Solo Traveler's Guide to Extremes: From Iceland's Hofn to Chile's Concepción

Arriving in Höfn (pronounced roughly like 'Hup') feels like stepping onto another planet. This small fishing town on Iceland's southeastern coast sits in the shadow of Vatnajökull, Europe's largest glacier. The juxtaposition is immediate and striking—the harbor's fishing boats bobbing gently while massive ice caps loom in the background like sleeping giants.

My first morning, I woke before dawn (which, depending on when you visit, could be quite late in winter or absurdly early in summer) and drove east along Route 1 toward Jökulsárlón Glacier Lagoon. The road was empty except for the occasional sheep, my headlamp cutting through the pre-dawn darkness as I prepared for an early hike.

The glacier lagoon itself defies adequate description. Massive icebergs calved from Breiðamerkurjökull drift slowly toward the sea, each one a sculptural masterpiece in blue and white. I spent hours simply watching this slow-motion ballet, the ice occasionally groaning and cracking as if stretching after a long sleep. The nearby Diamond Beach, where smaller ice chunks wash ashore on black sand, provided a perfect contrast of textures and colors.

Later that day, I joined a glacier hiking tour on Breiðamerkurjökull. Our guide, Thor (yes, really), provided our group with ice cleats that proved essential for navigating the slick surface. The glacier's surface is constantly changing—what appears solid can shift, and what looks like shallow puddles can be deceptively deep. Thor pointed out features I would have missed: moulins (vertical shafts where meltwater plunges into the glacier), crevasses that glowed an otherworldly blue, and layers of volcanic ash that marked eruptions from centuries past.

While the Höfn region is dominated by ice, Iceland's true character emerges in the dialogue between fire and frost. Two hours west of Höfn lies Hveragerði, a town built atop an active geothermal field. Here, I experienced my first Icelandic hot spring hike—a 3km trail along the Reykjadalur valley that culminates in a naturally heated river.

The trail itself is a testament to Iceland's volatile nature. Steam vents hiss alongside the path, small geysers bubble and sputter, and the distinct smell of sulfur hangs in the air. I carried my water filter bottle which proved unnecessary for the hot springs (never drink hot spring water!) but was perfect for refilling from the cold, crystal-clear streams along the way.

After an hour's hike, I reached the bathing area where the hot spring water mixes with a cold mountain stream. The further upstream you go, the hotter the water becomes—nature's own temperature control. Soaking in these waters while snow dusted the surrounding hills created one of those perfect travel moments that no luxury spa could ever replicate.

During my week exploring the region, I developed a morning ritual of brewing coffee with my portable coffee maker while watching the landscape change with the light. There's something meditative about this simple act when performed against such a dramatic backdrop—the steam from my cup mirroring the geothermal vents in the distance.

The transition from Iceland to Chile is jarring in the most fascinating way. After two weeks immersed in the sparse, elemental landscapes of Iceland, I found myself in Santiago's bustling international airport, my ears adjusting to rapid Spanish while my body adjusted to the complete seasonal flip (summer to winter or vice versa, depending when you make this journey).

The flight from Iceland to Chile is substantial—I broke mine up with a brief stopover in Madrid. For long-haul flights like this, I've found my compression socks make a noticeable difference in reducing swelling and fatigue. Similarly, my travel pillow has proven worth its weight in gold for actually getting decent sleep on overnight flights.

From Santiago, I caught a domestic flight to Concepción, Chile's second-largest city and the gateway to the country's volcanic Bio Bio region. Where Iceland wears its geological activity on its sleeve, Chile's is often more subtle—until it isn't. The region has been shaped by catastrophic earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, most recently the 2010 earthquake that registered a staggering 8.8 magnitude.

My first impression of Concepción was its resilience. Despite being rebuilt multiple times following devastating earthquakes, the city maintains a vibrant energy and distinctive character. The Universidad de Concepción campus, with its striking mural-covered Forum building, offers a peaceful respite to gather your thoughts before venturing into the more geologically active surroundings.

If Höfn is defined by ice, Concepción is characterized by fire. The city serves as an ideal base for exploring Chile's portion of the Pacific Ring of Fire, including nearby volcanoes like Antuco and the otherworldly landscapes of Laguna del Laja National Park.

On my third day, I joined a small group tour to Volcán Antuco, about three hours east of Concepción. The drive itself is spectacular, transitioning from coastal plains through agricultural valleys and into increasingly dramatic mountain terrain. Our guide, María, explained how the volcano's most recent eruption in 1852-53 reshaped the surrounding landscape.

Hiking the lower slopes of Antuco reminded me of childhood trips to Mount Unzen in Japan—that same sense of walking on earth that isn't quite settled, that might have other ideas. The volcanic soil crunched beneath my hiking boots which provided crucial ankle support on the uneven terrain.

What struck me most was the contrast between the stark volcanic landscape and the lush biodiversity that has adapted to it. María pointed out plants that have evolved specifically to thrive in volcanic soil, and we spotted several Chilean flickers—woodpeckers with distinctive red heads—drilling into trees that somehow find purchase in this challenging environment.

The following day, I rented a mountain bike to explore the trails around Laguna Grande de San Pedro, a lake formed by the damming of the Bio Bio River. The area is popular with locals but sees relatively few international tourists. I packed my water reservoir which integrated perfectly with my daypack and kept me hydrated throughout the ride. The trails offer stunning views of the lake against a backdrop of the Andes, with difficulty levels ranging from gentle lakeside paths to challenging mountain ascents.

My fascination with geothermal activity inevitably leads me to seek deeper understanding of the places I visit. In Concepción, this meant exploring the city's relationship with earthquakes—particularly the catastrophic 2010 event that registered 8.8 on the Richter scale and triggered a tsunami.

The Museo Galería de la Historia de Concepción offers a moving exhibition on the city's history of rebuilding after seismic disasters. What struck me most was not the destruction itself, but the resilience embedded in Chilean culture—the matter-of-fact way that buildings are designed, the emergency protocols that children learn in school, and the collective memory that shapes everything from architecture to family emergency plans.

I spent an afternoon with Professor Rodrigo at the University of Concepción's Earth Sciences department, who explained how Chile has become a global leader in earthquake-resistant building techniques. "We don't have a choice," he told me. "We live on the edge of colliding tectonic plates. We must design our lives around this reality."

This conversation reminded me of similar discussions in Japan—that blend of respect, fear, and adaptation that develops in places where the earth regularly reminds humans of its power. I recorded our conversation using my digital voice recorder which has become an essential tool for capturing these kinds of impromptu educational moments during my travels.

Later that evening, I joined a community cooking class where we prepared traditional Chilean dishes. Our instructor, Carmen, casually pointed out features of her kitchen designed with earthquakes in mind—cabinet latches, flexible water connections, strategic placement of heavy items. These small adaptations, integrated seamlessly into daily life, spoke volumes about living in harmony with geological uncertainty.