Before I had even left for Iceland, my family was teasing me about riding My Little Ponies at sunrise on snow-covered ground. "They're not ponies," I huffed. "They're...like...small horses. They're just short." I wasn't very convincing, but I was right. This breed may often be pony-sized, but don't let it fool you!
Six of my traveling friends and I woke up early on our last day to run to the bus stop in front of Hallgrímskirkja Church and catch a ride to the Íshestar riding center. The week prior, we had booked the Lava Tour, which would take us across fields of lava rock on horse back. This was about all I knew, other than the fact that it was our coldest day yet. I had layered up with three pairs of pants, three shirts, a coat, and, unfortunately, just one pair of socks. I should have known after having been there for a week! Once we had heard a brief and enthusiastic welcome from our guide in the lodge, we herded into a large store room to zipper into enormous snow suits. Not only would they add another buffer layer against the wind, they would also protect our clothes from picking up the smell of the horses, and protect the horses from too much friction on their backs.
It had been almost ten years since I'd last been on a horse, so mounting wasn't easy. Up close, these horses did not seem short to me, and the snow suit I wore made it difficult to lift my leg high enough. Once sitting upright, one of the guides helped tighten the saddle and explained that my equine friend Isa was known to be a bit bumpy, but super sweet. This surprised me, knowing that Icelandic horses tend to move very smoothly — we had seen a demonstration the day before of a woman holding a mug of beer and riding her horse at a tölt around the track without spilling any. Bumpy or not, I was feeling good so far.
I forgot the cold for awhile as we made our way out of the fences and onto the trail. Three guides accompanied us and chatted in Icelandic while they watched our horses assemble. The woman riding behind me was excited to recognize an American accent, and started a loud conversation with me despite the ten feet of space between us. She was cut off by a guide's whistle in the middle of her description of her living room back in North Carolina, and I'll admit I was glad not to be that tourist intent on talking all the way through the ride. We stopped to take photos off the trail after half an hour, and then came the big question: how fast do we want to ride?
To my surprise, most of the group had no reservations against trying to tölt, which Icelandic horses are known for. This unique gait results from a harmless genetic mutation in this breed, and horse owners and showers are proud of it. From the rest of the group, however, a few hesitant nods were all the guides needed to decide that all of us could handle it. They led our horses to move a little faster, a little faster...and then out of nowhere I felt like my horse was sprinting. I was trying not to panic. I had a white-knuckled grip on Isa's reins through my gloves and repeated to myself under my breath, "Don't squeeze, don't squeeze!" With every long step I completely rose out of my seat and landed off center each time — it was terrifying.
We started to slow and a guide trotted back down the line to check on us. "It was good, yeah? We continue the tölt?" I stared at her blankly and eked out a non-confirming "mmm" in hopes that I wouldn't be the only one to stay behind in the walking group. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it, and after all, I hadn't come all this way to not ride as an Icelander! Plus, the prospect of getting inside to warm my feet ten minutes sooner was hard to turn down.
I did choose numb toes over falling off a horse, though. Only a few of us stayed behind to take a slower pace, including my friend Zoe, whose horse had an agenda of his own and no intention of following the guide. I looked back every so often and her voice grew fainter, but she was still easy to see in the morning light. The sun had almost fully risen by now and I was glad to have stayed on the longer path and walk towards the rosy clouds. I couldn't take photos with my phone buried somewhere in my snowsuit, but at the time I didn't even think of it. My mind was taken off of my frostbitten feet and sore knees as we moved down the hill, stables in sight. I patted Isa's neck as he slowed to a stop, now inside the fenced yard, and took the outstretched hand of a guide helping me down. The staff instructed us to gently stretch our legs before trying to walk back inside...it was an odd feeling! I regrouped with my friends back in the lobby to warm our hands with mugs of hot chocolate before reboarding the bus back to Reykjavík.
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