The air smelled like sulfur and regret—an odd combination for someone like me, used to the crisp bite of Maine’s salty sea breeze. But that’s what happens when you find yourself standing at the edge of a steaming, bubbling mud pit inside a volcanic crater in Iceland, surrounded by tourists clutching cameras, faces twisted between amazement and mild nausea. This was not where I expected to be, not physically and definitely not emotionally. But love—or, rather, my impulsive attempt to rekindle it—had brought me here.

The Setting: A Land Where the Earth Hisses

Let me set the scene. I had flown to Iceland mid-November—a dicey time for travel—and it wasn’t exactly for the Northern Lights. The invitation came from my then-boyfriend, Colin, who was spending a year “finding himself” across Europe. I’ve always had a soft spot for the rugged, loveable-rogue type (imagine Ryan Gosling if he traded in his brooding look for a Patagonia jacket). Our long-distance relationship was a mix of sporadic FaceTime calls and the occasional overly wrought email, peppered with Colin’s promises of a Nordic reunion. When he suggested meeting in Iceland for a “once-in-a-lifetime adventure,” I packed my warmest wool socks. Who says romance isn’t spontaneous?

But Iceland was nothing like Maine. Sure, both had that remote, end-of-the-earth vibe, but here, the earth didn’t play nice. It felt alive in a chaotic, almost vengeful way. Waterfalls roared from great heights. Geysers exploded without warning. Rivers twisted and froze into shapes that made me think of abstract art. Colin and I had started the trip by driving Iceland’s Ring Road in a rented van—a questionable choice for a couple already on thin emotional ice.

On day three, we came to the Hverir geothermal field, a place so otherworldly it looked like Mars with a moody attitude. The ground was red and black, steam hissed from cracks, and the mud pits gurgled lazily, like they’d eaten too much Thanksgiving dinner. This was the spot Colin insisted we hike to “soak up the raw power of nature”—a phrase he repeated often, usually while making sure his scarf was at the perfect angle for his Instagram.

The Real Adventure: A Lesson in Relationship Dynamics

As we approached one particularly large mud pot, Colin decided it was the perfect moment to discuss our future. Specifically, why we hadn’t made any plans past this trip. For a guy who claimed he was learning to “live in the moment,” he seemed peculiarly interested in commitment—or maybe just in shifting the blame. I listened as he rattled through familiar grievances: I was too focused on my writing, too hesitant to pick up and leave Maine for a new city, too… me. Meanwhile, the mud bubble behind him swelled and burst with a satisfying plop. Somehow, it was the most honest sound I’d heard all day.

I had no clever comeback, no poetic monologue about how relationships were like volcanic activity—sometimes hot, sometimes destructive, always unpredictable (though believe me, I thought of that line later). I just stared, watching the steam rise around us, thinking, This, Abby. This is the craziest place you’ve ever been. Physically? Yes. But also emotionally.

What I Learned Staring Into a Pit of Mud

We didn’t break up on the spot, but something shifted in that moment, as tangibly as the scalding vapor hissing up through the cracked earth. I realized it wasn’t the location—it wasn’t the mud pits, the geysers, or even Colin’s dramatic scarf adjustment. It was the growing chasm between what we individually wanted in life. And, as a wise Icelandic saying goes, “Þetta reddast,” or, “It will all work out.” Maybe what I needed wasn’t Colin by my side, or even some grand adventure to Iceland. Maybe I just needed clarity—a space to figure out what mattered.

Ironically, that realization didn’t come with a big dramatic breakup speech. It snuck in quietly, like the way fog rolls over a Bar Harbor shore in the morning—slowly, until you’re suddenly surrounded.

Takeaways From The Least Glamorous Romantic Getaway

Everything in life, relationships included, feels heightened in strange or extreme environments. There’s something about standing on unsteady ground—whether it’s the literal heat of a volcanic field or the metaphorical tension of a strained relationship—that forces you to look at what’s beneath the surface.

Here’s what I walked away with (aside from a souvenir sweater far too expensive for what it is):

  • Know when you’re clinging just for the story. Sure, meeting a semi-nomadic boyfriend in one of the planet’s most stunning countries sounds great in theory. But in practice, romance needs more than just Instagram-worthy scenery.
  • Adventures shouldn't be bandaids. A big trip won’t fix a relationship, just like visiting the Grand Canyon won’t heal a mid-life crisis. Adventures should amplify joy, not serve as CPR for something flatlining.
  • Relationships need mutual footing. Hiking volcanic trails with someone is a litmus test for teamwork. Do they share snacks, or eat the only bag of trail mix? Are they helping you through the steep patches—or just sprinting ahead for the best selfie spot?

The Ending: Not Quite a Happily Ever After

By the time we made it back to the rental van that day, covered in sulfur-scented mist, I felt lighter. Heavyhearted, sure—but also lighter, like I understood myself better. Colin and I drifted apart shortly after that trip, though not without fondness for the version of us that had worked once.

I still look back on Iceland with warmth, even as the memory of that bubbling mud pit reminds me of how turbulent love can get. And yet, much like standing near something as volatile as a volcanic field, I wouldn’t change a moment of it. It’s those messy, heart-stirring moments that remind you what you’re capable of—what you need, and what you’ll never settle for again.

So, if ever you find yourself teetering near literal or figurative molten cracks in the earth, don’t just look down. Look in—and trust yourself to navigate what comes next.