It's always amazing to hear stories of where our bags end up in the world, and the adventures they go on. Meet Serkan, a stellar photographer and one of our stalwart ambassadors who has been on the road for months now. We caught up with Serkan to hear his story, and share some of his images.
South Iceland Layover
by Serkan Yildiz
How I got here
After ten years of cyclo commuting in Belgium, Covid brought me a new passion for biking. I soon found myself craving a major adventure, one to shut down external stimuli and finally break the 9-5 rhythm, so I planned a year-long bike tour from Seattle to Central America. The flight layover in Reykjavik seemed a perfect excuse for a detour, I decided on a month-long stint in Iceland first.
I like the idea of not defining a route or final destination, keep it flexible with an open mind for changing plans. A lot of options on the table but as I’ve never properly seen North America, and keen to discover Pacific Northwest and Utah, I start in the United States. I would then continue to Baja California and the rest of Central America. It’s unclear which routes to take or where I end up after a year.
Me during 2023 Westfjords Way Challenge. Photo credit: WFWC photo team
Last year’s Westfjords Way Challenge was exhilarating but rushed (1,000 km in 4 days), and I wanted a slower dive into Iceland’s varied terrain.
Theoretical route of the trip
Preparations
For the duration of the trip and offroad nature of the routes I had in mind, my gravel bike didn’t seem like a robust option. I had the idea of a steel dirt tourer so I had a Brother Cycles Big Bro frame custom built. I named him “Birader”, slang for brother in Turkish.
Gathering all the bags and other items was a bit complicated, after I cleared things up in Belgium I was in Turkiye to visit friends and family and left Birader back in Belgium at a friend’s. I had to use some guesswork for what would fit in what and which bags would work with their counterparts and the Birader.
In general and not just for bike traveling I tend to limit the capacity of my bags, the more volume usually means the more stuff you take with you. For the panniers I was looking for something about 20L capacity and velcro straps, not a huge fan of hook attachments, they’re more practical to take on and off but also more susceptible to damage on the rowdy bits. On the personal side aesthetics is also important to me, it makes me want to ride my bike more. I was fortunate enough to find out that North St was just about to release their Macro Adventure Panniers, they seemed just perfect for what I had in mind.
After a week of test in the Netherlands and Belgium I end up getting rid of plenty of stuff and I’m good to go.
How do I get all this on the bike?
Grand depart
Planning always feels easy—until the nerves hit when it’s time to go. Am I crazy? Can I do this? Am I running towards or away from something? I remind myself it’s normal to feel this way. I get on the flight to Iceland.
After landing, I check the airtag on my bike, relieved it’s here too. At Keflavik’s “bike pit,” I put some music on, assemble Birader and take a deep breath. It’s cloudy but dry—perfect for the first ride. I’ll miss that soon enough.
The infamous sign at the airport that implies things are about to get real
Ride out of Keflavik is smooth, there is a separated bike path until the main ring road. I had to change part of the route already before departing due to the volcanic eruption near Grindavik. Sadly no visitors allowed on the site, at least I see the fumes in the distance.
Fumes of the volcano in Grindavik visible from the ring road
After some dull miles on the ring road, I turn right, and the scenery shifts—volcanic landscape with green flat-topped peaks. The first climb already has me in the granny gear, Western Europe’s flatlands didn’t prepare me for this.
Iceland welcoming me with signature scenes
After a few hours I call it a day and choose a nice spot next to Kleifarvatn lake for the first wild camp and enjoy the Icelandic solitude.
First campsite
When going gets rough
The journey quickly becomes grueling. Rain, strong winds, and freezing temps hit, soaking everything, including my spirits. The landscape flattened, echoing Belgium’s familiar green pastures—ironic. I’m questioning my life choices that got me here, given it’s sunny almost everywhere else! Nights are intense, with gales shaking my tent and pushing me to brace the poles from time to time. Yet, every rare glimpse of the sun gives me hope that things can get better.
