team is given the opportunity to take a four-week sabbatical and pursue an adventure of their own.

For Graphic Designer Paul Davy, that meant returning to an idea that had been quietly waiting for two decades - crossing Iceland from east to west by bicycle. What followed was sixteen days of brutal weather, unexpected encounters, self-reliance and adaptation and a journey that became very different from the one he had planned.

Read on to see how it panned out.

This wasn't an expedition I had dreamed up overnight. It had been sitting there quietly in the back of my mind for two decades, waiting for the opportunity to become real. So when that opportunity arose, there really was only one thing I wanted to do. Cross Iceland from east to west, by bicycle, carrying everything I needed to survive.

Sixteen days on the road. Countless serendipitous meetings with complete strangers, many of whom, played a part in getting me across the country. The plan was to cycle from east to west across Iceland and attempt to document the journey with film and photography.

The riding became a battle within my mind. Some days I was covering 100 kilometres. Other days I was pushing through sand at 3 kilometres an hour. The good days were great. I was flying, looking around and not quite believing how lucky I was, riding through this remote wilderness. Me, Paul Davy from Manchester, riding through the uninhabited interior of Iceland on what was turning out to be the adventure of a lifetime. 

The days started to merge into one. I didn't know what day of the week it was, day one, day two, day three - but specifically what day it was, I didn't know. There was nothing planned, nothing other than getting to my camping spot for the night.

 

There were hot days of 20°C and cold days of -8°C, with snow, driving rain and strong head winds. There were days when I hadn't seen a bird, an insect or even a blade of grass. That amplified the battle going on inside my head. I was arguing with myself. One minute I was telling myself, I can't do this. I'm going to have to call it in. Then I'd persuade myself to continue. I can't give up. If I only did half of this, anything afterwards would be cancelled. The talks, the collaborations, the photography exhibitions, all the things that might come from this experience would be gone. That became my motivation. I kept going. Through the lunar-like landscapes, the desolation. There was nothing. No landmarks. Nothing to aim for. At times it genuinely felt like I could have been riding on the moon.

I went to some dark places in my head. I remember hallucinating at one point. I was exhausted, low on energy and desperately cold. I looked up from my bars. There was a boulder. But for a moment I imagined it was a tiger, lying there looking directly at me. I wasn't scared. I knew deep down it wasn't really there. Strangely, I almost saw it as a protector.

Another time, while riding into driving wind and rain, I kept my head down, using the peak of my cap to shield my face. I thought I could see a stone wall either side of me, another imagined protection. When I looked out into the distance, there was nothing. Just rolling gravel hillsides and cold grey dunes. I understand now where some of the myths and legends and certainly the elves of Iceland originate.

                      

The kilometres rolled over slowly up in the highlands. I'd look at the distance each day and think, that's doable. The thing was, you never really knew how long those kilometres would take. It would depend on the wind, usually a headwind and the terrain. Was it uphill? Was it sand? Was it corrugated gravel?

At the geographical centre of Iceland, I had to call Mountain Rescue. I was on the verge of hypothermia and the rain was relentless. I was shivering uncontrollably and still had a long way to go before my next camp. I talked myself out of calling for help a dozen times. Then I thought, if I don't do it now, I'm going to be in serious trouble. I called. Within ten minutes I was sitting in a rescue vehicle, heated seats beneath me and a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The team that I had been discussing my plans with the previous evening had been tracking my route. They were already on their way to collect me before I had even called. They knew. They knew that this wasn't a day for riding a bicycle through the Icelandic highlands. They warmed me up and took me to my next destination. It was 60 kilometres of stones, boulders and steep climbs. There was no way I would have been able to make that journey on my own.

I ended up at Laugafell, which translates roughly as Bath Mountain. I was met with a natural volcanic hot pool, exactly 44°C. Perfect for warming a person who had been close to hypothermia.

But now I had a dilemma.

I was in the middle of a storm. I couldn't ride on in this. The weather would clear in about three days, which I didn't have. Mountain Rescue had looked at my plan and informed me that my original route was now impassable due to high river levels. I could head north, pick up the Ring Road and rejoin my route further west.

Then came my next serendipitous meeting. I woke up to find a lady sitting up at the foot of my sleeping bag. She hadn't been there when I closed my eyes the night before. Her name was Thora. After hearing my story, she offered me a solution. "I'll take you north.” But we'd have to leave now. I threw my bike and all my gear into her Toyota Land Cruiser and off we went. She had no map. She told me we'd just wing it.

I discovered she was an Icelandic shaman. I'm not spiritual at all, but by this point the whole thing was starting to feel like some kind of spiritual awakening. Things were happening that I couldn't really explain. I'd like to think someone was watching over me. Keeping an eye on me. These chance meetings. Things slotting into place. Was I just lucky? I believe in making your own luck, but this was something else.

I took over the driving and drove 80 kilometres off-road in what I can only describe as a Dakar truck. In fact, it had been prepared by Arctic Trucks, the same company that had prepared the Pole to Pole electric vehicle I had worked on a few years previous. I stayed the night with Thora, in a yurt on her property. I ate. I charged all my devices and slept.

I set off again. But not before another encounter. A German man, whilst chatting I told him about my history with air cooled Volkswagens and Porsches and how I rebuild engines in my spare time. He looked at me. "No way!” He told me he had a Beetle. "Oh, cool. What year?” "No. I have a Beetle here.” He’d driven all the way from Istanbul to Iceland. And now it had broken down. We narrowed it down to a fuel blockage, found some brake cleaner at a petrol station in Akureyri, dismantled his carburettor, cleaned it and got it running again. I was meant to go north with the shamen to help my German friend (Christopher) on his way with his Beetle.

I found a bus, which took me back towards my route, bypassing the area with the impassable rivers. The rain had stopped and the skies were clear. And, somewhere along the way, I had stopped arguing with myself. I was enjoying the ride again. Back on the gravel now, I was rolling fast. And this time I had some company. Another German guy (Flurin or Micky), although he was riding a much lighter bike than I. He had travelled around the Ring Road, meaning he didn't have to carry nearly as much as I did as resupplies were plentiful.

I had about 200 kilometres to go to reach the North Atlantic Ocean. I had fresh impetus. I was being pulled along by the pace of my new friend. We rode 130 kilometres on our first day and another 70 the second. I was racing along at full pace, but I wasn't fighting any demons this time. I was fighting energy levels and trying to take in enough water. The time came to say goodbye. I continued for another four hours on my own. 

I made it, I had crossed Iceland. Not as originally planned. I knew that my plan was only ever a rough outline for the adventure. I knew I'd have to make adjustments along the way. I knew I'd have to adapt to whatever situations arose. 

I came to realise that being able to adjust in the face of adversity is what I considered success, this is what I'm good at. 

The trip was originally solo and unsupported, but it became anything but, the people I met along the way and shared my story with were all there with me.

I didn't just cross Iceland by bike, I survived to tell the story. 

I found the adventure I was looking for.