Escaping Into the Ice Cave

January 13, 2025

After a steaming bowl of lamb soup that was more comforting than filling, I grab my roommate, and we board the bus set to take our Iceland study abroad class to an ice cave carved deep within the top of a glacier. The air is buzzing with excitement and the sharp clicks of our seatbelts as we anticipate what we expect to be a thirty-minute ride.

Our naive enthusiasm lasts all of ten minutes. Then comes the announcement: what we thought would be a short trip is, in reality, a two-hour drive. A wave of groans and gasps ripple through the bus as we all begin the same mental calculation: this will be a six-hour trip by the time we are done. I glance at my phone, watching the battery percentage race against time to its demise. Resigned, I set it aside and turn my attention to the window.

The world outside has transformed into an endless expanse of white. Snow blankets the earth, drapes itself over the trees, and blurs the horizon until it's impossible to distinguish where the ground ends and the cloud-filled sky begins.

As the bus climbs higher into the mountains, the scenery becomes increasingly surreal. The snow deepens, the winds grow harsher, and we begin to lose sight of anything other than snow and clouds. My toes, now numb from the cold, feel like they’re slowly transforming into miniature icicles. To distract us, Olle, our guide, begins sharing stories of Icelanders choosing to be exiled to these harsh, unforgiving conditions over going to jail in Denmark. The idea of people fending for their lives in these conditions adds a level of respect for the powerful culture of Icelanders.

Relief floods through me as the bus finally slows, signaling our arrival. But just as I exhale, a loud thump jerks us sideways. The vehicle tilts sharply, throwing me against the cold wall of the bus. A moment of stillness is shattered by another thump, this time even scarier. The wheel seems to have fallen into a deep hole of snow, and the driver struggles to to escape. We get launched forward, then backward, and then it the process repeats. I glance toward Olle for reassurance, but his smile is strained and fails to reach his eyes. Without a word, he vacates the bus, his boots crunching into the snow as he scurries to consult the driver. For a moment, I picture us stranded here, surrounded by nothing but ice, wind, and the silent threat of isolation.

After what feels like an eternity, the bus finally rocks free, and we escape onto solid ground. We step out into pillowy soft snow so deep I would probably get lost in it if I attempted a snow angel.

Entering the ice cave is like stepping into another world. As we walk into the cave, the air is sharp and clean, with a faint echo of dripping water breaking the stillness. The walls are so smooth I can't help but reach out and touch the different layers frozen in time. Olle explains the cave is sculpted by centuries of shifting ice. Each line of dark blue to light blue is a year of icy winter to a warmer summer. I follow the lines up to the ceiling, where I see a thick sheet of ice and a water droplet drips onto my cheek. As we walk deeper into the cave, the beauty is almost overwhelming. The walls and ceiling seem to press in, a reminder of how small and temporary we are compared to the ancient ice surrounding us.

As we wander deeper into the cave, I find myself lost in thought. If there’s one thing most important to me other than my friends and family, it’s the memories I’ve made on this trip to Iceland. This ice cave was a once-in-a-lifetime experience worth more than anything money can buy.