During an expedition to Iceland, I found myself on an otherworldly journey to a place that still lives vividly in my memory—Hjörsey, a remote and privately owned island off the western coast. To reach it, we walked nearly a mile across the exposed ocean floor, a path that only reveals itself during the lowest tides. The sensation of stepping across that silvery, glistening seabed, with seaweed trailing like ribbons and seabirds wheeling overhead, felt like crossing into a realm suspended between myth and memory.

Upon arriving, we were welcomed into the home of the island’s caretakers—a family whose deep reverence for the land and animals was palpable. After sharing greetings I stepped back outside…only to find the ocean had returned. The path we had walked was now swallowed by waves and white caps. It was as though the island had allowed us entry only briefly, revealing its secrets for a moment before retreating back into its own quiet solitude.

Hjörsey holds another secret too—one that quickens the heart of anyone who reveres wildness. It is home to Iceland’s only herd of “wild” horses. The family carefully curates the bloodlines, introducing a new stallion every few years, but otherwise, these horses live untouched, running free across the island’s windswept terrain, much like the mustangs of the American West. Their manes are tangled by sea breeze, their coats etched by salt and time, their presence echoing something ancient and sacred.

This grey stallion—regal and steady, his body forged by the elements. Earthly colors weave through his mane like threads of the island itself—ash and stone, moss and sand. He is not just a horse but a keeper of story, a living fragment of this wild, breathing land. Iceland itself feels like the lungs of the earth—rising and falling beneath your feet, as if you’re walking across the chest of something immense and alive.

That day felt like a fairy tale, suspended in time, where land, sea, and sky blurred into a dream I’ll never forget.