Summary of the first week
Every once in a while the sun shows and I find some gravel
Beginning of attractions
There’s a famous hot pot here in the South called Seljavallalaug. It’s a man made pool in the 20s surrounded by beautiful mountains and flora. I catch yet another pleasant weather with heavy rain and headwing, luckily I find a cave to wait it out. Usually there’s no shelter to take around here. It’s pretty cosy inside but I’m low on water and have places to go to, had to opt out and continue on.
Inside the cave that saved me from extra 2 hours of rain
It takes a bit of rough riding and hiking, the pool is disappointingly cold (only mid 20 C) but the view is nice.
Seljavallalaug hot pot
I settle at Skogafoss campground, at first it sounded pleasant only to discover the campsite’s proximity to endless tourist activity. However, an unexpected night shoot with costumed characters by the waterfall made for a unique photo moment.
A strange scene comes together at Skogafoss by night
I reach to the first glacier called Sólheimajökull (“jökull” means glacier in Icelandic), even though it’s not a largest here it’s invigorating to finally see one in the flesh.
Sólheimajökull glacier
It’s a nice view, one can’t help but respect to these everlasting structures. And sadly how they slowly disappear. They’re losing ground every year due to climate change.
They are constantly on the move, you can hear the cracking sounds in the glaciers and icebergs make occasional jumps in the lagoon for whatever reason.
Glacier lagoon at Sólheimajökull
Soon after, I biked to Solheimasandur’s famous DC navy plane wreck—an eerie site from a 1973 crash. With few tourists around, I managed a photo of Birader by the plane before rain sent a crowd of tourists in my direction.
Riding by Eyjafjallajokull, the glacier where the famous big volcano eruption happened in 2008
After another treacherous section I reach Vik, the last large town in the South. I’m freezing and go directly to the Kronan supermarket to buy lots of fresh fruit and veggies, it’s my way of consolation. In front of the supermarket I see another cyclist having a beer next to his very heavily loaded tour bike, we chat for an hour or so. He’s an interesting person and a life long bike tourer from Bulgaria. He tells me the story of one of his trips in South America that he met another cyclist from Denmark and together they built a raft and sailed in the Brazilian Amazon for 5 months. I don’t really believe him until he shows me the photographs.
With good weather and tailwinds ahead, I took a detour to Þakgil campground through the rugged Katla Geopark, finally getting some proper offroad gravel riding. Þakgil’s mountain views and camp made it well worth the effort.
Path through Katla Geopark
Road to Þakgil, exactly what I came here for
Þakgil campground
Glimpses of Sun and glaciers
After Þakgil, the weather clears up a bit (though not without a few hours of rain), and I reach the small town of Kirkjubæjarklaustur. From here, it’s about 75 km to the big glaciers in the East. Afterward, I’ll return the same way and head into the Highlands. I consider taking the bus but decide against it—it’s too expensive, and riding twice should still be interesting. Past Vik, traffic eases, the weather isn’t too bad, and I’ll have hours of glacier views as I ride.
Southeastern Iceland is donimated by the glaciers
I take my time and arrive at Svinafellsjökull by 20:30 in the evening, it’s almost 24 hours of daylight and I imagine to have the glacier lagoon all for myself. The plan works, no one at the site and surprisingly no wind. I even get to fly my drone for the first time in Iceland.
Svinafellsjökull
It’s peaceful by the glacier’s edge, with icebergs of various sizes floating in the lagoon. I meet David from Germany, who lives in Denmark. He took a ferry from there to the Eastfjords, allowing him to cycle Iceland without packing his bike—a very tempting idea. He brought his drone but finds his remote is out of battery, unfortunately. David tells me he was here yesterday, and the lagoon was empty of icebergs. It’s surprising how much the scene around glaciers can change in just a day.
