#Trek-Iceland*: my Ultimate gear Guide

The Icebreaker 260 is one of those pieces that earns its keep year-round. Rain, sun, cold it doesn’t matter. It wicks away moisture, dries fast enough, and keeps doing the job whether you’re on the move or standing still. It’s soft against the skin, doesn’t itch, and handles multi-day use better than most synthetics.

That said, don’t mistake it for armor. On its own under a jacket in winter, it’s not enough, especially if the weather decides to drop the hammer. Think of it as the foundation in your layering system. It’s a reliable first line, but you’ll need insulation and a proper outer shell if you want to stay warm in real cold.

After a week’s use, even merino can start to hold a trace of trail life. Easiest fix? Ball up some fresh newspaper and stuff it inside, sleeves, body, the works. Leave it overnight, and the paper will pull out most of the moisture and odor without a wash. It’s a trick old guides use, and it works.

On paper, the 260 bottoms are just the other half of the set. In practice, they’re what let you get the most out of a serious pair of waterproof trousers. Slide them under the Pro Gamekeeper Boot Trousers and you’ve got a perfect combination: all the thermal and moisture-handling benefits of merino, matched with the all-weather protection and extra reinforcement those trousers bring.

Like the top, they’ll shrug off smell longer than synthetics, but when they finally do pick one up, the same newspaper trick works here too, just ball and pack the legs and seat overnight. It’s simple, doesn’t require soap, and buys you more days between washes.

Some mid layers are made to look sleek in coffee shops. This one was made in Sweden to hold its own in deep winter, where snowdrifts pile high and the cold isn’t something you escape, it’s something you plan for. The Woolpower 600 is thick, unapologetically warm, and carries the kind of quiet confidence you only get from 70% merino wool blended with just enough synthetic to keep its shape. Every one of them is finished by hand, and if you flip it inside out, you’ll find the stitcher’s name sewn into the seam, a small nod to the fact that a human being, not just a machine, saw this one through to the end.

It’s not sleek. It’s not trim. It’s the kind of jacket (cardigan?) you wear under a shell when you’ve stopped moving and the cold starts to press in. Unlike lighter layers, this one doesn’t flinch, the loft traps heat, the merino wicks away moisture, and it somehow avoids smelling like an old sheep after days of use. It’s warm enough that you could skip an intermediate layer entirely if you pair it with a serious outer shell. A good anorak or smock will get the job done.

One thing to note: this isn’t the layer you pack for long, wet hikes when the temperature isn’t truly cold. The density that makes it so warm also makes it bulky in the pack, you’ll feel every litre of space it claims. Save it for when winter’s settled in for good, when you’re posted up on a snow-covered ridge or standing around camp long after the sun’s called it a day.

I usually take three or four pairs of merino hiking socks with me on a trip. In theory, this gives me options. In practice, I wear the same pair most of the time because swapping them out feels like wasting the “good” ones. You end up forming an unspoken bond with that first pair, they’ve been through things with you.

Why wool? Because nothing else comes close. It stays warm even when it’s soaked, wicks moisture before blisters have a chance to form, and it doesn’t turn into a biohazard after two days of sweat. (Five. It's 5 days, they turn bioweapons grade) Merino especially is borderline magical, soft, strong, and naturally antibacterial. Cotton socks? That’s how you end up crying on the side of a trail with feet that smell like death and feel like hamburger. Wool is the only answer. 

Here’s the part nobody tells you about long-term use:

After a few days, those socks start to undergo what I can only describe as crustyfication, a gradual transformation caused by dried sweat, trail dust, and a slow buildup of boot grease. Drying them over the blast-furnace radiators you find in Iceland’s hotels during winter doesn’t help; they go in soft and come out knock-on-wood solid, as if they’ve been lacquered. But they’re still warm, still comfortable, and somehow still smell like they’re ready for another day’s work. Which is why they often get it.  Much to the delight of the dogs, who treat them like Michelin-starred chew toys the second I’m not looking. 

Same as the Sock story. Bring the big Gold Bond, minty fresh. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth, dammit."