Cold, Naked, and Alive: Icelandic Baptism

Lamb and fish soup, fairytale  landscapes, and more beautiful blondes than I could talk to. Welcome to Iceland.

I had just three days booked here before hopping over to the rest of the EU. I came with only two items on my agenda: hike, and try to catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights.

On my first morning, I picked up the rental car and headed toward the Golden Circle. A famed driving route packed with glaciers, waterfalls, and lava fields. About an hour outside Reykjavík, I hit my first stop: a 200-foot waterfall that should’ve been breathtaking... if it weren’t for the hundred or so tourists and the parade of tour buses lined out front.

There’s a bitter kind of irony in wanting to experience solitude while traveling, especially when hiking. It’s hard to reconnect with nature when you're constantly dodging selfie sticks.

I didn’t stay long. Back in the car and frustrated at the crowds,  I aimed the wheel toward the Westfjords, 2.5 hours from the Golden Circle.

Somewhere along the drive, hunger hit. I pulled into a quiet roadside spot, ordered my first lamb and fish soup with a cold beer, and struck up a conversation with the bartender. I told her I was looking to get off the beaten path, and she was quick with a suggestion. There was a trail nearby, she said. Tucked away, rarely any folks on it, and it ended at a 300-foot waterfall. It would take a few hours. Most people skip it, especially when the weather turns bad. And guess what… The weather was bad, windy, cold, and rainy 

I was sold.

I drove to the trailhead. Just one other car in a lonely, almost abandoned-looking lot. Perfect.

About 30 minutes in, I passed a couple heading back towards the parking lot. I asked if there was anyone up ahead, they smiled and said the trail’s all yours. 

The terrain shifted as I climbed, jet-black lava rock gave way to soft, vibrant moss. The higher I went, the more surreal it became. The rain intensified. My jacket was useless, my jeans soaked, my sneakers drenched. Wind gusts cut through me at 25 mph, the temperature hovering around 45°F.

But I wasn’t cold.

More strangely, I wasn’t uncomfortable. I wasn’t desperate to turn around. I felt alert, alive, deeply present. Every step deeper into the trail just made me want to see more. I wanted to feel more. 

And then, without overthinking it, I started undressing.

Jacket. Hoodie. Shirt. Jeans. Underwear.

Everything came off… except for my shoes and wool hat. I don’t know what possessed me, but I kept hiking, exposed to the wind, the rain, the mountain. It felt primal. Raw. Real.

Hours later, I reached the waterfall towering 300 feet, roaring as it slammed into the rocks below. At its base was a small, circular watering hole, maybe 30 feet across.

I stood there, soaked, staring at it.

“Could I go in without getting hypothermia? Was I already at risk?”

It had taken three hours to reach this point, all uphill. I figured the return would be faster. And when would I ever get this chance again?

I peeled off my shoes, stepped into the water.

It was the coldest water I had ever felt. Every nerve in my feet screamed and then went silent. I walked forward, chest-deep, and then I crouched down and submerged myself.

My body shot up in shock. The cold stole the breath from my lungs. For a terrifying second, I couldn’t remember how to breathe.

Then, instinct kicked in. I gasped. I scrambled out, dripping and shaking, dressed in my drenched clothes, and started the descent,this time at a near run, hoping my feet and toes would wake back up. Almost back at the lot, I passed another couple bundling up for their hike.

I gave them a grin and shouted:

“Trail’s all yours!”