The Roads That End

Iceland's Westfjords are where roads give up.

They try. They climb. They wind.

Then they stop.

Ísafjörður is the capital. Population: 2,600.

Was the only tourist.

The hotel owner asked why came.

"Looking for something quiet."

"You found it."

The Látrabjarg cliffs. Fourteen kilometers. Fourteen hundred meters high.

Puffins. Millions of them.

Sat. Watched.

A bird landed beside.

Stayed for a minute.

Flew away.

Did not move for an hour.

Dynjandi waterfall. Seven tiers. A hundred meters tall.

Was alone.

Sat on a rock. Ate lunch.

The waterfall did not care.

It fell anyway.

The roads were gravel. Rough. Narrow.

The rental car complained.

Listened.

Drove slowly.

Met a fisherman in a village without a name.

"Tourist?"

"Yes."

"First?"

"Yes."

"Last?"

"Probably."

He smiled. "Good."

Left the Westfjords after five days.

The ferry pulled away.

Watched the cliffs disappear.

Felt something had not expected.

Grief.

For a place had never known.

For a silence will never find again.

The Westfjords taught that some places are not meant to be visited.

They are meant to be witnessed.

And then left alone.

To exist.

To wait.

To end.