The mountains are calling and I must go.

I’ve hauled camera gear through the back alleys of Bangkok, dragged it across the rainforests of Borneo, and stumbled into more airports than I can remember, some with names I couldn’t pronounce without triggering an international incident. Ten years as a photographer in Southeast Asia will do that to you.

Eventually, I swapped the lenses for a laptop and started babysitting servers for big companies in The Netherlands and Vancouver. It was honest work. Paid on time. No leeches, no airport pat-downs. But somewhere between the cubicles and the clean code, I realized I’d misplaced something, the part of life that makes you feel like you’re inside a good story instead of just hearing one.

Then came one quiet night, a certain herbal cookie I won’t confirm or deny, and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I saw myself in that movie, minus the helicopter, the longboard, and the life insurance policy. That’s when it clicked. I’d been hearing the North call my whole life. I just never picked up.

When COVID hit, I finally answered. Packed a bag. Flew to Iceland.

The place hit me like a sucker punch. The weather was mean. The landscapes looked prehistoric. The silence wasn’t empty, it was alive. I wasn’t visiting. I was home.

Now, I head back for weeks at a time, every three months or so. My girlfriend hardly complains, though she’s left in charge of two Australian Shepherds who shed like they’re on commission and turn the house into a racetrack.

That’s what #TREK-ICELAND* is about. It’s not a highlight reel, it’s the stories carved out of lava fields and glacier winds, the beauty that can knock you flat and still have you crawling back for more. Out here, the edge isn’t something you visit. It’s where you live.

If you’ve enjoyed these tales of frozen fingers and flying tents, you can toss a little fuel in the tank for my next escapade via the "buy me a coffee" platform here: Coffee