I woke to the sound of glacial runoff just outside my tent. The sky was gray, the wind steady, and the air in the upper 40s—no rain, just the kind of morning that felt purely Iceland. I moved slowly, not from pain, but to hold onto every moment.

It was the last day on the Laugavegur Trail. I missed dry shoes and hot showers, but I wasn’t ready to let go of the rhythm of walking, breathing, and becoming.

Now, take meds, apply the “blue magic,” make breakfast, organize gear, hit the bathroom,get water, pack up and hike. 

Into the Ridges

The day started with a series of climbs—big and small ones. After crossing the first ridge, I dropped into a glacier-carved valley, only to climb right back out. Then came another ridge, where the world turned surreal. Greens and blacks painted the land like an oil pastel drawing under a sky with no sun. Somehow, the lack of light made everything more vivid, as if the landscape were lit from the inside out.

Soon, I descended steeply into another valley—no switchbacks, just loose rocks and black sand. At the bottom, a glacial river roared, wide and fast. There was a bridge that led me across the raging waters onto a trail that was only for the brave. An iron chain to the right and a 75 foot drop to the left.

.

Then the Beauty Broke Me

Eventually, the trail opened again. The cliffs gave way to glacier-capped ridges, velvet-green hills, and skies that stretched out in every direction.

And yet, I had no words left. Every twist in the trail revealed a new masterpiece: surreal colors, jagged ice, and a silence.

When I finally reached the top of one ridge, I flung my arms wide and yelled—not from exhaustion, but from pure joy. I had done it. Almost.

“I will finish,” I told myself. This was my very first thru-hike. I had earned every inch.

6.3 Miles to Go: The Ugly Cry

As I passed the 10K marker—just 6.3 miles to the finish—I began rehearsing a video I wanted to record for my children at the end of this journey.  

“Hi Braelyn and Brevin, I love you”
But before I could finish, I broke.

The tears came like a flood.

I missed them. Then my mind shifted to he pain of the past: the divorce, the move, the grief. I saw my Daughter’s face the day I told her I was leaving. Her heartbreak still echoed inside me.

Clearly, I hadn’t let it go.

So I cried—loud, ugly, and raw.
The trail wasn’t just about hiking. It was healing.

5 Miles Left: The Sun Breaks Through

Just five miles remained.

As soon as I caught a signal, I messaged everyone who mattered:
“5 miles left. I’m going to finish!”

Right after I hit send, the clouds parted. Sunlight spilled across the trail, warming my face like the universe had just offered a high-five.

Of course, my blood sugar crashed at this point, so I paused to eat two of my three remaining glucose tabs. While resting, I spotted two familiar faces from Day 2—Haco and Nate from California. Just like that, trail magic returned.

Then, as if the trail were orchestrating a reunion, Josh and Kelly appeared. We had joked online about finding each other out here. And now, we had.

In that instant, I knew: I would make it.

2.5 Miles Left: Sheep! 

Soon, the landscape softened. Grass spread wide. Lava rocks dotted the terrain. Sheep grazed without a care. And—finally—trees appeared.

However, the peace didn’t last.

Next came a gorge, followed by a steep ridge. And then, the air changed. Something was coming.

I climbed, and at the top of the ridge I saw it—a wall of clouds. They weren’t moving. They were waiting.

2.3 Miles: Man vs Nature

Iceland’s geography is nothing if not unpredictable. Storms here don’t simply pass—they can hover, caught between colliding wind currents, waiting for just the right moment. This one had clearly waited for me.

Suddenly, a wall of wind slammed into me from the left. My hat flew back. My pack cover ballooned like a sail. In an instant, I wasn’t hiking anymore—I was fighting. Man versus nature.

I dropped to the ground. Gravel tore into my knees as I crawled toward the only shelter in sight—a single rock. Sand whipped across my face as I curled behind it, pressing my cheek to the ground. The wind shrieked like something alive. My mouth filled with grit. My eyes burned. The trail that had empowered me all week now felt like it wanted me gone.

For a moment, I honestly believed I couldn’t go on. But then, I started singing a Cherokee song for protection from my ancestors. Gradually, the wind eased—just enough for me to move.

2.3 Miles (Part 2): The Warrior Within

Shaking, I stood. Then something cracked wide open inside of me.

