Gripping my axes tightly, I kick the ice as hard as I can, until the spike on my boot finally pierces the wall. I do the same with my other foot, but it skims the surface and I lose my balance, dangling ungracefully from my rope. “What on Earth am I doing here?” I muse, before righting myself and trying again.

Despite my bewilderment, I am somewhat prepared for this dalliance. We’ve travelled two hours from Reyjkavík to Sólheimajökull, an outlet of Iceland’s fourth biggest glacier, Mýrdalsjökull, to take in the views before trying our hand at ice climbing. With unseasonably good weather, we drive through Iceland’s stunning scenery bathed in rare autumn sunshine. Sheer rocky cliffs are decorated with waterfalls that cast spray up into the air. Grassy fields dotted with snoozing horses and grazing sheep morph seamlessly into stretches of lava field edged with towering volcanoes.

“This is better than doing it in the rain,” grins our guide, a quietly confident 30-year-old Spanish guy named Hodei, who says he has only experienced such clear skies around four times throughout his year-and-a-half long stay in Iceland. He points out the gleaming top of Mýrdalsjökull against the horizon. “That’s where we’re going,” he says. I’m nervous; this is far from my comfort zone. Hodei laughs and tells me I’ll be fine. I hope he’s right.

Blue ice

Once on the glacier, my worries melt away as I take in its sheer natural beauty. We crunch past trickling meltwater streams, frosty blue crevasses and ‘moulins’ (French for “well”), which are rounded shafts that spiral down into the depths below. The cracks in the ice are impressively deep, but are apparently relatively small—some can grow up to 10 metres in width. In the distance, the enduring presence of the surrounding volcanoes contrasts with the transience of the ice. Everything we walk over today will be gone in the next few years.

Finally, we reach the crevasse we’re going to climb and Hodei shows us how to ascend, advising us to keep our legs wide and our arms narrow. For me, that’s easier said than done, but spurred on by the effortless performances of my fellow tourists as they spidered up the surface, I take a deep breath and get a firm grip. Fragments of ice rain down on my helmet as I swing my axes into the glacier and wrench myself upwards, a couple of inches at a time.

To my utter disbelief, I soon find myself peeking over the ridge of the crevasse, grinning. “My favourite thing about this job is seeing the sense of accomplishment in people’s faces after they’ve reached the top,” says Hodei, noting that he was impressed that all of us managed it. My arms and legs ache, but I do feel a sense of pride.

Taking the plunge

On the drive home, we stop at the site of Skógafoss, a majestic 200 foot waterfall and one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. “A guy on a tour once jumped in a puddle formed in a hole in the ice,” says Hodei. “He wanted to see how deep it was. It came up to the top of his shoulders.”

“Did he carry on with the tour?” I ask. “Oh yes,” says Hodei. “He did the whole hike soaking wet.” I laugh incredulously, but as I stare up at the mammoth column of water descending from Skógafoss and reflect upon my day, I decide that life is better when you occasionally push yourself out of your comfort zone.

Trip provided by: arcticadventures.is