Layers of Svinafellsjökull glacier lagoon and mountains in the background
Campsite next to Skaftafell glacier
David returns to camp a few hours after me, he hurt his knee riding the Eastfjords’ steep climbs and strong winds. I planned to ride to the Highlands the next day, but David warns me of an incoming storm. A quick check on the Windy app confirms gusts up to 175 kph—strong enough to topple vehicles. Not eager to test my luck, I decide to stay here for another day.
Skaftafell glacier
It turns out to be a good call. The next day, the wind shakes the camp, and my tent collapses. David helps me pack it up; luckily, the poles are only slightly bent. An Asian woman from the camp tells us that while her family tried visiting the glaciers, they had to take shelter when her son was almost blown away. Reports come in of flipped RVs and trucks in the East. Meanwhile, two Canadian cyclists, unaware of the storm and oddly prepared with a full-size hammer for tent stakes, ignored our warnings and headed out. I hope they’re safe.
Rare moment of riding into sunset, gotta enjoy them as they come by
Into the Highlands
The storm clears the next day, and it’s finally time to head into the Highlands. Iceland's Highlands span much of the island’s rugged interior, filled with mountains and branching rivers, and are largely uninhabited. It’s a true challenge—only bikes, hikers, and 4x4s can access the area. With few campgrounds and mountain huts, I’ll need to bring several days’ worth of food. Thankfully, water isn’t an issue; the rivers here, like everywhere in Iceland, are safe to drink straight from.
Welcoming peaks of the Highlands
The first two weeks, I wasn’t sure I could ride in the Highlands. It’s been a heavy rain season, with snow still lingering in mid-June. Though rain has eased, river levels are high and roads damaged. I’ve been checking road conditions daily on road.is and getting updates from my friend Kristinn in the Westfjords, who works with weather and road reports. Up until a few days before my entry the roads were still closed but he assured me they would open soon, and they eventually did. But the real conditions would only be clear once I hit the road.
F-roads of the Highlands
The first day is sunny and wind-free, a welcome change. I officially enter the Highlands, marked by gravel F-roads crisscrossing the interior. There’s no one else around, just me and the birds—no signs of human life for miles. It’s a mix of relief, excitement, and a bit of nerves. I can’t help but think if something happens, help would be far away. But that quickly fades as I take in the beauty of the place. After a few hours, I find a great wild camping spot near the road, sheltered from the wind and close to the river. My wild camping modus operandi is: safety, flat ground, and shelter are must-haves; comfort and water are bonuses.
First campsite in the Highlands
The next day is gloomy and cold—typical Iceland weather, never predictable. It’s less comfortable, but it makes the landscape more dramatic. With mist and sharp peaks, the place starts to feel like Mordor. River crossings become more frequent, and today I count 12 of varying sizes. I ride all but one, where I have to dismount and walk through in sandals, my feet nearly freezing. Watching YouTube videos on reading water depth is proving to be helpful.
Enter Mordor
My original plan was to ride F210 to see the famous Maelifell peak, but the river crossings were too large. I tried the road anyway, but when I encountered a massive river, I turned back and joined F233 instead. The climbs on this route are steep and relentless, tougher than the original plan on F208, with each descent leading to a river crossing or another climb. Sometimes the next climb starts right after crossing a river, but the Rohloff hub helps me shift gears smoothly mid-climb. The climbs are tough, but they reward me with stunning views, slowly revealing dramatic peaks.
Big river crossing on F210 that I had to bail out
My usual late departures often bring unfortunate weather, and today is no exception. I'm stuck in thick mist with visibility down to just five meters, making navigation and picking the right lines difficult. As I climb to the highest section of the route, the temperature hovers near freezing, and the winds make it even walking a serious task. The altitude might only be 600 meters, but here even a few hundred meters can make a huge difference.
