I made it. Today was intense until the very last moment. I reached the edge of the glacier around 12:30, after one final long descent through snow, wind, and exhaustion.

The team was trying to reach me at a precise GPS point, but there was no signal, and the radios were out of range. On their side, the terrain was almost impossible, even with a 4x4 and two guides. Then I was stopped by a river I couldn’t cross alone.

One of the guides helped me through, with water up to my knees, then brought me back to the team around 4:00 PM. I am exhausted, but I’m safe. A few more hours on the road. One last goodbye to the glacier.

I’m alive.

Taking advantage of the little signal I have this morning to send a few words.The weather is still awful. I won’t see the volcano. The wind is insane. I went out to the toilet and, by the time I came back, the place I had just crossed was already covered by 80 cm of snow.

Physically, I’m holding up. Just a small burn on the nose and cheeks.Now comes the final stretch. 50 kilometers downhill.

An endless climb towards the volcano.
The slope kept rising, slowly, heavily, with the sled pulling at every step. For hours, there was only white, wind, and the promise of a refuge somewhere above. Then it appeared. A small hut on the edge of Grímsvötn, mostly used by summer expeditions. It was locked, but the team managed to call and get the code for the padlock.

Tonight, I am inside. Out of the wind. Sheltered at last, finally able to spread out my soaked gear and let it dry. After the storm, a hard wall and a roof feel like luxury.

More than thirty hours. Thirty hours waiting for the world to stop howling.

Outside, the storm never let up. The wind circled the tent, pushing against the fabric, striking without pause. Snow piled up fast, too fast. So I had to go out, again and again. Building snow walls around the shelter to avoid being buried.

Each time outside was an ordeal. In moments like this, you no longer think about moving forward. You only think about holding on. Keeping a pocket of air. A little warmth.

This morning, I started moving again. The sky opened just enough to allow movement. Heading towards Grímsvötn, an active volcano buried beneath Vatnajökull. Up there, on the edge of the volcano, stands a refuge: a small solid hut, mostly used by expeditions in summer.

If I make it there, I’ll spend the night. After the storm, that almost feels like a luxury.

Everything closed in at once. First the wind, then this freezing rain lashing my face. Within minutes, everything turned white—a featureless white, without a horizon. Ground and sky merged, swallowing every direction. Every meter becomes an absurd struggle. I am cut off from the world.

I am soaked. To the bone. So, I yield to the obvious and pitch the tent, here, now, in a rush. Mechanical gestures repeated so many times finally make sense: plant, stretch, secure, check. Hands numb but precise. I finally take shelter.

The fabric snaps under the gusts, but at least it holds. I blast the stove. The flame dances and growls softly. Warmth slowly returns, and the damp air fills with the smell of gas and survival. For the first time in days, I stop. I accept the rhythm of the ice, not mine.

Iceland opens with one final reprieve: a four-hour drive from Höfn to reach the edge of the glacier. As the asphalt winds through fields of lava, the landscape empties until the white ice cap eventually saturates the horizon.

This is the moment where logistics fade before the reality of the terrain. At the starting point, the engine is cut, leaving only the sound of the wind. The road ends here; the rest will be driven by the strength of the legs alone.

Vatnajökull is Europe’s largest ice cap. A 7,900 km² behemoth where the terrain oscillates between jagged crevasse fields and ice sheets plunging nearly 1,000 meters deep.

Throughout this 180 km traverse, the landscape offers zero features for cover. Winds frequently blast over 100 km/h, and temperatures plummet well below -20°C.