The driver is late.
I'm standing beside a few giant coach buses outside the Keflavik Airport, toying with the broken zipper on my parka. My bus isn't one of them, and according to the airport attendant, will be parked in a separate parking lot.
The exhaust from the buses look hazy, illuminated by a few overhead florescent lights.
After a few minutes, I grow impatient and start walking.
I carefully step over large patches of ice, my eyes glued to the pavement. My parents live in Rochester, so I'm familiar with the concept of black ice, a difficult to spot, slick area that can send you tumbling.
In a few hours, I'm supposed to be on the back of an ATV. There's no way I'm cracking an ankle today.
As I walk to the lot, I see headlights in the distance. The bus is smaller, the size of a mini-van. Gray Line Iceland is printed on the side. I check the time.
5 AM.
I'll be in Reykjavik by 6, with time for an hour or two nap.
It's a trek I've made four times before.
Iceland is my special spot, the place I first stretched my wings with travel. My first visit was in the summer of 2014, after the end of my short two-year marriage. I brought my boyfriend of only three short months, a man I did not know well, but matched my enthusiasm for exploration. We both quit our jobs to go.
Me, to pursue travel writing and remote work, and him, to get a fresh start after three years at the same company.
We spent the next month hitch-hiking around The Ring Road, then, went on to Europe.
The second visit was on our way back to the United States. I remember our last night there, we sat at the bar of our hostel, both sipping a frosty Gull beer. We talked about the lives we saw for ourselves, with me harping on my dream to continue to work remotely and travel.
The next visit was two years later. I took a week and a half off from my desk job in Durham, eager to return. This time, it was in the winter and instead of a boyfriend, I brought my little sister. It was her first time in Europe. We rang in the New Year in front of Hallgrímskirkja and hiked through the city seeking bonfires.
I returned in July of 2017, alone. I was debating leaving another desk job and incredibly single. I worked in coffee shops and saw Patterson at Bíó Paradís, the independent movie theater. I drank wine, ate stale popcorn, and crushed hard on Adam Driver.
I reflected on those previous trips as we drove down Route 41. It was still dark outside, the only disadvantage of flying into Iceland so early. I couldn't see any of the passing scenery, so I slept. When I awoke, we were outside of Kex Hostel.
It's another familiar place. I've stayed there every time I've returned to Iceland, opting to crash in the cozy dorms instead of putting up for a hotel. I check into my room, and trying not to wake any of my dorm mates, put my bag into a locker and climb onto a top bunk.
Within minutes, I'm passed out again.
It's still dark outside when I wake up. At this time of the year, the sun wouldn't be up until about 10 AM, which gave the entire city an eerie, horror movie vibe. I don't mind it.
I get some work done on my laptop in the lobby while I'm waiting. After all this time, I'm still working at an agency, but finally, had found one with all remote employees.
I answer a few messages, then around 8:50 AM, head outside to meet the pick-up for the ATV company.
I'm half asleep still, smushed in my broken zipper parka, rubbing my hands together.
"Too bad we can't wait inside, right?" says another tourist standing near by. I hadn't noticed him when I came out.
"Yeah, well," I say sleepily, letting my voice trail off into some kind of derpy response.
He laughs.
"What tour are you going on?" He asks as a van pulls up. "We're going on [muffles something.]"
"Yeah, me too," I reply, half-listening. The driver gets out.
"Oh wait," I realize, re-reading my ticket. "No I'm not. I'm going on this one."
"Melissa?" the driver asks in a thick, Icelandic accent.
I nod, and he takes my backpack.
The tourist, still standing outside, makes a comment about me not knowing what I'm doing. As soon as I'm completely in, the driver slams the side door shut, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Once I'm strapped in, I close my eyes again, grateful that I'm the only one on the bus. It's warm and cozy, and I'm snuggled in my coat, when -
"I'M KAKTUS! WELCOME TO OUR TOUR!" exclaims the bearded driver.
I jolt awake.
Kaktus (yes, Kaktus) immediately leads into a story about the (only) time he visited America. He asks me where I'm from. He asks who my favorite hockey team is. He talks about working in a circus. He asks if I've been to a circus. He tells me about his love for craft soda.
"Did you have any this morning?" I ask lazily, half laughing, half- yawning.
By the time we reach the facility, I've realized two things.
1. There's no way I'm getting another cat nap today.
2. I'm the only one on the tour.
The warehouse looks like a modern Santa's workshop. The classic Nordic design, with clean lines and minimal furniture. There are helmets, snowsuits, and ATVs everywhere. It smells like fresh paint.
Somewhere, someone is brewing fresh coffee. I can hear the coffee maker whirling, and the careful, slow drips.
Kaktus is browsing through the snowsuits and cold-weather wear, asking about my size. At one point, I see him looking at my chest.
My face flushes for a moment, then, I realize he's reading my bib.
"Are those.... Carhartt overalls?" He asks, his eyes growing wider.
"Oh yeah," I reply. "I thought they'd be good for the cold."
He lifts his shirt in one swift motion. I flinch, then see that he's showing me his Carhartt belt. He explains how he loves Carhartt, but how difficult and expensive it can be to get any of their stuff to Iceland.
After a brief ATV demo (it's not my first time, but I'm no pro), we're ready to go. It's not as dark now, so when Kaktus starts driving, it's easy to follow his path. We're headed to Úlfarsfell, a nearby mountain, he explains.
We drive through city streets to start, occasionally passing cars. My face is bundled in the cap of my snowsuit, cheeks smushed up. I open the visor to my helmet for a second, welcoming in a refreshing blast of cold.
It doesn't take long to master the controls. I clench my thighs and hover over the seat, tossing caution aside and picking up my speed. I kind of feel like a bad ass, whipping through the Icelandic countryside.
I am Captain America, I think.
No, I am James Bond.
No, I am my own superhero.
I am Platinum! I am -
I am stuck in the snow.
My heart quickens when the wheels spin under me, then relief when I gain traction again. There are already ATV tracks on this path, but in some parts of the drive, I find my vehicle veering slightly off the track. Despite that, I'm not struggling to keep up with Kaktus.
We stop at the foot of the mountain for a quick break.
"You're pretty good at this," says Kaktus as I take off my helmet.
"Thanks," I say sheepishly and almost incoherently. My cheeks are frozen and it's so cold, it's hard to talk.
But the payoff is immense.
The sun is rising now.
The snow looks bright pink, like the surface of Mars or some fictional planet from a sci-fi movie. Everything seems to glitter, everything is bright, and my heart beats a little faster, just taking it all in.
I take a photo with my phone, which has been safely tucked in one of the pockets of the snow suit. I know it won't do it any justice.
I feel deeply grateful that I'm there alone (well, if you don't count Kaktus.)
We get back on the ATVs and drive up the mountain. The snow is mixed in with rocks and gravel, which I imagine, makes the trek up a little easier.
The view is spectacular.
You can see for miles. The fjords, the Atlantic Ocean, the city. The little houses. The roads.
There no more poetic time, I suppose, than overlooking a city that you've been enamored with for a decade. In that distance, I saw the snow, and the ice, and the soil, and the vision that I had grasped on to for so many years.
I had arrived.