The blades of my kayak paddle seamlessly slipped beneath the agitated waves of the fjord. The ache in my arms and a basic understanding of physics told me I was propelling myself forward, but despite that, the hills ahead of me refused to grow any larger. If anything, between the driving rain and wind, I felt as if I was farther from my destination than when I had started. This was day 3 of an extended vacation to Iceland. I use the word “vacation” lightly, because very few people’s ideas of a vacation — let alone a bachelor party — would be a 5-day kayaking excursion in Hornstrandir Nature Preserve when the forecast called for constant rain and even some snow. I am well aware that I am in the minority here. A typical bachelor party is a long weekend in Las Vegas or a crazy night out with “the boys.” Not for me. I wanted my bachelor party to be something completely unforgettable for everyone involved. I gave my groomsmen a choice within the parameters of “it must be all-inclusive,” “it should be outdoorsy,” and “let’s go somewhere amazing.” The consensus was 5 days of kayaking in the northernmost reaches of Iceland, on the cusp of what could be considered winter, with absolutely no cell service and very little electricity.
“I never expected this trip to reveal so much about myself…”
Fall in Iceland is a transition period where the country undergoes a metamorphosis. The lush green fields start to brown and the tourists begin to seek warmer climates. From what we could gather, the migration of the puffins signals an unofficial start to fall. Yes, you read that right — puffins. We were too late this time around to see them, and while I don’t entirely believe they ever make an appearance, it does give us a reason to return in the summer. Our journey started in Reykjavík, which gives the impression of a quiet fishing town despite its bustling life and charming character. The road from the airport is mostly single-lane, with the occasional passing lane, winding around sheep farms and hugging magnificent coastal views. The jet lag of having just landed across the ocean had us in and out of sleep, but those of us who were awake were not starved for views the entire drive.
Once we settled on the general framework of the trip, some basic googling led us to Borea Adventures and our guide Lukas, based out of Ísafjörður, Iceland. Ísafjörður can only be described as a sleepy fishing town nestled between two large mountains on the shore of a pristine fjord, on the border of the preserve. Our journey into the nature park began by boat. Borea operates one of only three or four structures that could be inhabited at any given time within the preserve — to say this area is remote is an understatement. It was here that we were introduced to our cozy farmhouse. The Kviar Farmhouse stands alone at the mouth of a glacial creek. Solar panels provide minimal electricity, weather permitting. Heating is provided mainly by a wood stove on the second floor, and the kitchen sits in the basement of the structure. All of our provisions had to be packed in with us. Water was fed into the kitchen via a pipe from a nearby glacial spring. Outside, we had a tool shed, a wood-fired sauna, and a photography blind. Cell service was nonexistent, so any activities during our downtime were limited to reading, reminiscing, or braving the cold for a stint in the sauna after a brief dip in the freezing fjord.
That’s how I found myself, one dreary morning, kayaking through a fjord in the driving rain and wind, with a curious seal following along at a safe distance, checking up on our progress. We had elected to paddle to the tip of the fjord and check out some sea stacks up close. Lukas promised some amazing views, and there was always the hope of spotting an arctic fox or two. Even though Borea’s main charter was focused on extreme sport in this isolated area, the most popular activity the company offered was arctic fox photography. Photography excursions were fully booked years in advance. People were tripping over themselves to come and sit in the small wooden blind and photograph the elusive arctic fox. Pondering this as I paddled along in the driving rain, I found myself siding with the photographers. Though our wetsuits kept out most of the rain, there was no refuge for our heads or hands, and the chill emanating from those areas quickly became a full-body experience. Our spirits remained high, though, and our voices ricocheted off the towering walls we kayaked past.
