I just re-learned the truth that when you go out, you never come back the same. After two years of zoom calls, I finally stood face-to-face with two dear friends, Dani and Joan, owners of Slow Artworks. Every Wednesday for over 100 Wednesdays, we had met on glowing screens to build our project, RADL, from afar. We had shared ideas, laughs, and work sessions across time zones.
Despite all the meetings, we’d never met in person. All of that changed on a warm afternoon in Spain.
When You Go Out, You Never Come Back the Same
Meeting in Spain
How do you greet an old friend you have never met in real life? We opted for hugs. Over plates of steak and local seafood, we talked for hours. It’s funny how sharing a simple meal can solidify a friendship already years in the making.
We only had a couple of days in Spain before the next leg of our journey, but we made them count. The morning after our dinner, we went to Dani’s house to try out a few screen prints for RADL shirts. It was my favorite kind of project, one where we were just making it work. Dani’s house was just what I had imagined, thoughtful and beautiful. The windows were all open and the wind gently blew the white curtains as we made our plan. Joan got there a little after I did with a bundle of bananas. When he immediately offered one to me Dani chuckled and said, “Welcome to my world of watching Joan eat bananas.” We all laughed but for some reason the joke made me feel like a part of the group. We hand printed twenty RADL shirts and we all agreed they exceeded our expectations.
We had so much to do before leaving for Iceland but we decided to put it all on hold for a trip to the mountains of Spain. We packed up a few RADL prototype backpacks and drove into the coastal mountains for a small photoshoot. Driving through the North East of Spain felt surprisingly like my home in San Diego. Every now and then there would be little reminders that I was somewhere new. Several large rolls of hay sat by a building that had probably been there for hundreds of years. The landscape abruptly changed from fields to winding, tree covered mountains. There, in the sun pierced forest, we got to work. I had been a part of a lot of other photo shoots but this was the first where I got to walk around doing something I love. Dani, Joan and myself had worked together for a while but this was our first time to create in real time. It was a great prep for what came next. We were no longer just colleagues on a video call; we were three friends about to embark on a real journey together.
We were no longer just colleagues on a video call; we were three friends about to embark on a real journey together.
Into Iceland's Wild
A day later we flew north, trading Spain’s sun for Iceland’s gathering clouds. Touching down at Keflavík Airport, we could sense the wildness in the wind outside. At the rental lot, our rig awaited: an old white Defender 110, boxy and rugged. It had clearly seen many adventures but was ready for another. We tossed our packs in the back and climbed in. The engine rumbled to life, a trusty beast built to handle Iceland’s diverse terrain with ease.
It was late afternoon by the time we set off. The sky was challenging us with growing clouds and the promise of rain. As if on cue, the very first song that played through our stereo was Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here”. We all recognized it in an instant. Dani, in shotgun, turned the volume up as those iconic acoustic guitar notes began. I looked around and took it all in. In that moment, something struck me deeply: here we were, three friends who had finally united, driving into the unknown expanses of Iceland, with a classic song about presence and longing accompanying us. Outside, the rain had begun. The scene was dramatic, almost otherworldly, and the music only made it more so. I felt a lump in my throat. The lyrics “Wish You Were Here” resonated, not in sadness, but in a profound appreciation of the friends beside me at that very moment. It was as if the universe had queued up a soundtrack to say: Pay attention. This is special. Friends, music, and Iceland’s stormy beauty were converging in one poignant snapshot in time.
We drove on into the evening. Every now and then one of us would break the silence, pointing out an Icelandic horse by the fence or a distant mountain whose name we couldn’t pronounce but we all agreed that Joan’s attempts were probably closest. There is a particular kind of quiet that falls among companions who are equally struck by wonder; an unspoken understanding that no words are needed. Rain would splatter, then stop; the clouds would part briefly to reveal a streak of sunset before closing up again. We stopped at a gas station for our dinner. Joan couldn’t find any bananas which was a theme that haunted his whole trip but also brought us all some laughs. It became our lighthearted refrain and a reminder that even on an epic trip, it’s the silly, human moments that keep you grounded.
A Lodge by the Falls
That night we reached our base: Laxfoss Lodge, a secluded cabin perched on a hillside overlooking the Norðurá River. Walking into the lodge felt like entering a sanctuary. The first thing I noticed was the sound, the roar of a waterfall, it reminded me of a saying I live by in dry Southern California that water is life. Life was overflowing there. The lodge itself was warm and wooden, with tall windows that by daylight would offer sweeping views of the valley. We arrived exhausted from the long travel, but after settling in, I couldn’t resist stepping outside. The air was crisp and smelled of wet grass and moss. When my eyes adjusted, I saw the outline of a mountain to the north, Mount Baula, as I’d later learn. It struck me that in just a few hours I had gone from a lively Mediterranean scene to this remote Icelandic wilderness. Different worlds, yet both were connected by the sense of adventure they offered.
We woke to pale sunlight filtering through the curtains and the sound of that waterfall still thrumming gently. We threw open the balcony doors and there it was: a panorama that will stay with me forever. The Norðurá River glinted below, winding through the grasslands, and just upstream the Laxfoss waterfall cascaded in a white rush with world class salmon jumping at its base. Across the valley, Mount Baula’s smooth cone rose in the distance, catching the morning light, and to the south the jagged Skarðsheiði mountains framed the horizon.
It felt like we were perched on the edge of the world. Inspiration seemed to seep out of every view, exactly the kind of place we had dreamed of when planning this trip. We spent a lazy hour that morning on the deck simply soaking it in. None of us reached for our phones. We didn’t need to, reality was far more compelling.
Staying at that lodge felt almost symbolic for us. By day, we’d venture out exploring; by night, we’d return to this cozy haven by the falls to rest and reflect. Each evening after dinner, we’d watch the falls from our window and talk. Sometimes we would just joke, sometimes we planned, but all the conversations seemed to lead into discussions about life. Watching the river, it felt obvious. Small streams ran shallow and quick, until they found each other and became something greater, slower, deeper, more life. Our conversations followed the same path. What began in surface talk and jokes always seemed to flow toward depth. Adventure does that: it clears the blockages, opens channels, and draws you into…life.
Coming Home
All too soon, our expedition reached its end. Back in California, after the long flights and a reluctant farewell to Dani and Joan at the airport, I found myself at home again, unpacking dusty boots, adjusting to the familiarity of my own living room. In outward ways, I was the same person who had left a couple weeks before. I didn’t shave my head or vow to trek the Himalayas next, nothing so dramatic. But inside, I knew I had changed in subtle but important ways. It’s like adding another chapter to a book, or laying down another brushstroke on a canvas, small in itself, yet contributing to the whole picture. I felt a little more grounded, a little more inspired, and a lot more grateful. Grateful for the stunning places we saw, yes, the windswept highlands and thundering falls, the mossy cliffs and black sand beaches. But even more, grateful for the people I shared them with and the things we learned from each other.
As I finish writing these reflections, I find myself smiling at a simple thought. Out there in the stormy Icelandic wind, laughing about bananas and singing along to Pink Floyd, standing in awe of mountains and pouring our hearts out by the river, in all of that, something true was woven into me. I’m home now, and rather than leaving part of me in Iceland, I brought what mattered most about Iceland back with me. I grew, because when you go out, you never come back the same.
When You Go Out, You Never Come Back the Same, words by Jared Rowley
Photography by Slow Artworks
