Where’s That?

My brother-in-law, Sam, and I drove and hiked around the archipelago nation of the Faroe Islands. From almost every person we told that we heard, “Where’s that?” Well, these 18 islands within the Kingdom of Denmark erupt from the North Atlantic Ocean southeast of Iceland and north of Scotland. And every bend in their roads and trails wows you with a ruggedness that distracts you from almost all thoughts but amazement.

Two weeks before the world shut down over pandemic safety protocols, I bought tickets to the Faroe Islands—specifically to stand right here, to take this picture, to soak in this moment. And you know what? Even with the added expectations that come with waiting, this perch did not disappoint. This hike lived up to the hype. Breathtaking.

My brother-in-law, Sam, and I had this spot to ourselves for a bit. It’s wild to be in such a remote place with few tourists, let alone with just a friend. We did a lot of deep inhaling. Sam heard me exclaim “Wow!” or “Man!” or “Unreal!” or “My gosh!” or “We’re alive for this!” more times than he can probably count. Haha. But both of us were in constant awe.

This was about as close as I was comfortable getting to Kalsoy’s northernmost point.

And this was my view over that precipice—roughly 500 feet down to the water.

Sam and I gave each other space and silence to process moments throughout our 4 days in the Faroes. It was a lot to take in. Around every bend in the road or trail awaited a vista unlike anything we’d seen. Serendipity favored us. Even when I made mistakes in planning or navigation, we found beautiful moments and places that made them feel destined for us.

We made it. After years of anticipation, hours working on flight vouchers and changed plans, and a red-eye flight … we arrived. And the Faroe Islands did not disappoint.

One of the biggest challenges of our hikes was avoiding sheep manure in its various forms—even in unexpected places. There are no public lands in the Faroe Islands. All trails are on land owned by a local, and most of those locals use their acreage for sheep. These sheep were far braver than I, often standing in precarious places with fragile footing on steep slopes. Their different voices punctuated our hikes at random times and almost always made me laugh.

For those who’ve seen Daniel Craig’s last James Bond, this is the spot where the final scene of No Time to Die was filmed.

I’d not traveled alone with Sam in 12 years—when we hiked the Inca Trail in Peru. A lot has changed in our respective lives and shared family in that time. This week, we easily fell into a comfortable rhythm and a shared sense of humor, wonder, and humility.

This was the view as we returned to our rental car. Nature struck me as nonchalant—humbly existing in grandeur whether we stared and admired it or not. (We would’ve looked up even more often if it weren’t for the pervasive sheep manure.) If you look closely, you’ll see the tunnel that made it possible to drive to this trailhead.

Sam and I shared both thorough laughter and profound conversations on this trip. A place like this calls out your humanity in a humbling way. It puts your life back home in a more proper scale. It challenges you to climb, to lean into the elements, to explore—to lose yourself in its grandeur. And having a simpatico travel companion only accentuates that.

Sorry: one more shot of the Kallur Lighthouse from the westernmost tip of Kalsoy Island. We had to rush out of this beautiful moment to catch a ferry. Otherwise, both of us could’ve sat here for hours. Just spectacular.

Every bend we rounded on this hike revealed a touch more of our destination: the Drangarnir sea stack and the dramatic isle of Tindholmur behind it. The water was so clear, we could see the submerged kelp. We looked down into more than a dozen salmon farm circles tethered together a football field off the waterline. Anticipation built with each step on the longest hike of our four days in the Faroe Islands. We never had anything other than sweeping views of remote beauty.

What’s difficult to see in this picture is the scale of Drangarnir, this rock. That arch hole is big enough for tour boats to slide through it. We decided to hike to the facing cliff instead of riding a boat, and we had the place to ourselves the entire time.

The edge of these cliffs looks soft as you approach them, as grass grows over the precipice like snow cornices in remote winter mountains. But make no mistake: there’s good reason not to see how close you can stand to the edge of the rugged pastures. It’s a long way down, and it’d be a painful series of ricochets to get to the bottom.

If you’ve read my book, my other travel blog posts, or the captions from other wilderness expeditions, you know that I’m fascinated by the fragile and colorful life that defies its inhospitable surroundings to bring colorful beauty to the soul of those who explore. This little wildflower has leaned into and will stand against gale-force winds, buffeted by the breath of the North Atlantic. (We know this to be true because the day after I snapped this, we trudged into incessant, undaunted winds on a sister island.) My faith leads me to wonder in these moments. Pragmatism doesn’t need beauty. Survival of the fittest doesn’t demand flowers and colors and diversity to advance ecosystems. These hidden treasures are just serendipitous gifts to those who will accept them as such.

We started this hike on the other side of the hills on the far left of this frame. We survived the attacks of sea birds, protecting nests we couldn’t see. We dodged hundreds of piles of sheep manure. And the whole time, Sam and I had the entire landscape to ourselves. I misread our tickets for the tour that is required by the landowner; but when we pulled into the gas station three hours after our rendezvous time, the shopkeeper told us the owner of the land was getting gas at that very moment. She introduced us. He texted his daughter, the tour guide, to tell her we’d be hiking the property; and he welcomed us to explore his land. When we encountered her and her other customers on the trail, she offered no shame or rebuke. She just invited us to explore her family’s land (and warned us about where the “aggressive birds” were waiting). My mistake was redeemed so that we had free reign of the place. The waterfalls, the beach, the trails, the pastures—the cliff edges. We were trusted to enjoy it all responsibly. It was so refreshing, and of course, we honored the opportunity.