Misty ride at the summit
The rain intensifies during the descent, and with the strong headwind, the droplets hit me almost horizontally, right into my eyes. Combined with the mist, it makes for a tough descent, but the campground is just ahead. I arrive at Holaskjkol campsite, where the receptionist offers a dorm room for an extra fee. Given the amenities —an enclosed space, hot shower, and kitchen— I gladly take it. After such a rough day, I'd pay anything for it. The room is spacious and comfortable, with just one other guest: Matthijs, a cyclist from the Netherlands with a much lighter setup. His carbon gravel bike makes me a little envious, he's zooming through the Highlands at full speed. He tells me he passed through this area two hours earlier, and the mist was absent, offering incredible views. Another reminder that leaving early is key. After a hot shower and meal, I’m ready for a good night’s sleep, knowing I'll have dry clothes tomorrow.
Me trying to get my act together after a big climb
The day starts with two steep climbs, with grades reaching 15-20%. The heavy bike makes it extra tough, but it's part of the journey: shift to granny gear, maintain a steady cadence, and take breaks when needed. Rushing to the top would only lead to fatigue later.
Winding roads to Landmannalaugar
After the climbs, the ride to Landmannalaugar is smooth, and the weather cooperates. The campsite is larger and busier than expected, full of thru-hikers and tourists visiting the Laugavegur trail. While it lacks some facilities—no electricity or kitchen—it does have a hot pot that is actually hot. I catch up with Matthijs and buy him a beer, we head to the pot. It’s a bit tricky to find the right spot, as the water temperature constantly shifts between hot and cold from three streams feeding the pond. After a relaxing soak, some dinner, and good conversation, it’s time to sleep. I got a solid plan in place for tomorrow.
Landmannalaugar campsite
Backcountry nutrition. Tortillas, couscous, cheese, beans, and coffee
The Highlands are remote and unforgiving, testing the cyclist but offering great rewards. On my last day, I ride F225 west, passing through Hekla, Iceland’s most volcanically active region, though the last eruption was in 2008. Known for its moon-like terrain and lush green peaks against dark gray dirt. It’s mostly downhill westbound, finally time to reap rewards after the tough climbs of the past two days.
Winding roads of Hekla, a volcanic marvel
The day turns out to be one of the best rides of my life. Mostly fast rolling gravel, beautiful and strange landscape, wind at my back, and mostly downhill make up for the tough climbs before. With no rivers to cross, F225 is a must-ride in the Icelandic Highlands. It’s also no surprise The Rift, a popular gravel race, takes place here.
Cloud show at the moon
Sometimes rest not only because of fatigue, but also to enjoy the scenery
Initially I thought it could take me 2 days to finish this section but with the joy and speed I find myself out of the Highlands and back on paved roads into the bug infested lands. It’s been special to ride in this place, which I’ll surely return with a lighter setup in the future.
Giant green walls erupting from dark volcanic sand, forming a stark contrast
Overall, I’m happy with my ride through the Highlands, despite some weather setbacks caused by poor timing. It was challenging at times with steep descents, but I found a good balance between safety and enjoyment.
Trusty red lentils and couscous can last you a week in the backcountry
Water wasn’t an issue, so I didn’t need to carry much, and I can live on oatmeal, lentils, and couscous for days. Cold weather also allowed me to carry fresh food when there was space.
Return of asphalt marks the end of the Highlands
As for the gear, the North St adventure panniers proved to be a solid choice. They held up really well throughout the trip—no signs of damage, no water inside, and the velcro straps kept everything securely in place. For me, panniers should serve only a few key functions: stay put, keep the contents safe and dry, and -if all possible- look good . These panniers nailed all of that. I do understand some people might be put off by the velcro, as it takes a bit more effort to remove them. Personally, I don’t need to remove mine often. I store clothing in packing cubes (which I highly recommend), so I just take the cubes out. The other pannier holds my camping gear, which is made up of a couple items. In the end, I value the reliability and robustness of the design over practicality or ease of removal. If hooks are more your style, North St also offers models with that option.
