Coast to coast across the highlands, where the roads run out of names.
Eight days, one ridgeline, and a headwind that never quite let go. The Divide crosses the Icelandic interior from the south coast to the north — river crossings, black-sand plains and the kind of silence you can hear.
Paved warm-up along the fjord before the gravel begins in earnest.
The roads lose their names. First river crossings; camp by the braided rivers.
Long exposed drags above 800 m. Weather windows matter here.
A fast, rattling descent off the plateau to the sea and a hot shower.
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