Overlanding Iceland in a Jeep Sahara

I wake up with one thought in my head. Again. “Maybe it was a stupid idea.”

Words by Marcus Wendt

I open my eyes, and the hoar-frost-covered roll cage above me catches my attention. I’m somewhere in Iceland. It’s November, and I’m still tucked into my sleeping bag in the back of my JLU. At the very least, I didn’t prepare as well as I had planned for this trip.

A deep-sleep mattress lies beneath me, surrounded by pillows and clothes to block cold bridges between my body and my Jeep’s. That’s about it—no extra heating. The engine oil temperature reads 20F as I’m about to start the engine—staring at a solid layer of rime ice on the inside of the windshield.

But to be fair, the idea had been stupid long before this—driving my Jeep from the southwest of France to the northern tip of Denmark in just three days. Then, almost 3 days on a ferry crossing the North Atlantic in winter storms.

All of this just to come back here – because I’d had this idea for years—to return to Iceland with my own car. To roam freely for as long as I wanted. To finally explore this beautiful island in more detail than I had on past trips. To find surf and northern lights.

2024 marked the peak of solar activity—a 12-year cycle of the sun that intensifies the aurora—so nature had set the time frame. Since there are no visible northern lights in summer, it had to be winter. But, as I’d learned on a previous trip, it takes more than just solar activity.

Once, I flew to Iceland for a long weekend—a romantic Christmas gift. The aurora app showed high activity. I forgot to check the weather (I never said I was smart). And I can tell you this—the sky feels even darker and heavier when your phone tells you the magical sky snake is dancing  just on the other side of thick clouds. Traumatized by that trip, I swore to myself that  next time, I’ll stay longer and raise my chances. One month should do.

In the end, I didn’t do much to upgrade my 2019 Jeep Sahara Overland. It’s already one of the most capable off-roaders off the shelf. I added bigger tires on AEV rims and a roof rack. I mounted a table to the tailgate (just to remove it later to make room for sleeping), and most importantly, I added a snorkel—a modular, removable one to make my subtle Hella Yella Jeep blend in a little better on French parking lots. I also secretly judge fellow 4×4 drivers who only take their lifted, winched, snorkeled rigs to the supermarket. You know, just in case the apocalypse hits during a grocery run.

And yes – there were definitely moments I wished I’d lifted mine before coming here. And added a steel bumper.

Like when I was crossing one of the many rivers in Iceland’s highlands. What looked like a passable crossing turned out to be thicker ice than we’d judged. The second the front tires broke through and the rear ones lost grip on the slick surface, we approached the point of almost-no-return. We plunged into hip-deep water, and chunks of ice began piling up onto the hood. But slow and steady, like an Arctic submarine, we ice-broke our way across.

With a bit more lift, I might’ve saved some nerves. A steel bumper would’ve survived the swim.

As I got out to clear ice from the windshield, I noticed parts of my bumper sadly hanging off the side. My JLU had lost its smile. But with duct tape and zip ties, I “fixed” it for the rest of the trip (and honestly up to this day). I looked at it and said, “I wanted an AEV bumper anyway.”

“Forced upgrade, they call it”, my friend replied.

Even with all the planning, things change, and you have to adapt. Mother Nature is always in charge. I’d mapped out inland F-roads and watched most of the river crossings on YouTube before arriving. We used SafeTravel.is to stay updated on road conditions and adjusted our route accordingly. These precautions are an absolute must because the weather here can change in minutes, and is as unforgiving as it is breathtaking.

Iceland’s roads are a dream for anyone with a soft spot for adventurous roaming. It may not feel as “free” as off-roading in the U.S., and that’s probably a good thing here as nature grows back incredibly slowly. Respect isn’t optional. And honestly, who needs to go off-road when the roads lead you through waterfalls?

After our icy highland adventure, it became clear. It was time to slowly leave the island’s center. It was getting too cold up there, and even though the rivers weren’t swollen with spring meltwater, they were filled with unmelted ice, making fording impossible (at least for my rig).

It felt like we were the last tourists up there, driving through a bizarre, colorful, Mars-like landscape. Yellow mountains, green craters, red soil surrounding blue lakes—if you can imagine it, Iceland has it. A trip through the island’s heart is like driving through a natural history museum. Nature is purely showing off. And just think—how strange is it to end a long day’s hike in a rock pool filled with hot water streaming from a glacier-covered mountain?

We decided to head up to the Westfjords—a remote, icy peninsula in the northwest, shaped like a hand reaching out to nearby Greenland. Full of emptiness. Rumors said there might be surf up there. Leaving behind the green craters of Laki, we passed the ochre mountains of Kerlingarfjöll, once again stunned by Iceland’s otherworldly beauty.

When I returned to the car, I was surrounded by Icelandic Superjeeps. Next to us was a JL Rubicon on 40-inch tires—tastefully upgraded and looking like the perfect car for these conditions. I quickly changed my mind once I saw the perfect Icelandic car next to it.

“Caveman”—a JKU not just on but surrounded by 44s. A thumbs-up, a few fingers pointing at our surfboards, and we continued north where we found solitude, snow, and, surprisingly, ten days of sunshine.

We saw the Northern Lights every single night—some of the most intense displays even locals had witnessed in decades. And I swear, it can indeed look like the photos you find on the Internet.

So yeah, it’s been more than two weeks now. As I wipe the rime ice off the window, it seems like the 100 mph wind gusts that rocked us to sleep last night have finally died down. The sun is about to rise.

We throw our stuff on the car, make coffee on the hood, and prep our boards for another surf session in the Arctic. We laugh.

There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity.

Sometimes, it’s just really hard to see.