Tomorrow: From 12 noon heavy rain with storm, reads a handwritten sign in the window of the hiker's hut.

Long-distance trekking in heavy rain stinks and can only be surpassed in yuckiness by pitching a tent in heavy rain. We are on Iceland's Laugavegur, 34 miles and four days through indescribably beautiful highland landscapes with green volcanoes, snowfields, and raging rivers. With backpack and tent, dehydrated food only, and in all weather.

The first two days and 17 miles are now behind us—you can find that report here: From Rainbow Mountains to Glacier Gaps: Hiking Laugavegur Island I.

Heavy rain and storms. On this third day we must cross a large river on foot, which is already making our skin crawl. “Then we'll be wet all over,” I joke, remembering a warning we had read about swelling rivers when it rains.

Luckily, we also remember that it hardly gets dark at night in Iceland during July.

“Why don't we get up early and try to finish this leg before it rains at noon and set up the tent while it is still dry?” I suggest.

The alarm goes off at 4:30 am. That’s 4:30 in the morning. Four dark thirty.

A river, a lunar landscape—and the destination in sight.

It doesn't take long before we come across the river. It looks harmless from a distance. Okay, relatively wide, but peaceful. Until we're standing right on the bank. Suddenly there are swift currents everywhere, eddies, stones of indeterminate size and stability under the surface, and unknown depths.

Crossing a river on foot can be nerve-wracking and even life-threatening. Find the right spot, assess the risk correctly, bring the right equipment (quick-drying sandals to protect your toes, at least one walking stick for balance, shorts, towel...). The last time I crossed a river in Wyoming the water was so cold it made my legs numb and my head dizzy. One wrong step and you fall. Sounds melodramatic, but we need to take it seriously. Especially out here: you only have one body and help is far away.

Together, we edge arm-in-arm sideways into the river. The icy water tingles. I breathe frantically. The current underwater feels stronger than on the surface. I bump into small stones with every step; the force of the water pushes me back. The longer we are in the water, the frostier it gets. Then suddenly an invisible ditch appears and the water is halfway up my thighs. Don't panic. Don't panic now.

We somehow make it to an island and take a short break. Then we attack the last stretch.

Phew.

Safely on the other side, heat immediately rises from the ground to my feet, I sit down and get the towel out. From here the river looks harmless again. My breathing slows down.

A black plain spreads out in front of us. Volcanic rock. All around us, mountains jut up from the flat, barren land. Black, reddish, gray. The sun shines with a milky sheen behind veiled clouds. It is only seven o'clock in the morning. The light is both leaden and golden. It is as if we are walking across the surface of an alien planet with an exotic atmosphere. There's no one else on the trail but us.

Dude, are the other hikers all waiting for the heavy rain or what?

Apart from the crunching of the volcanic pebbles under our shoes, there is no sound. Every now and then we see a group of colorful flowers thriving in this lava desert. They seem as out of place as pink confetti at a funeral procession. But this landscape is in no way depressing—just strange, unique, not of this world.

Around a bend, green mountains suddenly appear. As if someone had dropped oversized, pointed dwarves' caps into the landscape. The sky slowly darkens. Shortly before the camp in Emstrur, a deep canyon opens right in front of us. Icy glaciers tower in the distance above brown hills, rocks, grasses, and craters. It is a sight of such grandeur that every panorama function on the camera is suddenly insufficient. Even with the naked eye, the brain has difficulty grasping the immensity of pure landscape. Wow.

We pitch our tent around eleven o'clock. It is still dry. About noon, the wind and drizzle begin. During the afternoon the rain pelts the area; at night the storm whips wildly at our tent fabric. It rattles, and howls, and pounds. But the tent holds firm. Magically, we even sleep.

The next day, the air turns clear and cold, the cloudy sky reveals a small blue hole. Next to us, a couple of exhausted-looking mountain bikers from Australia are dismantling their bivouac tents. I gather from their conversation that they set up their tents last night in the heavy rain. Ain't no fun.

I can hardly believe it's our last day on the trail. It’s much too soon. Can't Laugavegur just go on indefinitely? Every footstep has simply been a blast—and that's no exaggeration.

The first miles of the last leg lead us into a ravine with raging brown water at the bottom. Again, it was a small sign in the window of the hiker's hut at the campground that made us nervous beforehand. Watch out, don't stop in the canyon, toxic gases!

Something volcanic is brewing there and it stinks like an exploded gas station. I quickly take a few photos with a scarf over my nose and mouth, then we continue our trek, up over a mountain ridge and down into a valley of red grasses. For the first time in three days, we see animals again. Sheep!

Suddenly, the sun comes out creating a sharp contrast between the sky, which suddenly appears black, and a mountain top that looks as if devil's horns are growing out of its side.

“The ancients used to avoid this mountain,” a hiker tells us as she passes by. “They believed something evil lived behind it.” Seems frighteningly logical to me at that moment.

Shortly afterwards a light rain begins, then a rainbow stretches across the valley. It's as if a window into another dimension opens every few minutes on the trail.

Just a few miles before the end of Laugavegur, we reach another river we must ford. Fortunately, groups of people gather on both sides around a very specific point. This must be the perfect and hopefully safest spot to cross. The river is brackish and wild, white waves appear everywhere. If we were alone, I would have no idea where we should cross it—or even if we should cross it.

 We step into the icy water without seeing the bottom. I'm happy when we get across—safely.

From here, the Laugavegur leads through a landscape that is unusual for Iceland: a forest. The branches of birch trees close together over us on the trail almost like a jungle tunnel. Although Iceland once had large forests, the country has hardly any trees today. The reason: the Vikings. They needed wood for fires, ships, and houses and—in typical human fashion—they cut down trees ruthlessly until there was nothing left. The forest of Þórsmörk (“Thorsmörk”), has been resurrected through artificial reforestation, and is a fine example of Icelandic renaturation and environmental protection.

Arriving in Þórsmörk means the end of our Laugavegur trek. This last stage is 10 miles long. We finally descend into a valley to arrive at the last camp. We pitch our tent in a meadow by the river and treat ourselves with a tea and snickers in the small hiker's hut. Four days on the trail felt like four weeks. So much incredibly beautiful and unique scenery, so many challenges, so much given to us, and so much received in return.

Seriously: if you only do one long-distance hike in your life—do it on the Laugavegur.

You can find the first part of our hike on Laugavegur here: From Rainbow Mountains to Glacier Gaps: Hiking Laugavegur Island I.

More hiking and outdoor adventures:

• Roadtrip Iceland 2022
• Epic Camping Fail – in the Desert with a flat Tire, raw Carrots and no Water
• With one Foot in the Abyss: A dangerous Hike on an alpine Ridge
• On the Edge of Fjords and Glaciers – Roadtrip southern Norway