Highlands survival machine
A relaxed way back
I planned for potential weather issues and gave myself extra time in Iceland—about 3.5 weeks. This left me with over a week to ride back to Keflavik, averaging 30 km a day. With good weather and nice campsites, I took it easy and enjoyed the scenery. My friend Axel, from Iceland, recommended an alternative route back to Reykjavik that avoids the ring road, and it turned out to be a great decision. Always wise to take advice from the locals.
One of 18000 waterfalls in Iceland
This part of the ride is more about enjoying quiet roads and mild weather than major highlights. I stop at a couple of tourist spots but regret it immediately—tourist buses and motorhomes quickly spoil the solitude. Geysir is a prime example: the smell of sulfur and heavy traffic signal its arrival from miles away. Tour buses swarm the area, so I take a quick walk, see the geysers, eat my sandwich, and pedal away.
Tourists at Geysir experiencing the explosive vents through their devices
I pass through Thingvellir national park, it’s situated right at the intersection of North American and Eurasian tectonic plates and home for the infamous Silfra, the pond where you can snorkel or scuba dive between the plates. As for everything else this was also expensive, about 150 € for snorkelling and 240 for diving. No thanks, I’ll just have a look from here.
Silfra
Eurasian tectonic plate
North American tectonic plate. Classic American style, grander
There is a nice campsite in the park, where you can either choose to camp next to the visitor center or ride 7 km south off the road to camp by Thingvallavatn lake, the latter being the obvious choice. I pick up some cold beers and chips and head out there.
Serene campsite in Thingvellir national park by the lake
A family of geese come to hang out with me, nice to be around wild life without startling anyone. Late at night it gets pretty loud, I go outside to pee and see a whole community of them having a meeting by my tent.
Friendly family of geese by my camp
A local gentleman doing some fly fishing, I’m guessing
Pack only bare essentials
As I approach Reykjavik, I take one last look at the mountains, realizing how much I'll miss them. I rarely looked at them in the last week as I got pretty used to them. I settle into the city campsite with three days left before my flight, giving me time to relax, explore, and reflect on the journey.
I unload all the bags at the camp and pedal around town, it’s startling to get back to the unloaded bike. It’s agile! A fully loaded bike is more like a boat, which is surprisignly quick to§111 get used to handling.
I catch up with friends Jon Oli (owner of Reiðhjólaverzlunin bike shop) and Axel (a photographer and WFWC 2023 documenter) over beers. The best part of bike racing for me is the friendships I make along the way. Axel kindly offers to drive me to the airport, saving me a trip in the early hours.
At the airport, I find discarded, soaking wet bike boxes. I dig through and grab the driest one, then patch it up with pieces of other boxes and a roll of tape I brought with me.
Since my flight is early, I end up spending the night at the airport. It’s crowded, but I find a quiet corner, set up my mattress, and use the bike box for some privacy.
Yoda cave
Final thoughts
I enjoyed my time in Iceland, but to be honest, I could have skipped the ring road. Without the Highlands, I’d think less of the trip. Jon Oli later showed me routes heading northeast from Reykjavik into the interior, a much more scenic option with fewer tourists. Next time, I'd go straight to the Highlands, spend a week or more there, explore the Westfjords, and head back to Reykjavik along the coast. The fjords are stunning and much more isolated, offering a more intimate Iceland experience, far from the crowds.
One highlight was how well my gear performed in the tough conditions. Despite the rough riding, I had no mechanicals, punctures, or worn-out brake pads. The panniers endured everything—rain, rough roads, and heavy loads—keeping my stuff safe and dry. After all the miles, they still look brand new. As an engineer and photographer, I’m always drawn to the blend of great design and functionality. Well done North St, and thank you.
North St. adventure macro pannier, still looking good as new after a month of beating in Iceland
Straps still looking strong after taking a lot of beating
The next step
Next, I’ll fly to Seattle and bike through Washington, Oregon, Utah, Arizona, and California, exploring National Forests, the Pacific Coast, deserts, and canyons before heading into Mexico via Baja California. The ride will take about three months, with time to enjoy local cultures, talk to people, and sip a few American IPAs.
See you next time.