Follow Colorado-based photographer Colin Rex on his tenth visit to Iceland for a fast-and-light journey along the Laugavegur Trail—a rugged, volcanic landscape shaped by shifting colors, stark geology, and long days beneath the endless midnight sun. Through his lens and pen, Colin offers a clear, unfiltered view of a place that demands close attention.

— Gossamer Gear

We’d start from the steamy springs at Landmannalaugar and head east, climbing through the lava flow and up through rhyolite peaks toward Stórihver, where rolling hills covered in moss are gashed by geothermal vents and pockets of pitchstone find themselves embedded in a perlite matrix, then through the Markarfljót headwaters and across snowfields and obsidian plains that crunch underfoot like broken glass.

Onward over the pass where Hrafntinnusker stands bare and windblown and across the saddle to the foot of the Kaldaklofsfjöll mountains; yin and yang of black sand and white glacial ice giving way to verdant greenery before we crest the ridge and Jökultungur softens and folds toward Álftavatn, where in 1838 a farmer from Fljótshlíð drowned in the lake.

Camp set up fast that night, and mushroom stroganoff went down easy.

Cold currents at Bláfjallakvísl begged us to join them as we waded past Bláfjöll and Smáfjöll, black and barren, then across Nyðri-Emstruá and Útigönguhöfðar and miles of desert badlands stretching out under shifting clouds, where the landscape appeared colorless from afar but teemed with sunburst lichen and clusters of purple saxifrage upon closer inspection.

Our route continued past Tvíbakar and Tuddi and the Tuddahraun lava flow and up to an overlook of Mýrdalsjökull, which beckoned from afar while basalt walls at Markarfljótsgljúfur framed the roaring river 500 feet below, and then over the crest and down to the station at Emstrur, where we’d arrive shortly after lunchtime and spend the afternoon and evening preparing our primitive campsite for an incoming storm front that night.

A river did run through camp later, but the inside of the tent remained dry.

Wet gear stayed that way for most of the morning as we descended steep scree to the new footbridge across Syðri-Emstruá, and Nic scrambled out of the gorge while I stopped for a photo of Entujökull looming in the distance before pressing on toward the Slyppugil and Bjórgil ravines and past a sand-colored sheepfold where we’d stop to empty sand from our boots—legs heavier, packs lighter now.

A lonely ptarmigan followed us for nearly an hour as we neared the final river crossing at Þröngá where black plains gave way to birch and willow, then briefly turned vertical and presented the trail’s last challenge before revealing the valley at Þórsmörk where we’d hoped to arrive by sunset, which should be about eight weeks from now.

Originally written for Gossamer Gear in July 2025.