Photos: Lyle Such

Writing: Thu Buu

Camera: Canon 5d MkIII

Uploaded by LS Travel on 2014-09-12.

The second part of our journey in Iceland began with a road trip to the Snæfellsnes Penninsula. We drove through the largest and longest underground tunnel we have ever been in. I think the tunnel extended about 8 miles. In Stykkishólmur, we bought our ferry tickets, and since we had four hours before our departure, we went for a drive on the northern coast of the peninsula towards the small fishing town of Grundarfjörður.

The roads in Iceland are simple. There’s no grooves cut onto the pavement to warn you that you’re too close to the side. There’s no shoulder for you to pull over. Many times, it’s just raised dirt, and if you happen to take your eyes off the road a second too long to admire the landscape, your car might just flip over.

Grundarfjörður

Arctic Terns are fierce defenders of their territory and protectors of their breeding grounds. Combatting as a unit, they would launch an attack on anything they deem threatenening. We decided to get a closer look at the marsh where they lay their eggs. The Arctic Terns didn’t like that at all. They came darting towards us, only swerving away at the last minute. They bombed us with their poop. Lyle was a bigger target. The back of his jacket was streaked white and had to be cleaned before getting back in the car.

The four-hour ferry ride made one stop at Flatey Island on its way to the Brjanslaejur, West Fjords, where we would disembark and resume our drive. Flatey Island is a popular day trip and family-friendly camping area that is pretty easy to access.

Leaving the island, the wind became colder. Above the droning sound of the engine, the sounds of wildlife activities could be heard. There was more happening than we had expected: birds gliding across the surface of the ocean, dive-bombing into the water after their prey, some running on water before their take off, others bobbing up and down as they cross the wave made by the ferry, and jellyfish silently pulsing just beneath the surface, some translucent, some colorful and opaque.

We were on our way to see the puffins. We checked into our small hotel around 8PM and were encouraged by the receptionist to head out to the edge of the peninsula in search of those cute little birds.

Pulling into the parking lot, we spotted the one single warning sign. Try not to fall over the cliff.

It was a gray evening with the sun blocked behind a thick layer of clouds. Besides the wind rushing by, all was quiet as we walked across the grass towards the edge of the cliffs. We thought it was going to be difficult to find them, so when we saw one tottering around, we quickened our pace. As we came closer, lo and behold! They were everywhere. Yay for Puffins!

On this bird cliff, there is a whole societal hierarchy, and it seems like the puffins are on the very top rung. Up and down a concave side of the cliff, thousands of birds compete for tiny living quarters, causing a ruckus in the process. The noise is deafening. These birds are like urban dwellers all squeezed together in a chaotic apartment building.

Puffins are pretty quiet. And they’re not too shy either. We were able to crawl up really close to them before they would slowly turn their heads the other way or just waddle away onto another ledge. A few even more solitary souls would flap their wings and take off. But once in a while, we found a social one. He would stare back at us with those set, triangular eyes. Puffins don’t have eyelids. The shape of their eyes makes them seem so sad, solemn, and emotionless all the time.

It’s all a façade. Puffins have feelings. This one was so excited to talk to me. He constantly flapped his wings as he opened and closed his beak. We saw a newlywed couple making out, beating their colorful beaks together in rapid succession. Although most puffins seem content to stand around in front of their homes, a few showed signs of curiosity. They fearlessly wandered onto the grassy field where we, the spectators, roamed.

The puffins don’t seem to be a part of all the rudeness and rowdiness. They occupy the penthouse, digging their burrows at the top of the cliff. The roots of the grassy field above acting as their roofs. Some puffins prefer to distance themselves entirely from the hustle and bustle of the metropolitan area. These puffins have moved to the suburbs, building their burrows further apart along the top stretch of the rest of the cliffs.

We had been at the cliffs for over an hour and were ready to leave when the sun peeked out under the massive cloud layer. Sitting just above the horizon, the golden sunlight was perfectly shining on the cliffs. We thought we had a short window of maybe about ten minutes before the sun would set, so we hurried back to the top of the cliff for another puffin photo shoot. This time, with the right lighting, the photos had so much more dimension and liveliness. They were gorgeous.

Our fear of the sun setting before we finished retaking pictures was rather unfounded. An hour later, the sun was still above the horizon, maybe a little closer but still hovering above it. We even had enough time to clown around and take some silhouette pictures at this distinctive location, the westernmost point of the European continent.

On our way back to the hotel, the clock in the car read 23:20, and the sun was still stationary, lingering just above the horizon.

This is Iceland where the government believes that their citizens have enough common sense and good judgment to approach any situation in a safe manner so warning signs and protective barriers aren’t needed as often. Only on one occasion did we spy any type of road barrier. There were a few metal poles connected by a chain on a short stretch of dirt road that wound around a steep, blind turn. I doubt that a chain would do much good if a car did spin out of control right there.

Built in 1912, this is the oldest steel ship in Iceland. It was intentionally grounded within these beautiful fjords and has been rusting here since 1981.

Rain was another constant companion on our road trips in the Westfjords. We didn’t mind the rain much as long as it stopped when we needed to be outside exploring the sites. Oddly enough that was exactly what happened most of the time. It would rain while we were driving and dry up once we reached our destination.

However, when we spotted this waterfall, the rain just kept coming and we only spent a few minutes taking in the scenery before retreating back into the warmth of our car.

As we got higher up, an impenetrable block of fog obscured our vision. Visibility was 15 feet at most. It was a slow and dangerous trek. Twice we passed hitchhikers. We felt bad not stopping, but with all of our gear, we didn’t have enough space for anything else. They must definitely have been foreigners because there’s no sense in hiking solo in such a harsh, desolate area as this.

The roads in the Westfjords wound through beautiful countryside. Those white dots are rolls of hay wrapped up in protective coverings. We passed countless waterfalls, large and small. Dazzling fields of wild purple lupins thrived along the roadside in this brutal climate. Here and there, we came upon a small town nestled between the fingers of the fjords, their colorful roofs clean and sparkling from that morning’s rain.

The road conditions in rural Iceland are quite rough at times. To get to the puffin cliffs, we had to traverse narrow, muddy roads full of potholes the size of our wheels. The rain had created deep ruts in the middle of these twisty roads requiring the driver to be on constant alert in order to dodge them. Even the best drivers couldn’t escape all the dips and cracks on the surface; there were just too many. Our car kicked up so much mud that the rear camera was rendered useless.