It wasn’t long until we reached the sea stacks, and the sight was absolutely worth the effort — helped, in part, by the fact that the return trip to the farmhouse would be with the wind at our backs, so our pace would be significantly quicker. Lukas spotted an area nestled between a large boulder and the shore that showed promise for a quick run of Icelandic whitewater. I immediately jumped at the opportunity to test my skills, and once Lukas gave me the go-ahead, I was off, furiously paddling toward the crashing waves. It wasn’t long before I was in the thick of it, fighting the back-and-forth of the current. Immediately I felt my pulse quicken and the pressure build behind my eardrums — the telltale rush of adrenaline as I fought to maintain control of the kayak. Quickly the tide turned and the battle was lost, as I began to roll and found myself upside down in the frigid water.
The previous day had been spent preparing for this very scenario, and thankfully I knew what to do — but executing something in theory versus in practice requires very different technique. The first step was to release the spray skirt that kept me locked in the cockpit of the kayak. However, I couldn’t grasp the grab loop at the front of the skirt to release the tension, and I quickly ran out of air. This forced me to roll upright to regain the oxygen I needed to try again. Back under I went, searching for the loop once more. No luck — so I rolled up a third time before pitching back under to face it. This time I was able to pull the loop and release the skirt, which allowed me to slide free of the kayak and surface to deal with the aftermath. I whipped around and saw Lukas paddling in to assist, while our group sat safely out of harm’s way, watching events unfold. I righted my kayak and floated over to shore to sort myself out and check my gear. As my feet touched the rocks, I realized the biggest casualty of my miscalculation. I had been using my phone to take pictures throughout the trip, and it had been sitting in the velcro pocket of my PFD. That pocket was now empty — my phone had come loose and sunk to the bottom of the fjord. Despite an extensive search and several trips back through the crashing waves, I had to resign myself to the fact that the phone was gone, along with some of the photos from the trip. The greater issue was our inability to contact our driver upon returning to the mainland, and the loss of access to our travel itineraries, Airbnbs, excursions, and flight information.
Paddling back to the farmhouse, I was struck by an overwhelming feeling of anxiety and sudden isolation at the prospect of spending the next week without a phone. There was no practical driver behind this — we didn’t even have cell service — but this experience truly showed me how reliant on my phone I had become. With each stroke, my mind compounded the anxiety. Paddle — thoughts of lost photos of our seal companion. Paddle — the realization that contacting our driver would be very difficult. Paddle — worries about my impending work trip to Amsterdam and whether I could effectively do my job without it. The farmhouse came into view before I realized it, having been lost in my thoughts as I muscled my way through the blistering cold and the current.
The anxiety subsided after a day or two, and the adrenaline faded with it, but I was left with a gnawing feeling that a part of me was missing. I never expected this trip to reveal so much about myself, and even though one of the first stops upon our return to Reykjavík was a phone store, I look back fondly on those days without any connection to the outside world. I emerged from Hornstrandir as a more centered individual, having developed a better understanding of myself and looking more closely at how tightly I carry my phone with me every day.
“There was plenty of fun during our time in Iceland, but to categorize it as ‘Type 1 Fun’ would be wrong.”
While revelations at the end of a bachelor party are not uncommon, deep personal insights of this magnitude are rare. Just as many people wouldn’t have chosen Iceland for their bachelor party, many of those same people would not readily examine their reliance on a phone. It often takes an experience like this to make you look at your life through a new lens. After reading this story, I don’t expect many people to rush out and book a trip to Hornstrandir in September — but I think there is a strong case for doing just that. Destinations with tourist seasons often see steep declines in travel during their off-seasons, and while there is certainly a reason for Iceland’s peak season, September is a remarkable time to experience the country. In today’s world, most of us gravitate toward “Type 1 Fun” — where you’re enjoying yourself in the moment. There was plenty of fun during our time in Iceland, but to categorize it as “Type 1” would be wrong. We had plenty of moments where we were absolutely miserable, which firmly places this trip in the “Type 2” category — where you look back fondly on the moments spent in the driving rain, or completely drenched, trying to warm up around the wood stove. Though I could have done without the expense of a new phone or the illness I developed after submerging myself in the fjord, I wouldn’t have traded this trip for anything. I think the argument for a “Type 2” bachelor party has never been stronger.