“That’s all you got?!” I shouted into the clouds, arms flung wide like some unhinged Norse warrior. “I’m going across this ridge whether you like it or not!” Then came a tribal yell—loud, defiant, primal.

It was ridiculous. It was dramatic. But it worked.

Well… almost.

As I swung my pack back on, another gust struck—hard—like a punch from Njord himself. The weight and wind combo knocked me flat. Standing was no longer an option. So I bear-crawled with a pack loosely dangling from my body, back down the trail until I reached calmer air. Only then could I strap it back on properly. I was scraped up, windburned, and rattled—but not broken.

I still had a fight left in me.

2.3 Miles (Finale): The French Couple

Just when I thought I was alone, I saw them.

Two figures walking straight towards me—calm, steady. A French couple. No words exchanged. Just a nod.

And I followed.

Because with them, the fear shrank. Even though the wind still screamed, I wasn’t alone anymore.

1.5 Miles Left: Keep Going

Eventually, I reached one last obstacle—an icy, wide river. My camp shoes were destroyed, so I crossed barefoot. The water stabbed. But I didn’t fall. I didn’t stop.

Then, Thórsmörk appeared like a dream. Families laughed. The world felt normal again.Yet inside me, everything had changed.

I thought of every training run, every fuel packed meal, every plank and shakedown hike.Without a doubt—it had all been worth it.

1 Mile to Go: Quiet Survival

By the final stretch, my blood sugar had dropped dangerously low. I was completely out of snacks, with only one glucose tablet left. Two meals remained in my pack, but neither could help me now. My brain felt foggy. My legs barely responded. My body wobbled beneath me—unsteady, hollow, and weak.

I didn’t finish this hike on a high note. I finished in the middle of a quiet, invisible battle—one I fight every day. Diabetes doesn’t care how much you’ve trained or how prepared you think you are. I hadn’t accounted for how constant movement would accelerate my metabolism. I didn’t factor in the physical toll a windstorm would take on my body. By the time I realized it, I was already too far in.

The End: Survival Over Celebration

From there, my memories come in pieces. I remember climbing a set of stairs and passing a family that smelled like fresh Ivory soap. I heard someone say they couldn’t wait to get to the restaurant. I saw a hut and tents, and maybe even familiar faces—but the fog in my head was too thick to make sense of anything.

Suddenly, I was at the sign marking the trail’s end, asking someone to take my photo. I couldn’t stand straight. I tried to smile, but my body slumped. The photo turned out awful.

The version you see?
I created it on my phone.

When I finally made it to my bunk, I collapsed. Hands shaking, I tore open my last lunch and ate without tasting it. Then I just… sat. Staring at the wall. My face was numb, my lips tingling and my ears were ringing. I could hear voices around me, but none of it registered. I was there, but not really.

This wasn’t the triumphant ending I had imagined. There were no victory arms in the air. No tears of joy. No laughter or smiles. Just the quiet reality of survival. Of getting it done. Of giving everything I had—body, mind, and spirit.

I completed the Laugavegur Trail at approximately 2:00 p.m. (GMT) on Thursday, July 24, 2025.

Final Reflection: This Was More Than a Hike

Now it’s 9:48 p.m., and I’m sitting still. My body is destroyed, but my heart is full.

I need to honor the people I met—because they weren’t just fellow hikers. They were part of my story.

There was the Icelandic guide who survived an avalanche. Gloria from Italy, who spoke about trails like a fortune-teller. The Pennsylvania tribe—Barbara, Shirley, Laurie, Stacey, Tanya, Sherry, and Tracy—who felt like family.

Then came the San Diego solo hiker reconnecting with her mother’s roots. Gus and Jon from Belgium, hiking 300 miles because of a drunken night. The Hungarian hiker who let me charge my phone so I could call my kids. A Czech couple. A Danish family.

Brad and Caitlyn, who helped me on Day 2. Kiel, only 22, fearless and free—exactly who I want to become. Josh and Kelly from Arizona, who turned tea into friendship.

And finally, Katya and Todd. Lifers.

When I hugged them goodbye, I knew: this was rare.

Because this wasn’t just a hike.

It was a declaration—of who I am.
And tomorrow, I’ll still be a backpacker.