ORAEFI, ICELAND

The whitewashed hotel at the foot of the Svínafellsjökull Glacier was simple, comfortable, and nearly empty, even though the roads were clear and spring had just given way to the short Arctic summer. In short, it was everything the lone traveler had been looking for when he’d walked into town two days earlier, legs aching from a day’s worth of arduous trekking. It had been nearly three weeks since he’d departed the sprawling capital of Reykjavík, based 200 miles to the west, and he’d spent most of that time crossing the bleak Icelandic wilderness on foot. The Skaftafell Hotel seemed almost luxurious after his previous accommodations, a cramped, foulsmelling hut on the Morsárdalur mountain track. Still, he would have been satisfied with much less.

Southeastern Iceland was only the latest stop on what had become a prolonged expedition to some of the world’s most challenging environments. Ryan Kealey wasn’t exactly starting from scratch, as he’d spent his teens and early twenties hiking and climbing in places ranging from Washington’s Mount Rainier to Ben Nevis in Scotland, but he’d never pushed himself as hard as he had in recent months. He knew where this sudden desire to test himself had come from, but while he had tried to address the source, he’d been unable to come up with any real answers. In large part, this was because he couldn’t find the woman who’d caused him so much pain and frustration, despite his best efforts and high-level connections.

She’d walked out in January, four months after a terrorist attack in New York City that had nearly claimed her life. Kealey had waited for two months, putting out feelers, calling in favors, but it had gotten him nowhere. By the time March rolled around, he’d finally admitted defeat, accepting that she didn’t want to be found.