Copenhagen has its tiny Little Mermaid statue, but Kalsoy Island in the Faroes has the Kópakonan (Seal Woman) of Mikladalur. This imposing, 9-foot tall statue represents a local legend that is wild and gruesome. While the mythology of her story is grand fiction, her vengeance at the sake of injustice resonated with me. The verbal, physical, sexual, and religious abuse that has swirled around my life over the past 30 years stokes a fire inside me of justice for the vulnerable and retribution for the perpetrators. It’s the fire that fueled the 73,000-word manuscript I just finished writing. At the same time, I’m grateful that Sovereignty mourns more than I ever will, that the only holder of righteous indignation promised vengeance and repayment, that Jesus said it’s better to be drowned under the weight of a millstone than to harm a child, and that he resists the proud. I didn’t expect to connect so much with this statue of a naked woman, but it was a poignant moment on our trip

Despite the jet lag from our red-eye to Denmark and then our hop over to the Faroe Islands, we forewent a nap at our hotel and drove to Mulafossur. Standing on the cliff adjacent to the iconic waterfall, we got our first taste of what became a regular occurrence in the Faroe Islands: staring at a surreal landscape. It felt like we were in a fantasy novel or a movie. And people live here! You can see above the falls that the farmer who owns the land had just plowed one of his fields. This place hosts their daily life. Wow.

I saw another first at Mulafossar: old cars stacked in a dumpster awaiting pickup. Most of the vehicles we saw on the islands seemed no older than 5 years old. None of them with rust. We pondered and wondered how these remote islands were full of shiny cars (including a lot of electric ones), and I noticed that we saw only one vehicle customized in any way other than factory production.

After a nap and dinner, we took advantage of the 20 hours of sunshine in the Faroes by driving to Saksun. The tide was out, and we were able to walk a good ways on the black sand. As we would experience often in the Faroes, we were the only humans there; and the sheep paid us no mind.

We got a tip from a local to drive the scenic route to Saksun. It was a road like our local Blue Ridge Parkway but (1) narrower and (2) with very different vistas. Our map suggested we stop at Sornfelli, and we were so thankful we did. Our first day in the Faroe Islands let us know that wonderment would be our default setting. These volcanic islands found beautiful ways to capture and hold your attention with new formations and shapes and juxtapositions. We didn’t know what the following days would hold, but nature sure gave us some serious foreshadowing.

I almost expected dinosaurs or mythical creatures to roam across this landscape. Mountains and islands like these had to hold magic of some sort.

Sign me up for most places that require me to wear my puffy in June. I’m not a summer guy in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, but I’ve been blessed to travel to a lot of places that allow me to escape its long days of heat and humidity. And I was super grateful to experience this remote wonderland with Sam.

Over the past few years, I’ve visited black sand beaches more often that the traditional tan or white sand ones that typically see summer guests. The water wasn’t as cold as I was expecting, and the moving water felt good on feet that’d hiked miles every day of our vacation.

As we went to leave Tjornuvik, children were heading home from school. I was blown away by all of the Disney Frozen backpacks and also just the reality that people lived in this remote town at the end of an island in a far-flung archipelago few people have even heard of.

Usually, Sam beat me to every scenic overlook on our trip; but he let me claim a perch first on this one. I hunched into the wind to watch the petrels fight the gusts to tend to their nests on the cliffs. Sam joined me, and we soaked in the exclusivity of the moment—alone in this remarkable place five time zones from home. I wanted to absorb it, to carry the wonder of it with me home.

Our last big hike of our Faroe Islands trip was from the sleepy seaside village of Gjógv to the 700-foot-tall cliffs above it. The elevation change came on steep grades, but the bigger adventure was the strong winds. The breath of the North Atlantic is clear, but it did this to our pants. You can see a video demonstration of the wind we endured in Gjogv here.

This is the view from where I was sitting. We started our hike at the water level on the other side of the gray cliff in the middle of this photo and followed the edge through a farmer’s field all the way to this sod bench.

Coming back down from the top of the cliff, I was wowed by the fact that people live year-round in this beautiful but inhospitable place. Only one road back to civilization, miles from a grocery store or petrol station. These hardy people—who I didn’t meet—challenged me to lean into more discomfort and intentional limitations back home. I posted a sweeping video of this place here.

The Faroese people place wooden benches in cool places—sometimes just on the side of the road. There’s not a lot of infrastructure for tourists in this tiny country, but I love that they welcome all travelers to sit in moments, to revel in their surroundings, to absorb the scale of the landscapes, and to get lost in our thoughts.

This trail was on a private farm. The farmer put a collection box at the gate with a suggested donation. He used that money to add these steps and this fence for us tourists. There are no state or national parks in the Faroe Islands. Some farmers charge to access their fields. Others do not. But we would’ve gladly paid for all of them. Despite the sometimes-precarious hiking and climbing, there were no waivers and few warning signs. The Faroese people knew these islands attract more hardy explorers than Instagram selfie-takers. I hope that can stay true for many years to come.

Sam jumps into special safety equipment during many (most?) of his shifts as a professional fireman. But I introduced him to a new safety setup: a bunny harness. The team at Bungy CPH used a different harness setup than I’ve typically used in other countries, and I was a bit skeptical—until after Sam’s first bounce back up.

I was a tad bummed. I had gotten hyped to do a bungee jump into water, and Bungy CPH used to offer that option. They replaced that adventure sauce with a new bungee experience to me: launching from a crane. We got to ride all the way up in this dangling construction-elevator-cage. So fun! It made the leaning out part a touch wilder than leaping from a bridge or platform.

You can watch Sam’s jump here.

And here’s my jump. It was my first jump in Europe, giving me my fifth continent for bungee jumping. It was my first crane jump, and my first urban jump. So fun. I jumped too far out (instead of the recommended straight down) and ended up in a dizzying spiral at the end (not shown). But that first rebound was worth the price of admission. Dude. So fun.

You may also like:

Ryan George

Latest posts from Ryan George