Tapped Out in Iceland

After clubbing in Reykjavik, rest up in Landmannalaugar, the Icelandic highlands region known for its volcanic rock formations and natural hot springs. (Tyler Stableford - Getty Images)

I felt horrible driving up to an eco-hotel -- one that had just received an international award, in fact, for its dedication to environmentally sustainable tourism -- in a loaded SUV. But Krista said there were going to be a lot of bumpy unpaved roads on our drive to Landmannalaugar the next morning, so renting a SUV was essential. We parked our gas-guzzler some distance from the other cars.

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Hotel Hellnar, on the southern coast of Snaefellsnes, had the cozy layout of a ski-lodge motel. The cheapest accommodation -- two twin beds in the space of a dorm room -- ran us about $200 a night. But we thought it was still worth it, if indeed the hotel was doing all it can for the planet. It was clear from our previous night of trashiness that Krista and I could not be trusted to do the same.

I did notice, especially at Hotel Hellnar, that the farther we were from Reykjavik, the older the other tourists were. The reason is pretty simple. The outdoor tourist activities one does outside the capital -- from summer whitewater rafting in Skagafjoerdur to dog-sledding near Langjoekull -- are expensive. And that's not adding up the full L.L. Bean ensembles that seem to be part of the lifestyle.

The healthier-looking folks at Hotel Hellnar were gearing up for a climb up Snaefellsjoekull the next day. We just wanted to ease out of our hangovers, and an ocean view would do just fine.

From the grassy 200-foot sea cliffs near the hotel, I was hoping to see some orcas. But as I looked out, the Earth's forces began their seductive, relentless sweep across the senses, with waves crashing so loudly that the ocean seemed just inches from my feet.

I became lightheaded. I was either still drunk or there was a spell here I wasn't prepared for. I unzipped my autumn jacket and let the remarkable chill bore through my thin sweat shirt and scratch my nerves -- as a way to stay alert, to hold on. I did a few jumping jacks.

By the time Krista made her way up the hill a few minutes later, I was feeling great. I think at that moment I lost my hangover the way some people break a fever.

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The next morning, Krista and I began our drive to the hot springs of Landmannalaugar -- on one of Iceland's largest geothermal fields, where the North American and Eurasian continental plates meet -- talking about the whales we didn't see on the coast of Snaefellsnes. Since whaling returned to Iceland in 2003, tension has risen between whalers and whale watchers. It has played out through a brutally obvious circumstance: The best areas to go whale watching happen to be the best areas to go whale hunting, too.

"These whale watchers would go on these boats looking for whales," Krista said, "and just on the other side, they would see these whaling boats looking for the same whales. And the whale watchers hate it."

There were no whales to see in Iceland's southern interior, or any other forms of life: The landscape is a depressing, relentless vision of the End of the World. (About 80 percent of Iceland is uninhabitable.) We spent more than half of the grueling, friendship-testing, seven-hour drive on uncomfortable, unpaved roads. Drab brown-gray rocks dotted the lunar surface; their sole purpose, it seemed, was to show the depth of the nothingness taking shape.