Lofthellir Ice Cave

We were late. Late enough to have Adam looking grimly at his watch, which given his just-in-time approach to life, is pretty late. We zoomed in to the parking lot at the Myvatn Visitor Center and hopped out. I didn't see any ice cave. 

“There’s the hummer,” said Adam. A young man, our guide I presumed, was loading equipment into the trunk. He gave us the once-over.

“You guys should put your jackets and pants on. We’re ready to roll.” I looked down. I thought I had pants on. Yes, there they were—my mom uniform: activewear joggers. I looked at his pants—waterproof shell, nice ankle zipper to make putting them on over your shoes easy. So now we were late *and* underdressed.

I gulped, envisioning the worst. “Best I’ve got. Should I be worried about frostbite?”

The guide laughed. “You’ll live. It’s cold and a little wet inside the cave, but you’ll be OK.” And that was Raggi—short for Ragnar, ICE-SAR rescuer, descendent of Vikings, and our guide for the day.

I settled in the back of the Hummer, while asking myself where the hell we were going that we needed a damn assault vehicle. This is what happens when I don’t do any of the planning legwork, but luckily for me, I’m usually OK with surprises.*

We drove for a bit while Raggi spoke a bit about the Myvatn area**, telling us a myth based in the area about a lovesick troll and her boat, turned to fossils in the sun. He told us about what it’s like for the sheep farmers, managing their flocks in this rift valley between two continents, and about Iceland in general, the nature of the people and how they’ve managed to thrive at the top of the world. A good tour guide really makes an experience special, and thanks to Raggi we learned a little about the area's natural history, botany, geology, animal husbandry, history and literature.

Where was I? So we parked the the hummer by the side of a road that wasn’t really a road, anyway, and set off on a short hike. ”In the RAIN?” moaned the kids. The rest of us tiptoed gingerly around the puddles while Raggi strode confidently up the hillside to a spot marked by a plaque. Uh oh, I thought. They never put a plaque out for anything with a happy ending. This is probably the spot where some group of hikers got lost and ended up frozen to death or eating each other. It wasn’t, but I won’t spoil the surprise—if you want the whole story you’ll have to hear for yourself. Suffice it to say it was an interesting story, well worth the hike—and we weren’t even at the Ice Cave yet. 

After some further driving, during which the need for a Hummer made clear, we parked at a trailhead and hiked to the gear trailer that held the crampon boots we’d need for the cave. On went the hats and gloves we’d brought along in lieu of waterproof pants, and down we went through a hole in the ground, past a patch of dirty, half-melted snow, and into a cold, damp cave of ice. Have I mentioned I’m a little claustrophobic?

We squeezed through some tight openings that had me thinking they could add a rebirthing experience to the tour, and climbed over a few ice floes to the main cavern. Once I’d assured myself that we were unlikely to meet up with a Yeti or a polar bear, I began to see the draw. The formations were beautiful, and Raggi gently (very gently) made them play us a little tune. I was a little worried one of my kids would try something stupid like licking a stalagmite and then we’d end up stuck there for hours, but they actually did a pretty good job not wrecking the place while Raggi gave us some good background information about how ice caves are formed. Spoiler alert—this one will eventually be so full of ice it will be impassable, so come while you can!

After some more fun with ice, which I won’t go into so you can be as surprised and delighted by the experience as we were, we managed to leave the cave more or less as we found it (thanks, kids!) Super bonus: all of us managed to avoid frostbite. I’d totally go back, claustrophobia notwithstanding, but next time I’m bringing waterproof pants. And Raggi, next time we promise to be on time.***

*Except surprise parties. Seriously, please nobody ever throw me a surprise party. But I’ll gladly come to yours!

**Turns out Myvatn is Icelandic for “Midge Lake.” Midge, as in those annoying biting flies. This came as no surprise to us as we’d tried to picnic near there the day before and ended up eating in the car, gazing morosely at the picnic table some joker had put there to lure unsuspecting tourists into the fly zone. Or maybe it was the midges put it there?

***Raggi leads all kind of adventures, along with his company Myvatn Activity. Next time I’m gonna ask him to set us up on a backcountry hike. Who's in to join me?